Lager, Lager, Lager shouting....
Watching the football last night was as painful as expected. I joined a few colleagues in a very exclusive location to watch on the big screen.
There was lager in bottles available and it would have been extremely rude not to have accepted the kind offer of hospitality. The problem is I don't usually drink lager, I'm very much a bitter drinker.
This morning my head is testiment to that. At least bitter gives you a good honest hangover, lager destroys parts of the brain that other alchohol can't reach.
To be honest I had a great night, spent in cracking company talking my usual cobblers. Herein is the reason for my state this morning. When you have evenings like that, which these days are few and far between with all my "responsibilities", the alchohol just keeps flowing and you realise you're getting a bit drunk, but it doesn't hit you till its too late.
The Sweden game ended and the final pint of Saint Miguel (I know, it's dreadful stuff) was going down when I suddenly felt very grey. I excused myself and popped in to the toilets to drive the porcelain bus, which I think may have stayed the worse of outcomes.
It was time to go home (a handshake? how very modern) and it was only now that my poorly condition really began to draw itself to my attention. My muffin-the-mule style walk to Farringdon was fine, misjudging the step is a minor misdemeanor compared to piling into someone who was very clearly sober, not an England fan, and not at all amused by my grovelling apologies.
I was referred to as "a drunk"...not "drunk", but "a drunk" - sadly I was in no fit state to portray how indignant I was at the inference. The irony completely lost on me, I realised there was a train to catch.
I got to Kings Cross in time to catch the 1106 to Foxton, and I may have tried to watch an episode of 24 on my PSP, but I must have given up fairly quickly - ah yes, I remember now, I managed to buy a bottle of water and a banana with the remaining two quid I had in my pocket from Marks and Spencer.
Having eaten the banana I must have fallen asleep (I'd been on the go since 4am - see yesterdays post) and was definitely on the down side of the rollercoaster.
I woke up sometime later looking out of the train window trying to make sense of the landmarks rushing past. A very helpful chap (thank you, sir for your compassion - and sobriety) asked me which station I was getting off at. "Welwyn North" I said. He looked at me and said, "we're just coming into Letchworth, if you're quick you might be able to get the last train back from the other platform."
So I'd fallen asleep at Finsbury Park, managed to miss my station, and then Knebworth, Stevenage and Hitchin.
Nice one.
I grabbed everything and jumped off. On the other platform I tried to focus on the train timetable, and eventually gave up - the lager had really wrecked my mental capacity.
Luckily another kindly man came over (this one wearing a uniform) to "h'advise you that h'yew 'ave missed the last train this evening."
I ought to think about getting a cab.
That's when I remembered the voicemail my wife had left me some 20 hours earlier to tell me I had left my wallet at home that morning.
The full scale of my situation was just starting to peek over the horizon of my conciousness. In quick succession my brain said, "Letchworth? LETCHWORTH !!!" Then I remembered my house keys were in my car, which would normally have been at Welwyn North (which was the entire reason I had wanted to get off there, because I needed to retrieve my house-keys) but in fact yesterday morning I had driven to Knebworth to catch the faster train, so even if I had have got off at Welwyn North I would have been a bit screwed anyway.
The yang was balancing the ying of the earlier part of the evening.
As it was, I was in Letchworth, it was midnight, I had no housekeys, no wallet, no money left - the banana extravagance put paid to that - and I was lagered - so my beer radar which would normally have got me home was complaining - a bit like a diesel car trying to run on petrol.
A large minivan pulled up, I jumped in and he had no idea where Datchworth was so I suggested we head for Stevenage and we'd figure the rest out as we needed.
Once we were on the motorway, and he had gamely tried to engage me in coversation about the football, I let slip my predicament.
I was mentally working out how pissed off my wife would be (always a good measure of how far I've erred) at me getting home late waking her up to let me in, then going out again with wallet in order to get cash to pay the cabbie and then come home 20 minutes later to wake her for a second time.
This was too horrible to contemplate, I told the driver I worked for a law-firm, but he took that to mean I was a lawyer, so any chance of negotiating a deferred payment was going to be a non-starter.
I asked if he would take a cheque, which he eventually and reluctantly agreed to.
I got home at 1240. The cab fare was £40. My wife was livid.
This morning I am ill, and I have the first of four meetings in 15 minutes. Time to grab a can or two of Red Bull to set me up for the day. Get in!
There was lager in bottles available and it would have been extremely rude not to have accepted the kind offer of hospitality. The problem is I don't usually drink lager, I'm very much a bitter drinker.
This morning my head is testiment to that. At least bitter gives you a good honest hangover, lager destroys parts of the brain that other alchohol can't reach.
To be honest I had a great night, spent in cracking company talking my usual cobblers. Herein is the reason for my state this morning. When you have evenings like that, which these days are few and far between with all my "responsibilities", the alchohol just keeps flowing and you realise you're getting a bit drunk, but it doesn't hit you till its too late.
The Sweden game ended and the final pint of Saint Miguel (I know, it's dreadful stuff) was going down when I suddenly felt very grey. I excused myself and popped in to the toilets to drive the porcelain bus, which I think may have stayed the worse of outcomes.
It was time to go home (a handshake? how very modern) and it was only now that my poorly condition really began to draw itself to my attention. My muffin-the-mule style walk to Farringdon was fine, misjudging the step is a minor misdemeanor compared to piling into someone who was very clearly sober, not an England fan, and not at all amused by my grovelling apologies.
I was referred to as "a drunk"...not "drunk", but "a drunk" - sadly I was in no fit state to portray how indignant I was at the inference. The irony completely lost on me, I realised there was a train to catch.
I got to Kings Cross in time to catch the 1106 to Foxton, and I may have tried to watch an episode of 24 on my PSP, but I must have given up fairly quickly - ah yes, I remember now, I managed to buy a bottle of water and a banana with the remaining two quid I had in my pocket from Marks and Spencer.
Having eaten the banana I must have fallen asleep (I'd been on the go since 4am - see yesterdays post) and was definitely on the down side of the rollercoaster.
I woke up sometime later looking out of the train window trying to make sense of the landmarks rushing past. A very helpful chap (thank you, sir for your compassion - and sobriety) asked me which station I was getting off at. "Welwyn North" I said. He looked at me and said, "we're just coming into Letchworth, if you're quick you might be able to get the last train back from the other platform."
So I'd fallen asleep at Finsbury Park, managed to miss my station, and then Knebworth, Stevenage and Hitchin.
Nice one.
I grabbed everything and jumped off. On the other platform I tried to focus on the train timetable, and eventually gave up - the lager had really wrecked my mental capacity.
Luckily another kindly man came over (this one wearing a uniform) to "h'advise you that h'yew 'ave missed the last train this evening."
I ought to think about getting a cab.
That's when I remembered the voicemail my wife had left me some 20 hours earlier to tell me I had left my wallet at home that morning.
The full scale of my situation was just starting to peek over the horizon of my conciousness. In quick succession my brain said, "Letchworth? LETCHWORTH !!!" Then I remembered my house keys were in my car, which would normally have been at Welwyn North (which was the entire reason I had wanted to get off there, because I needed to retrieve my house-keys) but in fact yesterday morning I had driven to Knebworth to catch the faster train, so even if I had have got off at Welwyn North I would have been a bit screwed anyway.
The yang was balancing the ying of the earlier part of the evening.
As it was, I was in Letchworth, it was midnight, I had no housekeys, no wallet, no money left - the banana extravagance put paid to that - and I was lagered - so my beer radar which would normally have got me home was complaining - a bit like a diesel car trying to run on petrol.
A large minivan pulled up, I jumped in and he had no idea where Datchworth was so I suggested we head for Stevenage and we'd figure the rest out as we needed.
Once we were on the motorway, and he had gamely tried to engage me in coversation about the football, I let slip my predicament.
I was mentally working out how pissed off my wife would be (always a good measure of how far I've erred) at me getting home late waking her up to let me in, then going out again with wallet in order to get cash to pay the cabbie and then come home 20 minutes later to wake her for a second time.
This was too horrible to contemplate, I told the driver I worked for a law-firm, but he took that to mean I was a lawyer, so any chance of negotiating a deferred payment was going to be a non-starter.
I asked if he would take a cheque, which he eventually and reluctantly agreed to.
I got home at 1240. The cab fare was £40. My wife was livid.
This morning I am ill, and I have the first of four meetings in 15 minutes. Time to grab a can or two of Red Bull to set me up for the day. Get in!
posted by Furry at 8:56 am
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