Living for the weekend

I did think at some point last year that I was beyond the whole ‘going out loads’ thing. I couldn’t even be bothered with the pub most of the time, for a number of reasons, but generally speaking I just couldn’t be arsed. I was fine with that – not necessarily getting older or whatever, just not caring anymore.

Suppose that would be getting older.

Anyway, circumstances changed and I found myself going out again and rediscovering the fact that I am capable of being old-fashioned Ian. Just with longer-lasting hangovers and a bit more work to do in the morning.

If I had remained given up on the dream of going out and getting hammered – it is a dream, you can’t take it away from me – I wouldn’t have experienced last night which was nothing short of bloody brilliant. Pub lunches that never happen, ‘one drink’ that starts at 4pm and finishes at 7am, singing with pimps, bringing the mirth at the roulette table by pretending to be Wesley Snipes, illegal piering, tattoo convention after parties, OHHHH YEEEEAH!, McMahon jumping off the pier*, goggles, eventually having that pub lunch comprising of a 6.30am Ginsters pastie… the list goes on, but could well be unsuitable for most ears.

Yes, my pants were pulled down outside. I need another new belt notch.

I am glad I have not died yet.

*Into sand, not the water.

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