I'm going to have my sole seasonal night out this weekend. I managed to studiously ignore the gym party. I could have gone, the Bridge Crew were in their Grandma's, but I reckoned that that particular event hacked up all its negligible potential last year.
But now that Common Law has stopped her jobble dubbing and is no longer working nights, I lack even fake excuses. It's time to get out there, sink the pints, bomb the jaegers, blow the chunks. Be fucking festive. My liver and bitterness both refuse to take more than one night and so it looks like the six weeks of Yuletide yuck yuck that you normal folks manage to get through is all going to be compressed into a single depth-charge of debauchery which I shall ceremoniously pitch over the port side of my mental health. To land where? There's the question.
You wouldn't believe what V wants to do with this night. I can't even tell you, it's that fucking weird. It involves strangers, is about all I can say. And my mammy said I never should, play with the strangers in the pub. Although if I'm going to be shit-faced I'd rather it wasn't around people I have to face on a daily basis. That's the problem with going out these days. It's just not done to sit by yourself in a trendy city centre spot, reading a book and getting slowly arseholed. It looks creepy and sad. I save that shit for my increasingly fraught relationship with Twitter.
I guess strangers and V is the next best thing.