I hit the bottle, but it hit back.

"Ok folks and at the top of the third the newcomer is dancing rings around the reigning champion. The judges have Two Shoes ahead on points. Look at the plucky young contender taking slugs at the old slugger himself. Bam! He knocks back another, and another. Well, ladies and germs, it looks like Twinkle Toes might cause an upset tonight. But does he have the stamina to keep this kind of performance up against such an experienced opponent?"

No.

A couple of good martinis to the shnozz after some early body blows from the right fist (wrapped around an ale), and all the fight was knocked outta him. He was going down and his corner knew it. They threw in the towel. But the drink followed the punch drunk kid home and beat him unconscious. Yup a sorry tale indeed.

And two days later he's still nauseous.
Days poured grey and viscous straight from the carton down the plughole.

Waves of shame at belligerence remembered. Meanness. Clumsiness. Spasms at recollections of unkind and dull witted words spoken. The first to leave and with the least dignity. And i wake up haunted by manacles on ankles, the realization the fig leaf was a figment. And the moral is...

Hoorah for booze! Until the hangover. And hoorah for that too, and its sweet songs of remorse and wounded pride.

(apologies to those in attendance of the house-warming in totterdown on saturday)