Well, for those of you who've been wondering where I bin, and there seems to be quite a lot of you, according to my CIA-style internet-monitoring bugging-device, I ain't bin nowhere, sept out. And fuck me , am I too old for this malarkey.
I forsook the two day hangover many years ago but if I can delve back into the fog of the last week I shall attempt a self-admonishing Bridget Jones style tabulation of the sheer volume of things-that-are-bad-for-you tally.
Monday night is half price steak night at the local gaff and Pal P, who normally keeps his Zionism to himself, was feeling kind and spiritual and in need of a therapist to take to dinner. Me. We had half price steaks which were excellent, and way too much wine to go with. I was walking (just) but he was on the Vermillion Vespa and should not have attempted to ride. But did. I didn't care because by that time he had thoroughly annoyed me with his stupid views which I used to think were just expresed to wind me up but I now discover that's what he really thinks. Grrrrrr. Bad mood. Go home. Final drink and try to explain to wholly sober partner why am so grrrrrrr. She's not listening.
Tuesday, feel like shit all morning, but go to lunch at Broadcast Show with mates who're on a jolly and don't want a quick sandwich. They want pizza, wine, more wine, some wine with the coffee and after the coffee some more wine. Boy, TV cameramen know how to live. We never make it back to Earl's Court, probly just as well as I have to go and have late afternoon drink with mate who reveals when I turn up that he's effectively just been fired. Thus the bottle of wine on the table at 4.30pm. And the next. etc etc. Long explanation later to partner about, oh, something or other.
Wednesday have high-power art day with high-power art people who take me to lunch. They're fun and like nothing better than a long, long lunch. The actual launch party is at 6pm, an hour after lunch indeed, with free champagne and tiny, weeny canapes. No, that was another day. No canapes at all. But dinner is at nearby friend's house who offers small amount of food but large amounts of booze. And then starts rolling joints at 11pm. At least partner still dancing at 2am so no explanation required tonight. Just some sleep please.
Thursday, um, can barely remember now, but had lunch in Soho with someone or other, worked in a haze all afternoon before going off to go bowling (!) with Americans which involves much beer at bowling alley to fuel UK vs US challenge, then more beer at Chinese restaurant, then wine then beer, then long explanation to partner etc etc. UK tanked US incidentally.
Friday is heading for disaster. Lunch in Soho, there's barely any food, until I'm desperate and at 4pm order snacks from the bar menu. Chums (different ones I haven't seen for several weeks) are starting their weekend early and as I leave at 5pm realise I have done no work all day and am now headed to supermarket because I have promised to cook dinner for 8. Which I do. Supermarket a bit of a haze, but dinner is fabulous, in an instant kind of a way, and friends are generous in their wine choices so thankfully we can have lots and lots to drink before they leave at 3am. Thankfully also partner dancing again so no explanations required. Just some sleep. Please.
Saturday lunch is a brief rain-soaked Notting Hill affair where I try a glass of wine but this is a mistake. Feel ill and sleepy. Forced to go to party at night which would have been very enjoyable had I been feeling even faintly human, however was very well organised, including a Mr Margarita Machine which appears to be Slush Puppies with Tequila. Marvellous. Partner dancing till 1am. Am now officially one of the living, walking, sleeping dead.
Sunday. Curtains closed. Sleep. Call off lunch, put off Brighton people, and watch zombie TV until Shirley Bassey appears, relaunching her career at Glastonbury. I have long been a fan of "The Living Tree" by Never The Bride - who now manage La Bassey I understand - and the crowd buy it wholesale, as do I. Then horizontally watch two movies - I think I've seen The Untouchables six times now - until The Who close Glastonbury in the rain (a friend recently told me that if the two surviving members of the Who hooked up with the two surviving members of the Beatles, they could call themselves The Whotles. But not Boo - might cause fright, dangerous at their age).
So how much booze? Fuck knows. Too much. Detox apparently starts (again) tomorrow.