Sneezy does it

Culture is terrible for your health.  In a burst of holiday vim I took myself off to the Rude Britannia exhibition at the Tate.  The exhibition itself was excellent (the Viz-curated room being a particular crass highlight) but I got lavishly soaked on both the walks there and back, compounded by a couple of hours in between of marinating in swampy dampness.

As a result I have been suffering from a catastrophic cold for the last couple of days.  I've been self-medicating like a sneezy Elvis, gobbling strepsils, sudafed, lemsip and paracetamol pretty much at random.  Sadly I also made the grave error of going out for a few drinks last night, condemning myself to a hangover/head congestion combination at 6am this morning that felt like someone had filled my entire skull with glue.

As the missus is away for the weekend I've resorted to a day of recuperation tragic even by my horribly low standards.  Having taken quintuple doses of every medicine in the flat I shuffled into the living room wrapped in a duvet, yanked out the sofa bed and spent the entire morning watching Spaced DVDs, swallowing satsumas virtually whole and creating an arctic blizzard of used tissues.

I then dragged my stinking carcass to a pub for a roast I couldn't taste before returning to the sofa bed base camp and seeing off the afternoon by snoozing raspily to my favourite football podcast for morons, the Sky Sports Sunday Supplement.  I love the porcine tabloid hacks passive aggressively squabbling over favoured contacts ("Of course, you'd know that from your little chats with Sir Alex, wouldn't you Tony?") and straining to suggest intimacy with millionaire players ("Let me tell you, Lamps/JT/Stevie G ain't happy with the situation Brian, not one bit") who in reality must absolutely loathe them.  I woke in a state of confusion and had to calm down by blowing my nose 14 times, watching the X-Files and eating a few more satsumas.

It's actually been quite an effective tribute to the endless school summer holidays that I frittered away goggling at the Big Breakfast, Saved By The Bell, Roseanne and Quantum Leap for weeks on end without feeling the slightest shame or compulsion to leave the house.  If only I had access to Championship Manager 1995/96 the replication would be complete.