Monday, May 05, 2003
Morning Has (Unfortunately) Broken
Well. Thought we were the proper little Oscar Wilde last night, didn't we? All bons mots and charm, wittily holding forth on every subject from British theatre to sexual identity, by way of Eurovision and Arsenal football club; flattering the drunken ladies and eyeing up the far-too-sober gents; offering advice and understanding along with your mobile phone number. Quite the perfect little guest, in fact. Charmingly limp-wristed flourish in one hand, glass of green liqueur in the other.
And now, ten hours later, peering out from under the duvet at this shabby, shabby little world through red-rimmed eyes, you run through the options. Cabbage soup with Neurofen. Naked romp through wind-swept wastes of N7. Devouring (dead) bull's penis. Prairie oyster. Cholesterol overdose. Sweating it out of the system (look, I'm just going for a sauna, that's all. Honest). Sticking thirteen red-hot pins into the cork of the offending bottle. Or just vowing to grow up and to do it never, ever again.
No choice, really, is there? Cheers, mate. Mine's a Stella.