Friday! all up in your George Forman! innit though, A RhD positive!

I have made what can, in all honesty, be labelled in the most broadest of terms as a fox pase:

(Ok. This works better in person as you would (as an astute, erudite and witty {[oh ok you got me, middle class] friend of mine} notice that a) I have polished off an entire bottle of 2001 Rioja Reserve to myself in less that 2 hours {mainly due to the glassware detritus I have left for you to recycle [because I can't be bollocked to] in your house} and b) this is a skit I do about "faux pas" allllllll the chocolateloving damned time)

Have not only forgotten how the hell grammar works, but I have also decided to leave my car at my friend's house so I can have a bit of a drinkipoo.

This plan (or flan, as you might accidentally type as a mildly intoxicated and carb addicted individual) is floored in ever so many ways.

Firstly, the metal death machine is now at least 3 miles walk away. Now this route is brightened by the presence of at least 12 licensed premises:

({alcohol licensed, not fishing rod licences or something. Although I'm pretty sure you're running late on those guys, so, you know. Renew at your local post office . http://www.postoffice.co.uk/rod-fishing-licence
[just check out those super duper air drowning benefits]}.
Well, I didn't count them exactly, but I certainly took a fairly accurate estimate of how many of these establishments *may* have screw-top wine bottles. This was after I decided, a few weeks back, my jog that way *might* be slightly easier if I took my trusty corkscrew out of my bag. {Only about 7 of the 12 do screw tops, just incase you're interested})

Which also lines the beautiful sussex countryside. Yet, last time I did the walk (alone and at night, I might add) I was haunted by two white clad hooded youths, clearly looking for ghoulish trouble in their ghostly realm, who stared errirly out from a 1st floor window, and some teenage rapscallions who seemed to brandish half drunk litre bottles of strong spirits, in brain mashing glass vessels, which terrorised the most dangerous level crossing, *engage clarkson* in....this....gaaaaaalaxy. I was a bit scared/old.

Yet, the main bastard of this narrative resides in the fact that I have to overtime at work tomorrow and I have (at the very least) got a 45 min excruciatingly hungover walk/stagger required to collect my leg saving husk of dinosaur guzzling mayhem during tomorrow's A to the M

Who the frickidy frick thought that would be a good idea? Oh yeah. The super snazzy "multi award winning" shiny label of lovely red stuff. I remember. Bastard.

Man. That's a long winded way of saying, "fuck! I need my car in the morning and I'm going to have the most horrific, self induced and lonely hangover.

I should probably get it *oooooon* (is that what people say now PJ and Duncan are no longer rap god heroes?) with some cool as ice bit of H2"motherrespecting"0 about my Godfearing bad self.

Brap.

Byeeeeeeee



Dammit!

I forgot to disengage Clarkson!!

Quick! Everyone say something about equal pay for females. That ought to sort it!