Broken weeks

D'you know what... and I said this to NewBen on Friday night, or on Saturday night, after he'd very kindly — and perhaps drunkenly — come round with my Snow Patrol CD before pissing off to Greece... Ever since the Venus Transit, things have rattled along in a rather off-the-rails fashion, more-or-less constantly. Not that it hasn't been very enjoyable. But it can all be traced back to that day — that evening, in fact.

Culminating with Fraser doing his stand-up on Saturday night. Fair play to him, but it was really hard to watch...

This week is going to be sober: FACT. But it's back to Belfast next week, and that's only going to bring a world of drunkenness. And The Big Dub has planned a day and night in Dublin. The next day will be painful. Also FACT.

Must get my arse in gear and get this talk ready fer Paris, too, otherwise professional death awaits. Sounds melodramatic, I know, but that's how it feels in my head. And this orifice needs to be a bit calmer now.

Portugal v Holland semi-final tomorrow night, too. On pay-day. Very unwise...