Monday, March 24, 2008

I can't cut the mustard like I used to

Well, so, Saturday at twelve I met up with my brother for lunch in the Ropewalk pub, Nottingham, which is something we do from time to time. It's a really great place, if you ever happen to be in that part of the world, it gets five stars on the Zoomy guide for food, drink and atmosphere. We got in there out of the blizzard howling outside (did anyone dream of a white Easter? Because we certainly got one in this part of the world), had a drink, decided we didn't feel like lunch just yet, had an entertaining conversation about this, that and the other with particular emphasis on Thundercats, Max Fleischer cartoons and general setting-the-world-to-rights. This naturally leads into singing raucous songs for the entertainment of the Ropewalk staff and the handful of other customers, and before too long it was seven o'clock and I was feeling a little light-headed. The idea of food had entirely slipped from both of our minds.

We went into town to see what was happening at Chambers, where they do karaoke, only to be besieged by people wanting me to memorise things for them. Which was very nice, because I got a chance to say "Oh, woe, the life of a celebrity, constantly hounded by admirers when I just want a quiet drink and a sing-song!" Although by that point I wasn't in quite such eloquent mood. We quickly went on to Cast, where it's quieter, forgoing the karaoke (it's one of those activities that are sometimes less fun in a place where everybody knows your name) and finished an eight-hour binge-drinking session there.

What's worrying is that I was decidedly lagging behind on the drinking front by this point, and basically being led around mumbling incoherent drunken witticisms and songs. I know I don't exactly have a reputation for holding my booze, but there was a time when I could safely keep pace with my brother. I have a feeling I'm turning into an old man. This feeling was intensified when I got back to my brother's place, having decided that the journey home from Derby just wasn't worth the effort (he shares a house with Hungarians, so we avoid drunkenly hanging out there as a rule), had half a pizza, went to bed and then spent the night throwing up a great deal more than I can logically have had in my stomach. My brother was relatively unscathed by the day's excesses. I also skinned both my elbows somehow, somewhere along the line.

I made my way back home yesterday morning, but I can't really remember what I did all day, except that it was freezing cold and still occasionally snowing, so I stayed indoors. I posted that brief and unilluminating blog, went to bed, changed my mind, got up again and watched the football, went back to bed at eleven, woke up this morning at half past six, got up, decided after a couple of hours that I really had a bit more sleep I needed to catch up on, went back to bed and got up again a bit before midday.

And after a start like that, although I feel fine again now, it's hard to get cracking with the stuff you were planning to achieve over the long weekend. So, basically, I haven't done any of the memory training I was aiming for. This is annoying on multiple levels. I've never been a hardened drinker, but I'd like to think I can occasionally go out for a booze-up without it wasting three whole days of my life! I don't know, maybe if I want to be world memory champion, I'll have to avoid excessive intake of alcohol. Who'd'a thunk it?

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