I am in love. I am. It hit me tonight like a thunderbolt. The person I'm in love is 23, Spanish, wears a lot of red and now has 18 Premier League goals to his name. It's hard to remember football, it's hard to recall life itself, before Fernando Torres.
Torresian testaments aside, I have been drinking a lot of alcohol recently. Bored yet? Well I have. Friday night after work, Sunday all day and then Monday again. The first two saw me destroyed, the final a cap to finish off a few days of rabid intake. Drink, taken in sufficient quantities, leads to all the effects of drunkenness.
Doyles and the Palace Bar, Forbes Quay and the Harbour Master and the Dice Bar and the Stag's Head have all known my custom over the last few days, Budvar and Quilmes and Jameson and Heineken and Smithwicks have all known my lips, while the jacks in my flat has heard all my cries of desperation. This last week I grappled with alcoholism. The jury's still out on the victor.