Christ, but do I come out with some nonsense while I'm drunk, don't I? I'll leave it standing as a totem to, er, drunkeness - after all, it's such an unsung condition. Just as well I wasn't sat at a computer roughly 24 hours later, or I'd have probably made some ridiculous pronunciations about the nature of reality and declared undying love for someone. Or, indeed, everyone. Thankfully for my self-esteem and the oh-so delicate sensibilities of the Internet, I played GoldenEye instead. I can't for the life of me remember who with, however. In the interests of tragic rugby-player humour, let it be noted I awoke with an appalling hangover (which wasn't helped by my being squashed onto a sofa of such excitingly modern design that it was entirely useless for sitting on, sleeping on, or apparently doing anything other than forming the centerpiece of an elaborate rite by which the Viking scourge of Ikea might be banished through pagan ritual) clad in a fluorescent road-menders jacket and a Russian Army fur hat, surrounded by numerous bottles that once contained Stella, and one that still contained entirely unwelcome trace elements of Bacardi Spice. Gosh darn it, is that a swell way to wake up.

The day improved, however, when I was given a car. It's jolly nice, which makes a change. Usually when I'm given cars the transaction is carried out under an atmosphere not of charity, but of barely disguised relief that the donatee is saving the £80 it would cost to have it properly scrapped. They then attempt to soothe their conscience pangs at unloading their drive clutter onto muggins me by holding forth in a highly uninformed and insincere fashion about how great it is. In this instance, the guy was quite open about his plans to fling it into the canal if we didn't want it, which was made the nicer by it being quite a robust and totally rust-free specimen of the breed that probably only needs a new battery and some shock absorbers to be Bargain Of The Week material. It's always a pleasure dealing with the uninformed. Well, as long as they're giving you stuff, anyway. The downside is that it brings the fleet back up to 7-and-a-bit horseless carriages, and until it gets a new battery it's joining the other 4 in a state of non-mobility. Or, at least, mobility that doesn't require the entire family and a selection of friends and neighbours popping round to share some fun new expletives and model this month's range of minor skin abrasions (available in great new Red, Brown, Yellow, Brownish-Yellow Shading to Black, Red-Flecked Purple and for, the Extreme sportsperson, Gangrenous Green), tastefully separated vertebrae, and I Can't Believe It's Not Some Kind of Fucking Waterproof Grease That Won't Wash Out, Ever.

I suppose I should at least ditch the half, but the yellow-coated yokels down the tip become dangerously excited when you throw half a Volkswagen into the scrap metal pile. Research has indicated, however, that if we cut it into quarters and throw a mattress over it, then it can be smuggled in and dumped before they realise. Time to prepare some false beards.