Two days until I head off to see Europeland, and I nearly saw the whole thing come unstuck by a bastard of a stomach problem, post-stag.
It seems I drank myself into a damage, I have gastritis (nicely described as an inflammation of the stomach lining) and therefore have to take drugs to deflate.
Horror of horrors I can't drink for the foreseeable, and fatty foods are out the window too. FUCK sakes. Worse still, 5X tells me he'll be in Paris to greet me this weekend after all, with his own holiday postponed until Monday. While I delight in the prospect of meeting the sire himself, I'll have to do it in a sober state despite his protestations to the contrary.
As if my last entry wasn't clear enough, Galway was officially the drunkenmost I've been in my life. It surpasses Brain Day '04 for sheer, reckless, wreckedness. Saturday was the ultimate in utter fucking drunken perseverence, to the point where I was escorted from some unnamed pub by two bouncers, having been seen shouting at the neighbouring Butler's Chocolate Cafe, probably calling it a big gay boy's underpant.
Other stuff happened too. I'm told.
Later I have to go shopping, my least favourite of pursuits. More t-shirts, some travel towels, comfortable pants (I don't think there's a stigma attached, but could be wrong), some security items to keep my tickets and passport safe, blah di blah. I can't even finish the whole dreadful experience off with a jar. This is the worst pain of all.
Finally, apologies to those I said I'd meet this week before I head away, I really have been in a complete hoop. I am making my way to town tomorrow night, however, even if I have to stick to the water.