I'm just waiting for the manchego to kick in, a cut of cheese before bedtime to keep the subconscious as separated from the conscious as can possibly be. Y'know? All interesting, like.
My realworld self is just baulking and lazy since the finishing of a late shift and the writing of the world's worst match report.
"England were shit."
"A lucklastre England..."
"If I tell you in 1500 characters or less that it was a 1-1 draw, with little bearing on either side's chances of progression, can I go home and throw cans at bad advertisements? Oh, and King got injured."
Click. Save. Gone.
With 10pm dead and in the ground I collected a couple of beers from the pub across the road - licencing laws don'twithstand - and that fuels me now, getting all riled up at that prick from the BT ads and all funnyboned by Dylan Moran and Chris Rock.
Chris Rock is good ("You've got two options in life. 'Married and bored' or 'single and lonely.'") and Dylan Moran is a genius but I'm too lazy and full of Spanish curd to rewind and reproduce. Get the DVD.
This particular post was intended to segue into something about Big Brother, but the muse takes me to one more nibble of manchego and therefrom to bed.