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Tuesday, September 21, 2004

The Point Of No Return

Thank goodness for office stomach bugs. While one or two people are clutching their guts in slight discomfort due to the germ going around, I'm using it to hide the severe cramps and shakes I've got thanks to getting utterly twatted last night. Not just drunk, but past that Point of No Return where your balance, reason and dignity tuts and sighs at you, turns on their heels, and takes the last train home while you're left leaning up the bar, thinking you're being really charming and friendly to the barman. When you're not.

I've seen my Evil Best Friend Declan reach The Point of No Return several times; his tell is to start singing Spandau Ballet's 'Gold' in a low and rumbling voice. The sound is like sarcophagi opening. Mine is when I go to the toilet and employ The Hitler Piss: a manoeuvre where you position yourself at the urinal and extend your left hand in the Nazi salute to the wall in order to steady yourself. Well, I'd reached that stage by 9.30 thanks to my two marvellous friends, Steven and Paul. Steven is Scottish, and so is already 90% proof. Paul seems to be equipped with a ceramic liver, and both can suck booze like Liza Minelli if she was reincarnated as Joseph Bazalgette's sewerage system. What started in fairly civilised fashion with the both of them in the Escape bar rapidly descended into messy chaos taking in the delights of Brief Encounter (pineapple shots), The Village ('Blow Jobs', I believe) and barrelling into The Shadow Lounge (second mortgages) at 1am.

I must say I don't like that place. The Shadow Lounge atmosphere is so vile, you can only assume that it was built on a former Indian burial ground. I also can't abide prissy queens, and I certainly can't stand expensive drinks, and this place has them by the truck-load. Imagine my delight. In truth, you're more likely to see me heading towards The White Swan's elegantly-titled cheap drinks night - called 'Fuck Me! How Much?' - with a funnel in my gob.

At the moment, I'm just writing an All Points Bulletin for the whereabouts of Paul, who was last seen taking a drag queen to task at 2am. This is not a good idea when sober, and I fully expect to find the body with several fake nails embedded in the scrotum. And I do apologise for any spelling errors during this post - my body has suddenly remembered that it runs on air and water, and I'm shaking like a shitting dog. Put it this way, if it doesn't stop soon, I'm going to upgrade my 'stomach bug' to 'Parkinsons'.

You may now approach me with your sympathy. Thank you.

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