I'm highly ill at the minute.

I did a silly thing yesterday. I went to the pub to watch some football and perhaps a pint or two.

Then I was reminded that my good friend Graham was having his 21st birthday celebrations too. I think that was the killer.

So that went well.

I single handedly took out the entire stock of real ales in the Imperial Bar on North Bridge Street. 10 varieties, 2 of each. Add to this the assorted lagers I'd had previously. 3 Tennants in the Waverly Bar, 2 San Miguels in the Imperial Bar(different occasion, same day), a Carlsberg in the Station Inn, and a Fosters in Stampers. I think I did rather well for myself.

We went on to a club after that. I encountered my stalker there too. I said hello, blah blah, and then Chelle appeared at my side. Stalker then proceeded to naff off somewhere for a while, so I had a bit of a kiss and a cuddle and a dance with Chelle. No harm, no foul and whatnot.

As I exited the club, I was with Chelle and Crawford, I turned around and saw Stalker stood there alone, so I left Crawford and Chelle and told Stalker I'd walk her up the road. At which point I was accosted by her sister and her sisters mates who thought I was a Bad Bugger.

I had to put my case across that I'm not the worst guy in the world, and that I was in no fit state to do anything BUT walk her up the road and then fall asleep at home.

Given the all clear to do something I was going to do anyway, I walked her home and she was speaking about something or someone, and I was in my own little world because (I think) my drink was spiked.

So, job done, Stalker at home, I turn around and head for home. Luckily, she lives up the hill from me, so there wasn't a huge amount of effort involved. All I had to do was aim at my house and lean forward.

Once at home, I went straight to bed, as was the plan, and I was placed into a trance by the comfort and warmth of the bedroom. Quick check of the time before the coma kicks in tells me its just after 4 in the morning.

I blink, and all of a sudden its 10 AM. Oh well, time to think about getting up.

That gets put on the back burner as I notice the TV remote. Flicky on, and we're good to go. I get distracted by lower leagues football and some cooking programme. I am going NOWHERE until these two televised giants finish. And then the Grand Prix was on the other channel, so that locked me in.

Grand Prix done, I got up and swore at my unsteadiness and headed off for a shower to rid myself of that most wonderful hangover symptom, Beer Breath.

My dad and his girlfriend were in the house when I awoke, and as I went to make myself a cup of tea, I was shaking with Hangoverness. It was some job attempting to pour milk and hot water into a cup which would not stop dancing.

With my second cup, I decided to have some toast. That was possibly the best idea I have, or ever will have, in all my days. Instant relief.

Tragically, it didn't cure my hangover. I'm still very painful at the minute.

I've also noticed that almost 13 hrs after I stopped drinking, I'm still swaying gently and growling at everything and squinting with one eye.

That's only because its too sodding sunny outside to fully appreciate my hangover and its healing qualities.

I've never been as bad as all this, but by fuck it was fun getting here.