Of the four, my personal favourite was the Cider and Pernod, though this may have been in contrast to the unequivocal foulness of the preceding drink. Alas, after the last drink I managed to negotiate my way into the waiting taxi where I quickly decided that I didn’t like to have my eyes open whilst it was moving. As a result of my sitting there with eyes closed and enough alcohol in my system to allow me to piss a reasonably fortified cocktail I quickly fell to sleep.

Upon being nudged into life again back in Manchester I struggled to stand, opting for the classic 45 degree slant rather than the proven much more successful vertical position and was promptly ushered into the house where I made a beeline (if anyone’s actually observed a bee fly then the use here is far more accurate than is implied in standard handling of the phrase) for the front room. The first chair I attempted to sit on pulled itself out from underneath me and so I decided to go for a different chair, reassuring the cabinet facing me insistently that no one saw me. After the second chair joined the same league as the first, I decided to sit on the floor for a while lest my continued spinning and falling inspire me to reproduce one of Jackson Pollock’s great works on the living room floor.

I’m fairly sure the moral of this story is self-evidential, though it remains to be seen whether it will actually make the slightest difference to anyone, anywhere or ever. Alas, I’ve declared myself teetotal for a few hours in order to recover though I’m unsure how successful I’ll be. All’s fair in love, war and binge drinking, I guess.

Gaz out.