Feeling a bit gruesome. Yesterday a couple of chums and I took advantage of mass missus migration to drink too much beer in the afternoon, having told ourselves we'd earned it with a constitutional around Hampstead Heath. I was a bit concerned about the homosexual 80's pop stars who usually lurk in the bushes, occasionally bursting from the foliage and dragging handsome young men to their doom. Like great white sharks in leather trousers and dog skin caps. Luckily, they were scared off by a meeting of the Southern Counties Running Championship. I almost was too. Hundreds of fit young men and women in alarmingly tight lycra pounding all around me, mud-streaked thighs pumping away like pistons. Meanwhile, having dressed with the customary lack of forethought, I was picking my way through the mud in a pair of brown leather loafers with my jeans tucked into my socks. I was one slip away from a nose dive into the mud and an impromptu black and white minstrel impersonation.
Following these exertions we found a nice pub or two and drank a zillion beers. I came home and covered my kitchen in brown sauce, some of which I presume must have hit a bacon sandwich, fell asleep wearing earphones and almost garotted myself. Fine song though it is, I don't intend to die listening to Big Julie by Jarvis Cocker.
It's now getting on for 5 on Sunday. Time for a nap and then I will eat some cheese. Great weekend.
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