Tuesday, January 14, 2003

About last night

Alcohol is a thoroughly terrible drug. Not merely in the sense that it rots your liver, destroys your brain cells, makes you emotionally unstable and strips away your carefully-cultivated humanity to leave you, invariably, a much less pleasant person - these are all valid points as to the nature of it's evil, although from the personality point of view it's very much a case of subjective opinion. Not that I become some kind of crazed and offensive loon when I'm drunk - at least, I don't think I do. But therein lies the big problem for me: I can't remember things. I've only the faintest recollection of occasional detail - and that I'm none too sure about, it's very much a case of shapes in the smoke. I wasn't even all that drunk, not by my far-reaching standards. But I was in a good, gregarious social gathering with some intelligent, witty and stimulating people last night, and now I'm sat here, blinking at the monitor with my slightly itchy eyes, very concious of the substantial amount of alcohol still swilling through my much-polluted bloodstream, trying to recall what the hell it was that was so interesting about the whole affair. It may be there wasn't anything; a lot of drunken buffoons gabbing on about nonsensical topics - but I don't know, and it annoys the shit out of me.

It is with the heartfelt dedication of the hungover that I declare that I'm not going to get drunk for, like, ages. And it is with the gloomy self-loathing tone of the inner consciousness that I mutter, sotto voce, that this dedication will only last until this evening. And then I'll fancy a pint. Bugger it.

Monday, January 13, 2003

Dropping off the kids at the pool

What is it that inspires the male of the species to make their toilet the most vile and unpleasant place they can manage? What inspires people to leave the bowl unflushed, littered with toilet paper, and the magazine open on the floor? Are they seeking validation for their existence? Engaged in silent protest? What?

Mind you, the reading material does give pause for thought. Magazines I'd expect - we've no shortage of them, after all - but the only thing that endures is MediaWeek, which appears to be passed from cubicle to cubicle for weeks on end. Perhaps they have it specially delivered for the purpose. I've also discovered a stash of opened junk mail that suggested someone's doing their post in there. Could this be the sinister effects of the time management consultant insinuating its way into our working lives? Best result so far, though: an essay on Venezuala printed out from monbiot.com. We're just so intense round here, you know. I'll route round a group email asking for a machine-washable box-set of the collected works of Tolstoy, complete with wall-mounted chain - that'll impress the investors when they come round.
Blood in your alcohol stream

Andy: Last week i felt constanly hungover, apart from when i was drunk