Her PVC Skirt

Far too hung-over to go to Mass. Waved my wife and kids off on their way to salvation while I tried to find a position for my aching head. A hot bath didn’t work. A fry-up didn’t work. So I thought I would try the going-back-to-bed-for-half-an-hour trick. Just as I was drifting off to sleep I remembered I had promised my family a roast-dinner. So, twenty minutes later I was having a particularly unpleasant experience in Morrison’s supermarket. Why don’t people shop in the week? Why don’t fat people have their very own fat shops with extra wide aisles? Why didn’t three spotty little fuck-wits know where the nut roast was? And why wasn’t the ten items or less checkout open? Arrived back home a very bad-tempered, sweaty father.
I knew there was only one cure. So, one hour later, after not much persuasion, we were all sitting in the-worst-pub.They stayed with me for two pints, which improved my mood and cured my hangover. After they left me (apparently, I had bought a chicken that was far too big and would take three days to cook) I squeezed in between Wallace and Liam at the smoking-table. Panic Attack, Ringo and Wilson were also there. As they were all engrossed in the Leicester v Cardiff rugby match on the screen there wasn’t much conversation, apart from some rather well informed and acute observations on the new bar-maids tight pvc skirt and the plunging neck line of her blouse. Anyway, two more drinks later, Wilson and Liam were on such good form that I laughed so instantaneously that I sprayed beer all over the floor.
The roast dinner was a success and for the first time in a long time I was in bed at eight o clock.