I honestly meant to have a quiet birthday this year. No; honestly I did. I was going to hide away from my alcoholic mates and read a fuckin' book.
But it didn't turn out that way. It is impossible to stand in the way of friends whose mission it has become to drink you under three of four tables.
We'll just get one bottle, they said. Just the one. And maybe a box of beers. Or two. We might as well get some Vodka, too....
Six bottles of Bourbon, one bottle of Stoli, three boxes of beer, nine cigars, three packets of ciggies and various other substances were consumed by me and my four very determined beer buddies in the space of two days. That's just the stuff I counted whilst still able to count! And, of course, drunk logic dictates that the best hangover cure is a hair of the dog that bit you. My birthday was on a Saturday. It is now Thursday, and the party shows no sign of abaiting. The dog that bit us must have a bloody big bald patch now!
This year's birthday has taken a couple of years off my life; I shit you not!
The moral to this sorry tale? If you find one, let me know....