It started the minute I woke. A simple text message. It read 'And I off.' Oh Ollie, I thought, I know exactly what you mean. He meant drink, it being the first day of the week, and I meant to please him.
Fuck this cold. Fuck the fact that I teach a new bunch of students tomorrow. Fuck being inside.
We met for lunch, open seafood sandwiches in Davy Byrnes. I made noises about heading straight off - as though I had a life - but the man Skehan knew me better. He suggested Kehoes, I wasn't prone to objection, and so began our latest destruction.
This day has held reverence for us for years, the devilish Monday afternoons spent lowering stout while others cursed and banged about another working week - our tiny protest a porter or ten in the Stags or Nearys before 6pm, and who to stop us?
Kehoes turned to Nearys and our party doubled to Noel and Melissa, Irish coffees and more lovely courses of lager and dark brew.
Noel had other business so it was left the three of us - Ollie, myself and his belle - to carry on with bluster and booze and diet 7-Up in the case of the lovely lady driver. From Neary's to Waga Mama (we sat beside some Leinster rugby goon by the name of Kearney, apparently) and then to Sheehans, a favourite pub of mine where you'll always find a corner to poke ridicule at one another and then fall home gassed.
So it has proved. I promised the quare pair I'd mark our night with a post, so here we are with me searching my fridge for biscuits and realising Ollie took the last one. The cunt.