It's Monday, 13:33pm London time, and I'm propped up at my desk listening to Elliott Wilson's OF special and necking Ibuprofen.
This time on Saturday I was drinking Guiness in a pig mask in sometime Krays-hotspot The Ten Bells on the first stop of the #DONSTAG, which was basically a stag party with extra swag in it, organised with no input from me whatsoever by The Best Jeremys, my twin-human Best Man superteam.
Turns out they'd put together a historical tour of East London that they joyfully dubbed "The Route of All Evil", which lead us from Shoreditch to Wapping and back again, on a journey that would prove to enlighten, astonish, and thoroughly inebriate. A gang of my favorite dudes showed up, including ALL OF MY BROTHERS (see above), and lo, we did proceed to have a beautiful day.
Around this point it gets hazy, which 12 hours of drinking will do to a person. All I know is that at some point in the early hours, we were leaving a club, and according to witnesses, I appeared at the top of the stairs, grinning manically amidst the crowd of bustling departees, and decided that in my faded and enlightened state that laws of physicas did not apply to me, and that i knew a way out that didn't involve shuffling slowly downstairs with the herd. And lo, I did raise my superman fists, raised myself above the crowd for a few, glorious seconds, in which my mental self image was probably something like this:
Then, a swoosh, and an almighty CRACK at the bottom of the stairs.
"Oh shit, he's getting married in a bodycast," groaned Tim.
But not so! The magical forcefield of booze appeared to have averted that potentiality, as sooner than one might manage to cry, "an ambulance for that drunk!" I was running around the the middle of the road dodging buses and demanding spliffs.
Now, I'm not running anywhere right now. I am, as I said, necking Ibuprofen and wincing in pain every time I move.
But I had a lovely time.
Thanks you guys.