Tuesday, November 29, 2005

RIP Mr Miyagi.

That Sudoku's a tough bastard, no? Johnny's been tackling it for the last hour or so on the couch, and no nearer a solution. Passed it over to me eventually. I couldn't figure the thing out, so threw down the paper in disgust and said I was coming upstairs to blog.

First off, well done Karen on Vicky Pollard Is A Style Icon dot blogspot dot com. May all your tales of disrepute spill forth.

Anyway, here I am.

Funny day in work today as we waxed on and off about the weekend. Radge Lash 2005, as Fennell dubbed it, was a hum of a dinger. Shots were a bad idea I felt, and the Long Stone staff can testify to same after seeing me scarper with my ass between my cheeks at 2am, Saturday morning.

I couldn't face Doyle's and the pictures explain why. There I am, drink clasped in hand and grinning like an idiot. 5X insists I didn't get crap though, and I trust him due to his own sobriety.

Saturday took Trousers over to ours for the fitba. Davros Sterlingfields was meant to be joining us, but his own travails the night before did for him. Divil a County Lucan he was heading for, still stuck to the bed at 2pm he was, by all accounts. That drink's a killer.

Anyway, for me the day was a blur. I know there was football and about twelve bottles of Stella and pizza and the lads having the craic, but I'm only aware of this because of the stash of empty vessels already collecting in the back garden. It's as if the day never happened.

The funniest thing happens to me.

I can never sit around in the house for more than a day. Johnny has often remarked on my cabin fever, the fact that eventually the walls close in on me after more than 24 hours at home. And so it was on Sunday - I had planned to take a day to myself, go to see Factotum in the Screen, maybe go on the train to Killiney or some such seaside place.

Film killed me though. It was a bleak ride, watching Matt Dillon's Hank Chinaski drink himself from one job to the next, encountering one slimeball bint after another, getting more and more broken down by the minute. By the time the credits rolled I surmised that either a) I would never drink again or b) man oh man I needed a jar.

In this state of confusion I hopped on the bus and said I'd let fate take its course. Sure enough I'd only reached Westmoreland Street when Davros called up and told me the Harbour Master was looking for us. So we went and 5X came too and we had stout plenty of and it was fun.

Which brings me back to today. It's 9.05 in the pm as I write and I tire. I've Denise's table quiz tomorrow night, will try to ale to the minimum. Then Wednesday I'll keep a low profile, maybe head home to see the folks or, y'know...

...get destroyed.

Am I wrong?

4 comments:

The Collector said...

A blog about drinking. You're textbook Cuddihy.

Radge said...

I take your point, but what else has there been in my pathetic little life of late? I'm hardly going to blog about work, am I?

Quinner said...

You can't have a birthday and not drink, not in this country anyway. Blog about drinking as Justin Trousersnake says; Justified.

Gypseysdog said...

You should have blogged about that thing that's been growing on your upper inner thigh this past few weeks. Yes, I saw it that time.