I vaguely remember supping an "industrial strength" cocktail at The Opal Lounge on Thursday night. This is allegedly a hip and groovy place for happening people with cash to burn. Somehow, I managed to slip past the bouncers' screening procedures undetected and found myself in this hallowed joint. Ignoring my previous sworn edict that my dancing days were officially over, I participated in what can only be described as some ungainly shuffling around the dancefloor, displaying the flexibility and rhythm of a turning oil tanker. It was a good night though!
Unfortunately, I was attacked in the middle of the night as I slept, by a gang of men wielding baseball bats. They pummelled my head for 4 hours, and then, before leaving, emptied the contents of a soiled budgie cage tray into my mouth.
Needless to say, I felt terrible when I woke up.
A cup of tea can sometimes help in this situation, however my condition was beyond help. I woke up at 10am, got up for 20 minutes, then went to bed till 3pm. I then struggled through to the living room and watched some dreadful daytime TV.
An incredibly snooty, humourless middle-aged couple were wanting to buy a house in the country. A BBC presenter was given the task of selecting about 5 possible properties for them to look at. Their maximum budget was about £500 000!
All they did was whinge, whinge, whinge about each property, and in the end they never actually bought anywhere. What a ridiculous programme. What a diabolical waste of TV License money. I felt a bit better. A good bit of scoffing and stinging sarcasm directed at the telly is very therapeutic.
I was due to be seeing Greg Mitchell in a play at night, but still felt ill.
Alcohol? Just don't do it kids! I hate losing a whole day like that. Life is too short. So is Jimmy Krankie.
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