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We get a
lot of people trying to wheedle out of their responsibilities
when it comes to actually getting along to a Club Beer night,
so we're used to excuses. I've been kidnapped by a mongoose, my
legs have turned to semolina, my head is on fire, we've heard
them all. But when Gary sent us this missive
before the Club Bier Eurovision thingy we saw recourse to remove
our headgear in respect. Enjoy the strangeness, savour the reality,
as we present...Gary's excuse.
Having been
on a strict Betty Ford since last Tuesday, I fear a sudden injection
of the golden, delicious, fizzy thang they call lager may, while
pleasurable, become an orgy of drunkeness, resulting in smoking
two packets of snouts and a very late night in some Pheonix bar
or other, the grand finale being a very expensive cab ride home,
the ceremonial burning of bacon under the grill - cue smoke alarm,
much smoke in flat and the smell of fat - while falling asleep
drunk in all my clothes, topped by a prompt awakening at four
in the morning to rush to the loo to vomit bile for half an hour,
drink a pint of water, foolishly thinking that will cure all my
ills before going back to bed for three hours, only to wake up
with a raging hangover and head off to work where I will spend
the entire day oozing lager-stinking sweat, eating junk comfort
food, not being able to concentrate, trying to put one foot in
front of the other, my eyeballs hurting so much they threaten
to pop out of my skull and then ending up having to come in over
the weekend to catch up on an entirely wasted day. So predictable.
Anyway i'll think about it.
Needless to say, he didn't make it.