The one that's not about me

Not sure if anyone is still reading this but for those that are please take a fiver out of your day to check on the progress of my old man. While I am going to be doing it tough in a Riad in Marrakesh this weekend - he is going to be walking the Kokoda trail (you know the one from WWII?) over the next couple of weeks. The link is in the side bar so have a look if you can to offer some support.

The one with the annoying hangover

Following the epic day of ‘catching up’ with Hols and K, I had to take the girls on a sightseeing tour of London. Understandably after the previous night my head was running fire drills and stomach made me feel like a bulimic after eating a meat pie. I forced myself to get up and drink several litres of water, curiously wondering why I my thirst was so large - concluding I probably needed to drink more the previous night!

The day turned out to be the hottest this year for London – over 30 degrees, and while I had been waiting 6 months for such a day, was rather disappointed it occurred on a day much preferred on the couch nursing wounds caused from the previous night.

We set out from Wimbledon and the scummy feeling had no effect on Hols ability to spot the red buses “Argh – a red bus” she grumbled. Once on the tube we travelled on the District and Piccadilly lines that according to the girls contained 2 of the funnier stops of Barking and Cockfosters. Sore heads aside they erupted in giggles at both.

We began the walking at Piccadilly Circus and headed up to the Queens residence. Grabbing an ice cream on the way my stomach was twisting but held its nerve to keep it down. I proceeded to take the girls to my clock and Trafalgar Square. The fountains looked way too inviting that we decided to move on after a brief discussion whether or not I would get away with stripping down and wading. My argument (not well thought out) was that why are children allowed to meander naked in them while we sweat ourselves through the heat.

So I was dragged from my argument as we headed for the London Eye and a walk along the South Bank. The girls were surprised at the ‘street entertainers’ there (I use that term very loosely) and their ability to have no shame. We slowly progressed along the river up to Tower Bridge stopping at Bridget Jones place above the Globe for K’s enjoyment.

After London Tower we headed back to Putney for a well earned beverage. I g-pedometered the distance and it was almost 15kms. I also realised we could of done one of the get on / get off bus tours that would of stopped at every place we went. We ended up at the boat house on the river, met the girl and got a nice table outside. Hols continued to spot her buses.

I found great joy in watching what I can only describe as a ‘crazy lady’ interact with all the patrons outside of the pub. Not only was she talking to herself but everyone (and every object) around her. She had a table with a couple of chairs but yet wanted to stand. Because the place was packed everyone wanted a chair but she wouldn’t let up and kept them. Eventually she lost the lot when she went for another drink and I was forced to stop watching her as all 3 girls were scared she would come up and want to chat to us.

After a couple of hours it was getting late so we decided on some Mexican at Exquisito’s for dinner (and by ‘we’ decided I mean ‘I’ decided) which gave us an opportunity to fulfil Hols fantasy. A ride on a big red bus (I thought this might quell the bus spotting but as I later found out this was not the case). We had some rather tasty food and a fair bit of sangria before heading home. My hangover continued (possibly reoccurred) the next day but I would much rather have a hangover on the companies time when I am getting paid rather than on my own time.

The one with all the buses

Our Friday was a relatively quiet one (by my standards) so I will move straight on to the Saturday. Waking up on Sat morning the girl and I headed to the Larrick fairly early to get a good possie for the rugby. Unfortunately the rest of the punters (mainly kiwi’s) arrived before us so we were confined to the back of the pub but at least we got some comfy couch seats. Considering the time of morning and my belief that beers are an after midday type of beverage I started on the ciders.

I (like most Australians) was extremely happy with the result. It is good to see a coach finally get the best out of the Wallabies however unfortunate it is a Kiwi doing so. I also find it amusing after 2 losses in a row the “NZ rugby is in crisis!” headlines are out.

After the rugby the girl headed off to a friends BBQ and I headed back to Wimbledon. I met my Cousin and CM at the Dragon (what our local pub has changed its name too) for a couple of quiet beverages in the beer garden. From there I headed to Sth Wimbledon station to pick up Hols and K who were visiting me from Aus. They had just been through China, Mongolia and Russia and were very keen to hit it hard in an English speaking country (which I was happy to oblige). After dumping their gear we headed back to the Dragon for a catch up and to prep ourselves for the rest of the day. We sat outside so that Hols could see the double decker buses going past – apparently this is rather a novelty for people that haven’t seen them before. It was rather amusing to see someone get so much joy out of spotting them – until after about 20 minutes when at least 15 buses had gone by.

One of our other friends was in Kings Cross so we had to trek ourselves to Nth London. Jumping on the tube the girls couldn’t contain their laughter about heading through ‘Tooting’. I mentioned they should try and come to grips with it as over the next couple of days they would be hearing some much funnier stations.

Arriving at St Pancreas station we decided on a nice restaurant for some chow. We sat at one with I nice big window onto the street so Hols could continue to spot her buses. She was concentrating pretty hard on her task that by the time the waiter came to take our order she had no idea what she was getting and sent him away. The waiter frustratingly departed and we half joked that her meal would be receiving some massive loogies mixed in, but knowing it would probably be all of our meals receiving them.

After our meal it was apparent that our friend Maggs had come to the wrong bar so we had to trapes across town to Bricklane. Realising that the night was slipping away from us we jumped into a taxi which fulfilled one of K’s requests – sitting on the backwards seat of a black cab. Hols continued to spot her buses on the journey “there’s one, there’s one…… ooooh there’s another one!”
“No Hols that’s the same one!”

Alas we arrived in Bricklane and found the bar we were looking for. After a number of beverages later it was brought to my attention that the last tube was imminent. My sensible gene kicked in so we downed our drinks and made a beeline for the tube. Outside the station Hols jaw nearly hit the pavement when she saw close to 20 buses lined up. I had to grab her arm to continue on and make the tube.

While we were on the tube the discussion turned towards a bar in Clapham that some other friends were at - my sensible thoughts began to vanish and upon hearing the word Bierodrome (Belgo’s bar) my fate was sealed. So we alighted at Clapham and headed to the bar. Hols was now further impressed that the buses ran well into the night so her spirits were running high.

We entered the bar and tried a few standard Belgian beers before moving on to the Frulli. Frulli is a strawberry beer, that because of colour and name I don’t usually drink but unfortunately after a few regular beers (or many in my case) it tastes exceptionally good. After a couple of these the girls went to the bar and discovered the paddles. The paddles are a plank of wood with holes cut out for shot glasses filled with different types of Vodka. I cannot accurately remember what size paddle was purchased but the smallest is a 12 shot and I have the feeling I took the brunt of them.

I am told we left about half 3 to head home. I vaguely remember introducing the girls to the drunk mans best friend - the 99p mini fillet from the Colonel. As we walked I was in 2 minds whether or not to grab a taxi or the bus home, when I figured I should introduce the girls to one of the lesser known London icons – the minicab.

I walked up to one of the dodgy looking people loitering to the side of the road and heard the little “minicab?” whisper they use to get attention. (For those that don’t know they are not allowed to solicit business that is not from a phone call or call in to minicab shop. They use the whisper method at late nights to drum up some quicker business. This leads to anyone with a car with nothing to do on a Fri/Sat to head out and earn some cash. The fare is negotiated before you leave and is usually cheaper than a black cab).

After the driver got my attention he must have been surprised when I told him (without negotiation) he was taking us to Wimbledon via Tooting for a tenner and jumped into his car. The girls followed suit and the driver must have been cursing himself for not locking his car doors as a direct minicab from Clapham to Wimbles is usually £15 on its own. Never the less we were on our way to the sound of “Oooh there’s one, look another one….”
So we got home without any drama’s and hit the hay in order for some sleep before a day of sightseeing.

The one with Kylie's ex

The girl and I decided to have a little jaunt to Paris for the weekend. I had a mate there from Perth that I was going to catch up with. We were staying in St Germain in the 5th in a hotel I had gotten way too cheap. We had taken the Eurostar after work on Friday and gotten in about 8pm.

After checking in we walked down towards the Latin Quarter looking for somewhere to eat. The randomness of Paris means you can find a couple of good places next to each other or walk around for hours trying to find something. We had been walking for about 10 minutes when there was a manky dog slowly following his owner ahead of us. The girl was a little hesitant about the dog so we crossed over to the other side of the road to pass. As we were walking she stopped dead in her tracks upon realisation that the dogs owner was Olivier Martinez. For those that don’t know (like I hadn’t known) he is Kylie Minogues ex. Upon telling me this revelation her phone came out furiously texting her friends the information.

As he had stopped on the corner I crossed the street to give the dog a pat. My figuring was that being Kylie’s ex’s pet it is highly likely that she had also given the dog a good rub down (at the very least a scratch behind the ears). So any contact I had with the beast meant that I had also been in contact with Kylie. As I type this it appears to sound a little loose but rest assured I am sure she feels the same – we are now kindred spirits! After a good rub down, his tail was wagging and I could tell he instantly liked me - wanting me for his masters former flame.

Au Revoir!

The one with the Championships

For those reading this who don’t know (as you have been living under a rock on Mars) I live in Wimbledon. It is very well known (possibly not to Australians) by its postcode: SW19. The papers use that more than its name I guess because it is smaller to print which brings me to when they use it the most - The Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Club Championships. Back home we just refer it as Wimbledon but being the local now I have gotten well into the lingo. It was the girl’s birthday so we took the day off to go and spend it in the sun watching sport.

To get tickets to the tennis there are probably 6 options to go about it. Firstly they have a ballet in December the year before where you can obtain them. You can buy a corporate section for an astronomical amount. Date a tennis player to get into their box. Grab some tickets off a scalper (although there didn’t appear to be any outside as it was well patrolled). What most people do is actually sleep outside the venue overnight to get the tickets. The final option (and possibly the best) was to log onto ticketmaster at 8.30 the night before and grab them that way. It is apparent that nobody over here knows this option because everyone I have met are amazed I had gotten tickets. We got centrecourt seats, had a good night sleep / slept in and promptly turned up to the gate around midday to get straight in.

Once we arrived we grabbed some drinks – Pints of Pimm’s that cost 6 squidies each. I felt it was a massive ripoff but we were at the tennis with a bunch of snobs – and I was rather parched. Anyway we headed to centrecourt to see the first match – Federer vs Hewitt. Was rather lucky we got to see the little Aussie scamp (or knobhead as some of you may refer to him) but also the number one player in the world. The first set was a cracker – with Hewitt going down in a tie break. It was enough to get the Fanatics really excited and the Aussie chants were flowing. I don’t think we saw any emotion (or a clap) from Bec except a couple of squeaky “C’mon Lleyton!” I was wondering if she felt duped into marrying a former #1 who is well out of his prime and now has to suffer a couple of early round victories before defeat before the quarters. Perhaps she could cling to the fact that Hewitt was actually the last player to win Wimbledon before Federer’s streak commenced but I doubt it.

So onto the second and third sets. They were over quicker than I could type that sentence. It didn’t stop the Aussie chants – even after Hewitt had cleared off to the dressing room.

So we departed from centrecourt to grab some more gold laced Pimm’s and headed to ‘the hill’ to relax in the sun. We watched Nadal on the big screen demolish his opponent and I said at the time he might go all the way this year (he just appeared to have a bit more determination than Federer but I was thinking to attribute this to the fact that Federer was playing Hewitt). The hill wasn’t all that interesting. A massive crowd of people watching a game on the big screen. The fact that it was a sunny 28 degrees increased the atmosphere but I was reluctant to feel the worth of spending a bit of money on tickets to get into SW19 to over pay for drinks and watch it on TV. I was very glad to have seats. After a while we left the plebs to grab a bite to eat and return to our seats on centrecourt. The women’s game was finishing up and I had taken less than zero amount of interest in the female draw since Sharapova was felled the previous week.

The final game was between a plucky Frenchman against “the future of British tennis” as he is referred to here when he is winning, Andy Murray (he is actually a Scot). The first 2 and a half sets presented the Brit with a massive touch up and I figured to be home at an early hour. Finally towards the back end of the 3rd set, the Brit showed some fight and came from down match point to steal it. Game on. I think the Brit had gone to the “Hewitt school of motivation” because he had a little scream at every point he won and was trying very hard to get the crowd involved.

I won’t bore anyone with details but it was a pretty exciting match from this point and four and a half hours later the Brit won over the Frenchy. The circumstances were a little controversial as the light was very poor when the Brit was serving for the match – but the crowd (except me) got what it wanted and the Brit moved on to face Nadal. If you didn’t know Nadal beat the Scot (following the papers lead he is referred to as a Scot after he loses – I kid you not) in game more one sided than a Zimbabwe election.

I was very thankful for the awesome weather we had and rated the day highly. We were rather fortunate to get some good matches as well which probably made the difference. The only thing I will be changing next year is 1. Make sure I see Sharapova and 2. Sneak in some booze.

The one with the £625 glass of Whiskey…

Well my Saturday started off pretty much the same as usual – with a nasty hangover and some morning rugby. This one was different however because instead of drinking throughout the afternoon we decided to take it easy in anticipation of the evening. I can tell you now what a smart option that turned out to be.

The girl and I went to meet Penfold and Boss Hog who were visiting from Sydney at a bar near Victoria Station. We were there for a while and had a number of drinks before moving on to another bar. Penfold’s brother decided to lead us not far to a rather exclusive and ritzy bar called Boisdale.

We walked up to the door and had to knock on the window only to be greeted by a large gruff looking man who I assumed ate small puppies for snacks. Penfold’s brother is pushing 5ft so I figured it would be a rather amusing story if he had of said the wrong thing. He asked if the manager was working and I found out later that he works at a similar one in central (and actually used to be his boss while working at this particular club).

Once the manager appeared to let us in we were led down past a 3 piece jazz band who were playing some lively tunes. It didn’t occur to me until later that they were actually facing the wall while they played (whether for show and effect I wasn’t so sure).

Finding our table we were seated to have a look around at the various stuffed animals, old guns and tidbits lining the walls. The best description I can give of this place is a cross between a 1930’s style gun club with an old prohibition gangster bar. Probably the coolest thing was an AK-47 across a boars head over the bar.

We had a couple of bottles of particularly expensive Champagne (yes the real stuff) before the boys decided to move onto the whiskey. I don’t think I have ever seen a list quite like it – the list of whiskeys was 22 pages long and had some interesting selections.

Upon scanning the list I found that for a measly 625 squid you can get “The Macallan 1946, 56 year old.” Check out the range here: http://www.boisdale.co.uk/pdfs/belgravia/wisky08.pdf. Unfortunately nobody decided to give that one ago so I don’t have any feedback. Penfold’s brother and friend decided to have “The Macallan Vintage 1974, 30 year old” that was exceptional. It had a slight smokey flavour and although the price tag was a little exorbitant (to say the least), I think is probably one of the finest alcohols I will ever taste.

It was when Penfold’s brother headed to the boys room that I had a devious idea. We called the manager over to grab us a glass of the cheapest (and hence worse tasting) whiskey and swapped out the glass with his 30 year old vintage. Being a manger of one of these bars should mean he has a keen nose (probably taste as well) for the finer types. The funny thing was on his return to the table he didn’t immediately clue in to the stitch up. After a couple of sips and a bit of nose turning from others who sampled he compared it to the good stuff in his friends glass. To his disgust he realised that something was a miss and clued in to the culprits after we rolled around howling with laughter.

Just after the prank my sophisticated side (read drunk side) decided that I needed to up the stakes and move onto my martini. Alas it wasn’t on the menu which gave me the opportunity to slip into my best British accent “a dry martini in a deep champagne glass, three measures of Gordon's gin, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet vermouth shaken not stirred [long pause for effect] Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel.” Ahhh the Vesper – a drink oozing of class and respect. Unfortunately none of the traits made me look any better in my tatty t-shirt and yellow sneakers (mind you I was still oozing of quality swagger which the ladies clearly noticed).

By the time we left there was a substantial amount of the rich and snobby fellow patrons rolling around in a drunken state. It is good to see that the “social elite” (in their minds anyway) have the ability to get blotto with the rest of us. I am now saving my pennies for a return trip, to find out what a £625 glass of whiskey will taste like…

The one with the indoor golf

A couple of the girls at work decided to organise a night out in central. Being the committed to work type of guy I am it was only fitting to attend. I headed in with 2 of the other guys in my team and met at a place called Bar Red next to Carnaby St. On arrival we were told that we were 2 drinks behind. It made perfect sense to me that I would have to down a pint and shot to catch up. For some reason they got me a shot of Wild Turkey thinking I might find it repulsive but was shocked when I complained it wasn’t the stronger tasting Rare Breed.

The group decided to all throw in for a kitty (which as a fairly reasonable drinker usually always works out in my favour). When we learned the destination of our dinner was closed for renovations we decided to skip looking for another place in favour of a more liquid meal.

Several drinks later we ventured off to the main act for the evening – Urban Golf. This basically involved you teeing up and hitting a ball at a giant image being projected onto a big screen. Somehow it calculates from where the ball contacts the screen, the direction, speed etc it is travelling and displays accordingly. It was quite a novel idea – especially after a few drinks.

What I have now come to realise is there is a direct relationship between how much alcohol has been consumed to how much ones ability (or lack of) deteriorates with a golf club. I must say that my putting was exceptional – especially considering I had forgone the putter option to roll the ball at the hole. My chipping improved when again I rid my self of the club in favour of a decent throw. Unfortunately I must throw like a girl because on the drive I couldn’t seem to throw all that far. This brought on my Happy Gilmore style and although I had to jump a small barrier on my run up – I produced the best drives of the day.

We certainly must have been playing rather slow as in 2hrs we only managed three and a half holes. I don’t exactly remember where we went after leaving but I know I was buying drinks (completely forgetting the kitty) and a few lasses (unknown to me) threw an order in with mine. They thanked me and walked off but it was only later someone told me what they had done.

After a couple of more bars we eventually decided to call it an evening. As it was rather late, I was not sure exactly what time only that I had missed the last tube home (1am). It was apparent that I had to try and get the night bus. Being the former Boy Scout my preparedness was rather shallow as I had no clue where it left from or what number to get. Deciding to follow my mate who lives in Kingston in the direction of his stop I was fortunate enough for an offer to crash on his couch. Jumping on the bus, we set off. The thing with the bus is it goes in every direction before arriving at your destination.

We began chatting but after an hour my mate had nodded off to sleep. He had told me it would be about 2 hours to reach his place so I decided to watch the scenery go by. A couple of minutes later I realised we were going past Wimbledon station. What luck I had thought jumping up to get off. I pressed the bell and tried to wake up my mate. His snoring got louder. Shaking him violently and lifting his eyelids did nothing so I decided to leg it off the bus and send him a text message.

I sent the message and decided to grab an evening delicacy for the short walk home. Within minutes I arrived home, kebab in hand and dropped to find my resting place on the couch.

My phone woke me the next morning with an SMS. I sat up with half the kebab encrusted on my face and some Saturday morning cartoons in the background. My mates reply to my message was a confused “What the hell are you talking about?” so I went into my sent messages and looked at the one I had sent “Got off on Bus so no need to come back to urs cheers anyway.”

It took a little explaining to get out of that one especially considering he didn’t remember us getting a bus home at all.

The one with the memory loss

This story might turn into a long one so I will start from the beginning….

I woke up at a reasonable hour on Saturday morning to go and watch the Wallabies game from the Larrick in Putney. I had taken along the girl and the Muppet met us there. The game started at 10am and considering it was before midday I wasn’t prepared to start drinking beers……. pause for shocked gasps……. so we decided a nice cider might be appropriate (it’s like a fruit juice right?).

The game was not all that convincing but a win is a win and I thought the new look team, only having been together for 2 weeks, with a new coach, faired pretty well. If anyone is asking (which I am sure you are not but it is my Blog so I will type it anyway) I probably wouldn’t have started Barnes with Giteau, instead bringing on Cross at inside (yes I am aware of the position change) to shore up the backline’s defence a bit better. I thought the pack did well but our front row is still appalling (more noticeably without the ELV’s in place) and Sharpe should be shelved for good (bring on the young talent) as he is only there because of his dominance in the lineout. But I digress…

After the rugby finished the girl headed off to get her hair done – which looks fabulous (is that what I am supposed to say?). The Muppet and I continued drinking before we were surrounded by Saffa’s for the next match. For some reason we decided to stay and cheer on the Welsh team. They certainly impressed me in the first half so it was quite a good afternoon with lots of drinks. After the game finished I was required to head to the Albion in North London to meet with a mate from Perth that was working in Paris. The Muppet had a ‘blindish date’ that night (he had only met her while being very drunk and didn’t recall what she looked like) so decided, contrary to my beliefs and persistent taunting, an afternoon drinking with me was not going to prepare him for it.

We downed our beers, left to some glorious sunshine and went our separate ways. It was about mid afternoon and I was feeling a little drunk but figured a tube ride may help to sober me up. I arrived at the bar and was (jealously) told I looked a little smashed. Taking this as a complement we continued to drink. There had gathered a large number of antipodeans so the drinking progressed rather well. At about 6pm the memory gets a little hazy, and this is where the story should of been ending…

Disclaimer: The following is a recount pieced together from the reports of the people who may have seen me that evening. I cannot attest to the accuracy of these facts (and as you all know I am not one to embellish a story…).

According to my mate from Paris we had some shots before I departed around 7pm to go meet the girl, my cousin and CM for dinner. I met the girl in Bank tube station before heading to Tooting Broadway. It was said that I was running all over the place trying to get phone reception as it is a large station and also connected to Monument, so the girl did an excellent job in finding me and getting me to Tooting. CM mentioned I had told her later upon exiting the tube I had gotten confused and thought that because it was still rather light (around 9.30pm) I had thought it was first thing in the morning and we had been out all night. We found my cousin and CM and headed to the restaurant. Apparently the restaurant was a vegetarian Indian cuisine type of place.

Allegedly I did enjoy the food (although without meat I am not convinced this was the case) and was rather talkative with the wait staff (which is probably the case). The reason for the dinner was to thank my cousin and CM for picking me up at the airport when I first arrived (all those many months ago) so I had kept demanding they eat more food. Towards the end of the evening Matt had some menu envy of CM’s dessert and I took it upon myself to order another one for him. I can only imagine his horror after the dessert arrived, as a joke, I swirled the spoon in it and sent it back exclaiming it was finished.

A few bottles of wine later we ended up being herded out of the place – but not before my lecturing of the owner on the 2 fundamental problems with his restaurant. The first being the fact I could only pay with cash and the second being the fact there was no meat on the menu. Apparently my argument was anytime I go into a place accommodating meat eaters there were always a few token veggie dishes to appease the grass eaters, and thus we should not be persecuted when entering the vegetarian domain. I hope he took it all in good fun because I would actually like to go and see if the food is any good (in a state where I would remember it).

From there I believe we headed back to SW19 for some well earned slumber. It was estimated I got to bed at around 2am. Surprisingly, after a good 16hr session, my hangover was only a Force 7 on the Beaufort scale. I am thinking that it was a direct result of my Nacho / Fajita breakfast combo but will try my theory out this weekend and let you know.
Thinking back about the whole day I was rather impressed by my efforts to crawl around all the different areas of London (clearly most of it in a less than quality state) and wind up home unscathed. On further consideration (I can’t believe I am going to type this) the new alcohol ban on the tube probably helped me out in giving me a few small ‘breather’ sessions in between.

The one with the Foo Fighters

So I got a text on Wednesday that said "Do you want tickets to Foo Fighters on Friday" to which I had to reply "Shit yeah".

They played Wembley.

They were awesome.

There was a minute long triangle solo...

The one with the Sunday Session

My tenure here in London was finally rewarded with a beautifully sunny day yesterday that we had to take advantage of. We had spent all morning getting our couch into the living room (having spent the last 3 months in my room). This was not an easy process as the hallway was too narrow to manoeuvre it through the door and when we stood it up it clashed with the glass panel above the door. The only 2 solutions were to either remove the glass panel or bring it in through the window. Being up on the first floor the second option was not preferred so I took it upon myself to try the second. In the end I had removed the glass pane and door frame and 4hrs later we managed to squeeze it through. By this time it was about 1pm and my cousin and I had decided to set out for some well earned beers and lunch.

I invited along the girl I have been seeing and in no time we were sitting in a beer garden in Wimbledon Village with our first pint of Staro (for those wondering Staropramen is a very nice Czech beer that a lot of pubs serve over here – in fact it has replaced Kronenberg 1664 as my first choice). The sun was shining, the drinks were flowing and the randomness was occurring. There was a guy painting the street and our table was included in his painting. I was stoked to find we were actually in the painting (well the back of us anyway). After I had spoken to the man about what I actually thought of the painting he took it upon himself to remove us from it and replace us with some old fogies. The beer garden is right next to the Wimbledon Stables so it was rather amusing to see the poor stable hands have to come out and clean up the horse mess with many drunken hecklers.

Although I have been meaning to have a traditional Sunday roast from a pub here (even as it was beef with Yorkshire pudding) I was swayed by the burger adding Brie cheese and bacon, and a side of chips. I must say it was a rather tasty burger.

Once the sun went down we decided to head (stagger) back down the hill and for some reason stopped for a drink at an Irish bar. My cousin kept going to catch the +1 of big brother (which he is addicted to). For some reason he thinks a cross dressing blind man, an American albino who talks like a gangster, and a fake wedding between a 19 year old glamour and a 42 year old hairy Italian is entertainment. (Although I must admit the Tourettes winner from a couple of years ago was hilarious).

The thing with Irish bars is that people are either really drunk or working there (not necessarily separate). I don’t know what was funnier. The old guy who fell off his stool many times (to his credit never spilt a drop), the guy who ordered a shot with every beer to pour over his head or the lady who was serenading (rather loudly) her poker machine in order for it to pay out (I don’t actually think she put any money in). What was stranger, these individuals, or us for not thinking anything unusual was occurring (I had to ask about it today for confirmation that I hadn’t dreamt it up)?

After we left the Irish bar it seemed like a good idea to grab some more alcohol and head home to order a pizza. I would be lying if I could tell you what was on the pizza or what actually occurred after we ate it but I do remember stumbling into bed around 2am.

Deservingly I woke up at 9.30 with a massive hangover. Rather than take the day off I foolishly jumped on a train for work. At lunch today I took my full hour and went for a sleep in the park. I was woken up by a dog licking my face only to realise I had missed the start of a meeting (lucky for me it had been cancelled). Why is it that the days you know are going to be slow always turn into massive workloads after a previous night of indiscretion?

I thought about the day and was pretty happy a traditional Perth style Sunday Session had been achieved – minus the Cott/OBH and late night kebab. I don’t actually think there will be too many more Sunday Sessions, as while I type this my head is pounding and knowing I should have been home over an hour ago....