Hangovers should be like guests – on time and not outstay their welcome…

Sunday eh, the sun hat it's hat on and I was free from the chains of the man that binds me, like a dog in a garden, to the restaurant. That is to say I was off work. You'd think I would have been happy but I wasn't, oh no, not me. The reasons for this latest bout of navel gazing were threefold. All my own fault, well not all. It's not like I was playing against Blackburn Rovers, although there is every chance I could have done a better job than the much maligned Dimitar Berbasnax. The season is over, we know that now.

Oh Manchester United, how I love thee but how you hurt me back. We have a relationship something akin to the main characters in an afternoon, made for TV, movie. But I will love you, and the red shirted heroes that are lucky enough to pull on the colours, no matter what. That was the last painful kick in the twitchers of the day. The pain that came before was almost as bad...

I went out on Friday night after work with the kids. My waiter chums ability to consume large amounts of hooch both impresses and scares me and if I am being honest it leaves me jealous and wishing I still had such skills. (still? - The Cousin) These kids, lead by Waiter Chum Number One (The Pied Piper plays a whisky flavoured tune to which they follow), seem to drink on a semi permanent basis these days. They weave their way across town from pub to bar to nightclub occasionally popping into work to serve a few tables, make some money and swap stories from the previous night.

So when it was decided that we were going for a few post work scoops on Friday night I jumped at the chance. They ask me to go with them every time but I always politely refuse using every excuse in the book from my age to having to feed my goldfish. I have no goldfish, oh the shame of having to concoct imaginary hungry pets to get out of socialising.

There was much excitement as I strode into the bar. A large gin and tonic was poured in my honour. There then followed more gins with seemingly smaller splashes of tonic to the point were the relationship between G and T was more like that of Charles and Di. Not that I'm suggesting for a moment that G had T killed in a car crash in Paris. The chat was good, the laughter loud and the gin strong. This was fun. I wondered why I didn't do it more often. Even when I woke on Saturday, seemingly free from any form of hangover, I wondered why I didn't do it more often. I wondered for a while had I crossed the rubicon to that special age of drinking that seems to allow men of a certain age to drink without any obvious side effects.

As pleased as I was to have crossed into this social class I was also aware that I was now old. Or so I thought.

The hangover had some how skipped Saturday and instead arrived late to the party on Sunday morning. How delightful of it to show itself just when I needed it least. There it was, all guns and drums blazing. My head thumped like a Lambeg on the 12th and it appeared my stomach had set up it's own residents group in objection to this. So as the sunlight streamed through my curtains on Sunday morning I knew it was going to be a tough day and no amount of walking on the beach with LMM and a borrowed dog was gonna make it any easier. What's this with the skipping a whole day malarkey? Eh? I like my hangovers the way I like my customers - on time and not out stay their welcome.

And then the second bad thing of the day happened. Whilst playing with said borrowed dog, a lively spaniel thing that I'm convinced has canine ADHD, I managed to drop and smash my iPhone. Oh my there was shouting and unhappiness which the dog answered with a big lick up my face. This was handy as it masked the tears that were gently flowing from my tired and red eyes. Oh precious iPhone why must you leave me, just when I need you most? No more late night golf in bed under the covers. No more checking emails whilst at work. No more Slayer as I storm round the supermarket or pretending to be on a call as chuggers try to ambush me in town.

Well not until Tuesday when my replacement arrives. Tuesday? That's like an eternity away. Why must the world mock me so?!

And whilst I was trying to come to terms with my hangover and busted iPhone United went and drew with those terrible yonner bastards Blackburn Rovers thus ensuring the likelihood of us retaining our title as being quite unlikely. A draw, as The Cousin snarled, they celebrated like they had won the cup.

So I took myself to the garden to plant some Pansy's and other such things until my mood lightened. You should see the backyard now, it's like the Chelsea Flower show on opening day now. I know my suffering is not on a par with the oppressed peoples of the world but still, Tuesday? To get my iPhone replaced?

Sake...

Where are the lovely people from the Red Cross with my replacement phone and headache pills?

I'll be crying into a bag of compost if anyone needs me...