I am here, I made it, I am utterly broken. The mother and father of all late shifts last night to cap off my run of four, this one was a dinger. A horrible little dinger.
3-5pm: Tend to the football. So far, so Saturday. This is the good time, I'm at home with this stuff.
5-6pm: Football aftermath. Checking, unchecking, subbing, distributing, re-writing, the hour flies past.
6-6.50pm: There appears to be some handball match in the background, Ireland are playing, but that is not my concern. No no. I'm all about the rallying. Fucking rallying. My timesheets are in order, I hope.
6.50pm-7.30pm: Lunch. Spaghetti and meatballs from the microwave. I am going to die soon.
7.30pm-8.30pm: Live Gaelic Games. Ugh. I am just the helper, tending to the tiny stuff in assistance to the Big BM. He'll be tied up with reports from Cavan and Dublin and elsewhere all night, leaving me with...
8.30pm: Kickboxing. Honest to fuck. Kickboxing. Jesus. You'd want to hear this squealing little cunt of a commentator. Every three-minute smackaround has the significance of an Ali-Foreman, while he knows all the contenders personally and they are all 'lovely gahs' but fearsome in the ring.
Two and a half hours of this, and...
9.30pm: Reaction from the handball at Murrayfield and...
10.30pm: ...two golf reports and...
11.00pm: THE. BOUT. TO. KNOCK. THE. OTHER. GUY. OUT. and...
11.10pm: Thank fuck that's over.
11.30pm: Pruning and tweaking completed I get a taxi home. A Nigerian boy. He says nothing, I look out at the lights and the skirts and feel as drunk as this City Centre. I nearly soil his cab, psychosomatically.
Midnight: Home. Fuck. The Khan-Barrera fight! I switch on the internet. It's been done, thankfully, but it's not everywhere it needs to be so I throw some water on my face and continue my work from home.
12.47am: After wrestling with my connection for half a fucking hour, finally it works and I get it done. It takes ten minutes.
1am: I go to bed, knowing I forgot something.