Terence McDanger has a point. I should be more prolific. But I'm not apologising, you get your dose of Radgery when the Gods deem it right. No sooner.
And so they deem it now.
I woke up this morning without a scratched throat and/or belly ache for the first time in an age. I'm renewedly vigorous. Actually, it was 12.40 when I eventually got out of the scratcher, I tend towards lazy bastardness when I'm down here in Castletroy.
Nights to report:
Last Saturday was a dinger. To the Stags once again for our Anne's birthday. Jesus if she didn't have 50 or 60 show up to pay homage. Of course it skipped by in a drunken heartbeat, each conversation more disremembered than the last thanks to copious pints and bottles of brew.
Stayed on a not-too-uncomfortable blow-up bed in Skehan's mammoth apartment that evening. A fine place, and fine hosts are the brothers Skehan too. So fine, in fact, that Ollie and I freewheeled down the hill to The Villager after lunch and got destroyed all over again.
Monday I was back at work for the latest era in Radge's Setanta-dom. Yep, back to the sport coverage with me. They decided to ease me in gently on the Soccer shift, much enjoyable, before the hell of Wednesday and scheduling. Oh Jesus. Made me yearn for 'I'm A Celebrity...'
Speaking of 'I'm A P-lister, Get Me Some Publicity,' Julianne informs me I'll be privy to it next week when she hostesses me for food. Small price to pay for what will be an enjoyable occasion, but I sincerely hope there are snakes aplenty. She's cripplingly phobic.
Does that make me a bit of a fucker? Probably.
What else? It's very much November, which means obligatory Tuesday pints and generally getting rightly Mulliganed while the wind screeches and the rain batters.
Finally, keep those lovely ladies coming, Terence, and 5X and Dogger - get yisser acts together. I want to hear more about how 5X gets paid to drink in some Parisien pub called the James Joyce while quizzing the locals. Regale us.