I had a Wispa today. It was nice, like a posh chocolate carpet, but I don't really know what all the fuss was about. Where's the Fuse bar, which combined raisins and krispies and well, ok, that was a bit crap.
Or the Secret, the spindly delight with a sullen soft nougat centre?
Gonzo! That's what it is! Nowhere to be seen.
I'd love a 5-4-3-2-1, or a Telex, or a Mint Crisp. Oh wait, they still sell those.
Anyway, confectionarial musings aside, I'm blinkin' exhausted. Fierce tired. Out the last three nights in a return to drunken Radge.
Apparently there's footage of me singing 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' at Emma Quinn's new palace down beside the Royal Canal. Her sister Cara was Kiki to my Elton, and I hope to never see this monstrosity in my living room. I refer only to myself of course, to my recollection Cara had a lovely warble to her.
The party was class, from Emma's mam applying concealer to my knee (true) to the hot snacks and cans of beer (true and true again).
Sunday saw us in Bowe's for the post mortem, while Aisling Eile held me rapt in Nearys and Kehoes on Monday with witticisms and wonderings on life itself. Fun fun!
Tonight I rest, but only after gracing Johnny and Pike for what was a POWERFUL cup of tae.