Wednesday, 6 April 2011
You can surprise yourself when you've had a few
Jesus - the flex has been very real since last Thursday night - A Nando's was taken down (thanks in part to Secret Santa - whoever you were. Hush. Hush. Wink. Wink.) which was one of the best meals imbibed this year - cheesecake even got ravaged for afters - good job it was a large slice as it an essential cog in the main meal until Monday just gone - apart from some delightful samosas and a late night chicken-based dish on Saturday which may or may not have been cooked. Ate it anyway like. But it was redder than Rudolph's nose. The poor thing.
Pretty much the entire weekend was spent on the piss. Which was obviously amazing 'during' but when you're necking jagers at just before 2 on Monday morning with a full day at work less than 7 hours away, the whole regime becomes midly ardous. It also leads to the standard feelings of remorse, regret and self loathing. Then you rethink, recalibrate, get reacquainted with veg and 40 winks. Standard.
However, sometimes getting shit faced can see you really right (as well as on top of the obvious golden bits - being extra witty, charming and dazzingly salacious) - a little note from the Royal Mail plopped through our letter box Monday suggesting that a parcel was awaiting delivery. That always creases a smile upon a face. Someone is sending something to ME. That's right. ME ME ME. The hype was especially big as this fucking bastard Donna Summer record had yet to show up from Discogs, despite being ordered some months ago - so the feeling was like -'Oooh - that dick has got round to sending it rather than ripping us off'. As moments go, it was a good one...
Work was spent salivating at the prospect of getting very initimate with Summer (during her 'Bad Girls' phase no less - that's right - keep your trousers creased gentlemen) but when the boiling hot post office was reached, no record was to be seen. The parcel was flat and fat like a stale and overbready lunch wrapped up in a box. The package was ripped open outside to find, surprisingly, 150 packets of rizlas. Apparently they were from the spoils of a prize which I don't remember entering. At all. Pissed up and on the internet. Again. But this time instead of being a cause for embarrassment and regret, it's a cause for celebration. Smokes. Loads of them. It's a real celebration bitches.
The only thing is that 150 packets of rizlas containing 50 rizlas each is deemed a life time's supply. I give them 6 months...
Jagers - one for the barkeep obvs
Pints - both for one mandem - obvs
Podcasting live from 'the pit'
Who knows where Doctor Fish is?
They did eggs
Just before some near nudity
Best meal. Ever? Pics?
Samosa at the bus stop - standard