Today I am fantasmically and rightfully and utterly hungover.
I had the lads over for the match. With the Spanish minnows cast aside after twenty odd minutes there was no tension left in the occasion, just time to drink and be drunken to.
There are, placed handsomely, at my sinkside fourteen empty cans, with a further six strewn about the little bin beside the big bin. Another night's destruction, another night of guff and grumbles and a routine 4-0 victory against the greatest side in club football.
I'm reminded of the story of Dixie.
Dixie went off the drink at Lent some years back. He didn't touch a drop until Easter arrived and he bounded for the Monks. He got fucking destroyed with the gargle and, on his way home with the girlfriend, he stopped to vomit copiously and at length.
"Never again," he said.
"Never again?" she said.
"Never again. I'm never giving up drink again," he said.