Foggy forgotten weekend

I started drinking at two o’clock on Friday afternoon. It started slowly. Then with the mystical curve when alcohol transubstantiates bread into time, suddenly it was Sunday night, sixty hours had gone missing and all I could remember was that I had missed Holy Mass. My family were still alive and after various telephone calls I found that the sky hadn’t fallen in upon chicken lickin.

Today had been the longest day to die whilst waiting for the sun to set and to find some sort of anonymity as I shuffled towards the-worst-pub. Wilson is tanned after his holiday, Liam is pleased to have him back but both are a little nervous about yesterday’s plane crash. Three pints of numbers and the day is turned around into a night that is full of promise.

I have just won two poker tournaments on the bounce and Miles is blowing his horn; you lovely lovely crazy man blow, scream down your reed and take me somewhere that seemed impossible when I awoke this morning.