I have the kind of hangover that’s so bad I not only wished I could die, I actively sought it. The idea of being splattered by some taxi washes over me like the blood of the blessed Jesus.
My head hurts, my feet hurt, my back hurts, and for some reason… I’m itchy. I’m piecing together last night’s debauchery and I think what I did was rush down to the Thames to get some beautiful pictures of the sunset, then I went to a pub on the river called Grandma’s Arms — I think, I cannot be too sure because I’d already had 3 pints. I had a couple of pints there (three more?) and some fish and chips and mushy peas then hopped on the tube and went to Piccadilly Circus to the pub that I like there, the name of which escapes me BECAUSE MY HEAD FUCKING HURTS. More beer. Then back to Russel Square and another pub right off the tube station where I met a fellow American who called himself an “entertainer.” When pressed, it turns out he’s a ventriloquist. So I had a pint with him while watching some match between Real Betis and Valencia. THEN! I went to an off license and got a bottle of Jack Daniels. Take that, liver!
I proceeded to drink that in the hotel lounge and was planning a quiet evening of boozing and the internet when I met some family on holiday from Dublin. They were nice people and the father had taken the whole family here so his eldest son could watch the Arsenal match tonight.
Oh yeah… there’s a match tonight and I’m supposed to be talking about football here. Uhhh, erm, uhhh, there’s news: everyone is injured but none moreso than Diaby, Rosicky, van Persie, Djourou, and Denilson. They won’t be playing tonight. Doubtful for the match tonight are Senderos, Flamini, Alumina, and Toure. Which leaves Arsenal with a makeshift squad and forced to play Gilberto at center back. UGH. I’m in no condition or I’d offer to play, I have to be better than Gio at center back.
Oh yeah, in further bad news… I purchased the Flamini shirt. Thus sealing his fate as a former Arsenal player. Sorry but I had to do it.
I think What I’m going to do now is go get some breakfast and then go to the Tate Modern and pretend to understand art. I will stand in thoughtful repose and stare at the R.Mutt toilet. I will probably scratch my chin and wrinkle my brow at some other artist’s photographs. And then I will jump into the river and let the garbage and rats drag me down to sweet, sweet, oblivion.