Crikey. Do you know what? Fuck it.
It wouldn't quit me after all and that's that and I'll say no more*.
It seems that I won Voting's Guess The Mood Of The People poll for Friday just gone. I opted for the old 'No' and 'Yes' during a sweaty imbalance up in Mount Argus, went on my way, bought a couple of ginger biscuits and snapped, crackled, popped them while the mood of the country went from "sure they're all a shower of bastards" to some other kind of apathy.
I can't blame Inda.
I wouldn't have debated it either. Debating is hard work, especially when the alternative is having a good gurn at Croke Park or cooking with Neven.
Sure it'd be a lovely little country if you could only roof it.
But I won Voting's Ask The Audience poll anyway.
Elsewise, I've just been watching the headlines appearing, then disappearing, and they've mostly been some variation on how Syria Broke Bad And Then Broke Back Again, too many people going for long, long walks and a whole host of reasons not to go drinking anymore.
Who can afford it? Who wants it, really, when there's Netflix afoot? Sure everything's shite since Roy Orbison died anyway.
This is exhaustion on a grand scale, with a Twitter feed that just won't take a breather and Mi**y C*r*s winning the race to outvile the rest of the world, all of its subsidiaries and every last one of its shareholders.
In other words, much has changed, and everything else remains sadly the same as it ever was.
The asterisk: I hope that Andrew, who wrote this, won't look at me unfondly for giving up on giving up.