I've let you all down, and I am sorry.
On a bleary walk towards Pearse Street this morning, where those evil Lucky Leopard red lights touch the sky at the Grand Canal Basin, was seen the makings of a television ad.
There were booms and lights and vans and people stood around eating tin foiled sandwiches, and there were the wheelbarrows full of snow.
"Fuck," I said to somebody in particular.
"What?" was said back to me.
"I'm willing to bet it's the fucking Meteor fucking Christmas fucking ad. I bet that it is. I can stop this madness if... I... can... only think or speak all coherent like."
I couldn't, though.
I could only form thoughts of the cot and even the sight of Frank Kelly standing around couldn't rise the revolutionary in me, couldn't fathom me up the will to walk up to him and say: "Here, Jack, have a word with yourself. Don't you remember that gimp with the beard and his carol singing wankathon? Or his 'Merry Christmas babes' Vodafone equivalent?"
It's all very well writing it now but at the time I just grimaced, held my tracksuit top a little tighter to myself, cursed the coming winter and went back inside.