Sunday afternoon hangover

Yesterday I went round to a friends house for a house warming and poker party. I got rather drunk and lost the princely sum of three dollars. I'm not quite sure why I got so drunk. Admittedly, it probably had a lot to do with quantity of beer and whisky that I consumed. I didn't mean to drink so much, but that is often the case.

I think it all comes down to how quickly I drink my first beer. Yesterday I drank my first beer very quickly, probably too quickly. I'd popped into my bar for a quick beer before I went to the party. Essentially I was just checking to see if any of the pretty barmaids were working. They weren't, but I had a beer anyhow. While I was sat at the bar drinking my first beer. Greg, the owner, bought me another beer. So, I had to polish off two beers in short order to ensure I wasn't late for the soirée. From that point on I was on the slippery slope to drunkenness. Having said that though it was the whisky that really finished me off.

From what I recall, I wasn't exceptionally offensive. But then again my idea of exceptionally offensive may be quite different to someone else's. Plus of course, there is always the possibility that I don't remember some part of the evening. I think I remember most of the evening up to the dissolution of the poker game. But then again maybe I don't.

I'm not entirely sure how I got home. Well I know I walked home, but I don't know when I did and how I left the party and why my left arm is all scratched up this morning. I seem to recall throwing up somewhere or other along the route from their place to mine. But it's all somewhat hazy. I don't remember actually getting to my apartment and falling asleep. Somehow the beer compass pulled me through. Seemingly what I did when I walked in my apartment was to drop my keys on the floor, kick off my sandals, take off my trousers and fall asleep/pass out on my futon (in the sofa configuration).

I have no idea when I got home. I woke up around 11, feeling like the beer monkey had robbed me and shat in my mouth. Which is to say I didn't feel particularly good. I succeeded in getting up, having a shower and going downstairs to the bar for breakfast (eggs on toast not hair of the dog). Breakfast was something of struggle. The last piece of toast nearly beat me. But in the end I was victorious.

Then I went upstairs and watched Paula Radcliffe break down in the marathon. Seeing her sat on the side of the road crying was a pretty painful picture. With all the pressure and expectation on her, as Britain's best chance for an athletics gold medal, and as I was one of the expectants (or whatever the correct word is) it was not very comfortable seeing her sat there. Thankfully, apart from lingering a little too long on her sat by the road, I thought the American commentators handled the situation with a lot of decorum. And that's not a word that I find myself using to describe a lot of American commentators or journalists.