Last Days Of Winter

How they're flying by. This sundialish sort of thing in the park on Dallas Road illustrates the months of the year (in case you're a bit rusty on complex concepts like the Gregorian calendar) and is a constant reminder of how time flits by like a Premier League footballer who's just been offered an extra ten grand a week for breathing.

Any road, it's been a fun twenty-four hours from one month to the next. The Monday Night Club were on fine form last night, with Yumi introducing the group to the Flatliner (a cocktail comprised of sambuca, tequila and tabasco; the novelty lies in the chemical reaction between the tabasco and sambuca, whereby the former turns suspiciously white and cloudy. Cue inevitable ribaldry from the recipients: "Aaaaaaaargh! Someone's spunked in my drink!")

As if that wasn't enough, Samba and Mohawk Matt treated me this afternoon to the tale of how they came to find their mate on the doorstep at five in the morning wearing nothing but his underwear (a story which, surprisingly enough, also revolves around alcohol).

Having imbibed as much intoxicating liquid as humanly possible, our subject decided to rely on his own legs and trusty beer-compass to get him home. The ensuing journey was somewhat hazy, but the crux of the matter is that our kid managed to lose his clothes in a field during a rainstorm, and was found by police wandering down the hard shoulder of the M6 in an advanced state of nudity. (It was the southbound lane, if that makes any difference. Personally I think that if you're striding bollock-naked down a motorway in the middle of the night, steeped in rainwater and reeking of cowshit, which end of the country you're heading towards is the least of your problems. But hey, God's in the details).

Being the caring and considerate bunch that they are, the police promptly abandoned the lad at Samba's doorstep, and he lives to drink another day. Although I'm not a religious person, I do note this kind of stuff down as potential proof that if there is a God, He must smile on those of us who get off our tits at every available opportunity.

Saith the Lord thy God: blessed are the drunkards, for they shall inherit the Earth. And it'll be a much more fun place as a result.