Well this makes a change. First I have Internet connection.
Secondly, I can’t hold my alcohol anymore.
No, you don’t understand. Last year I was downing ten Jaegermeisters, five long drinks and other fluidy detritus in one night sitting, and I wouldn’t even stumble [much] around. At the worst, I’d spill something, sing into a microphone in public and suck the face of a bottom feeder at the Mandog.
The gift that keeps on giggling. Right? Wrong. Two drinks later, not only am I properly wasted, but I’m also properly ill.
I’ve had roughly a month’s break from the Juice From Heaven, [didn’t Jesus turn water into wine?]
I’ve developed a, quite frankly, annoying alcohol intolerance. Just like that.
Friday I had maybe three, four drinks. Including the glass of La Motte I had at home after a brief catch up at Turtle Freak with everyone.
Not a fucking chance was I going out. I went home to scrapbook.
Which is good, really, since I came home and promptly parked a tiger.
I had such high booze tolerance last year, the concept of chundering aprés le bender didn’t so much as cross my mind, even if I crashed into the coffee table and left the fridge door open after smashing leftover lasagne in complete inebriation. It’s just not my style, I haven’t cotched in years.
There I was, scrapbooking like a demon, stretched out on the lounge carpet in just my doondies and gold stilettos, wielding a Pritt stick. (One needs to break in shoes before one swans around in them).
I suddenly felt really really kak, what with the involuntary contorting of my oesophageal cardiac sphincter reflexing itself like how Sylvester Stallone contracts his guns in Rambo 3. It was a cultured vomay – very short, not particularly projectile-like and generally not too hectic, but nevertheless, bottom line is: I’m scrapbooking and parking tigers after 4 drinks. My party days have clearly retired on me until further notice.
I decided to do a wee bit of blogging in this state ad blottotum. The room was spinning, I was listening to Punjabi MC – loud - as The Ant and The Gilb were frenetically busying themselves nekkid behind closed doors. Please bear in mind the misjudgement. Below is my post before-chunder, which I have added here simply because it’s completely incomprehensible (I’ve [sicced] everything.):
So like I rtealised [sic] that officially tunerned [sic] into an old fart on Friay [sic] night.
I pribablu[sic] have to edic [sic] this three thijme,[sic]because, although I’m an Officla [sic]Old Loser, I still had apaerty [sic] all by myself. ) There you go. because reallt[sic]. I obviously hada [sic] some kind of aprty [sic] touter [sic] seuake.[sic].
Fuck I love scarp [sic] booking. And if there was a fire in our apartmernt[sic] right mow [sic], God forbid, the first thing I’s [sic] grab would be my photo a;lbum.s [sic] and scapbooks [sic]. And Chad my [sic] vermin, of cousrese. [sic] Also new ghold [sic] spike heels.
I sulaly [sic] get phtos [sic] developed once every sic [sic] months and put into book. Most pics are chaotic partyeies [sic] and of general clowning around, but, quitevfranlkly [sic], they’re classic. .
I want make important cnogical [sic] evenst [sic] eith [sic] regards to classix [sic] timelinjes [sic] of my life.
When did I not attend parties, drink a shitload, generally misbehave in 2006? Crazy crazy Carzyi [sic] fucking year.
Concludng, [sic] I feel sick now cos I am half-teetotoling [sic] this year and carp [sic] an instru7mnet [sic] in your orn [sic] stomach, in other words -0 you don’[sic]. (What the fuck? – Ed)
Think I nerd [sic] to chunda.
A heartfelt, poignant, if not enlightening literary piece of pigeon guano, that.
I can’t hold my booze anymore, yo.