St Patricks day… argh…
actually, make that St. Patricks 4 day festival… argh…
I spent most of yesterday afraid to attempt cognitive activity incase my head exploded. There is a reason why we have a public holiday in Ireland the day after st. Patricks day, as there wouldnt be a tap of work done in the country because of the general mental state of the Adult Population. Suffice to say its not uncommon to find people asleep on their doorstep, as they just weren’t able to work the key of their door. And they were the lucky ones.
I was able to piece together much of the weekends events by looking at the reciepts in my pockets. And a fascinating tale they told too. I don’t remember buying 2 cocktails and a double vodka at 9.47pm or who owns the phone number on the back of the reciept, or who wrote it, because it dosent look like my writing. Or if it is even my reciept in the first place. Maybe Bachuus left it in my pocket when he was taking all my money for the use of his Beer Scooter (the magical , mystical device that gets you home when you’re drunk, puts a kebab in your hands and throws you up your stairs at the end of an evenings imbibment).
Then again, the only way I found out how I got home on Saturday night is the fact that the bus ticket was stuck to my face Sunday morning. I don’t recall much of the gig I played sunday night, but I must have enjoyed it by the text messages I was sending people at 4.30 in the morning.
Suffice to say, my head was in such a condition on Monday that it felt like Bob Dylan was living in it.
Here’s the deal.
Invent what happened to me this weekend. Starting at 6pm Friday, ending at Unknown time on early monday morning. If you can fit in 1 party, 1 Fat Boy Slim concert and 1 gig, you’re doing well. the rest fo the itinerary is up to you.
the best entry gets eh… something. Aspirin. yeah, aspirin…
