poled

Dude.

Went out with some folks on Friday and got fucked up on Hennessey vodka.

At some point in our aggressively over-fueled night, we ended up in "Bar Polski", which ruined me. Those Polish people are freaking crazy. I just remember drinking the vodka and apple juice they were pouring all over the place (over the counter, into our glasses, everywhere...) like juice.

God, and did I wear it for the rest of the weekend. Almost had to make a sneaky tactile in Sloane Square where I met L and She Who Hates Socialists the following day.

(So hungover was I, instead of drinking champagne, we headed to the Pizza Express only to get served by a bloke called Jesus.)

I didn't even have the nerve to try on some of the season's new pastels at Zara. I was even too broken for fashion.

It all started on Friday, with the mild intention of getting through a bottle of cheap white wine after work. The wine was free. Which goes to show that it pays to pay. I should know better frankly. I'm such a douchetard.

From now on, I don't care if the world is caving in or if Satanics get the vote, or if Julian Assange's dick is on fire. Mark my words: Nothing good ever came from accepting a free bottle of really shit wine.

Birds were tweeting, I was back in London, so I had every intention of celebrating.
I just forgot how to stand. Or be reasonable. Got home to the Brit who had also just got home, but who could undress me and carry me to bed.

Some people get obnoxious when they're more wasted than Vladimir Putin at a Soviet rally, I just get unreasonable. It's taken me a few good years to really embrace my Drunk Personality, or really fine tune it to the bastard it is today, but here you go. Thirty one years shy - I can admit I'm a fucking asshole.

I also tend to steal shit when I'm hammered too. But didn't go home with anything on Friday. Disappointingly.

The Quiet American tried to put me in a black cab, but I wasn't having that, so he wrote the directions down on my arm to take the tube. And then some Scottish dude escorted me to my stop.

Albeit, they all insist that we had a whale of a time - even though I was unreasonable and blind drunk, because everyone else was fucked too. I just wish I could remember it.

Two days later and I swear I am still hanging like Mr Cooper.

Jolly good night, and generally a great weekend bar the hedonistic pukiness and taste of old tyres in my mouth.