I chanced a couple tonight, and by that I mean 'an Irish couple,' which means three pints of stout in the darkest pub to be found in the vicinity of the Savoy Cinema.
The Sackville Lounge welcomed me back to drink with racing overhead and the boys in a heated throwdown over Robbie Keane's impact at Liverpool. My contention? I didn't really have one, or if I did even I didn't care. I just wanted something to distract me from my first dental visit in years multiplied by a factor of ridiculous.
He gave out to me, the dentist, whose name was Greg. He gave out to me and I was cheered by this because I've never had a dentist not give out to me.
I'll be good, I promised. I'll floss, I promised. I will, I promise.
The film we'd seen was shite. 'The Hangover.'
I don't know if it was too close to the bone given my dying state over the last days gone by, or the fact that it was shite, but it was shite, really.
My humour comes from 'Withnail and I' and from 'Venus' and from, well, it turns out I don't have that much of a sense of fun when it comes to slapstick American romps.
The pub was good craic but.