I don’t really have anything interesting to say today (“just today?” I hear you scoff).
I’m blaming a mild hangover. I had precisely two (you always know which one was the tipping point) too many pints in a local-to-the-office dive last night. Me, my Telegraph gaming partner-in-crime Nick, and favouritest PR pal Matt putting the world to rights over a beer-soaked, pockmarked table in a dingy basement bar in central London.
Three nerds getting angry and animated over videogames while drinking chemically-enhanced lager. Why gorgeous women didn’t flock to our table as we ranted about FIFA10’s slightly crappy manager mode -or sung the praises of The Darkness (the game, not the squealy hair-metal glammers)- I’ll never know.
Unlike a lot of people, who end up dead to the world when they go to bed after an alcohol fuelled evening, I sleep terribly. I pass out the moment my head hits the pillow, but then I’m constantly waking up with thirst, ‘needs’ and a general uncomfortableness.
Doesn’t help that I’m not much of a drinker anymore. I like my wine and fine ales, but pounding several pints of Kronenbourg is a sport I was much better at in my ‘yoof’.
Christ knows how I’m going to cope at my stag do. And I’m positive that my entourage for the weekend will most certainly not let me dodge any liquor-shot related activities.
Mine’s a tequila.