The Foot Is Down! Praise the lord!

After a hard week slogging it out in that job we all know and hate, there is nothing that I like more than to sit at home on a Friday night with the sole objective of obliterating what once was a fine nation of brain-cells.

Not anymore! Well that’s what the girlfriend thinks anyway. She has decided that since she is devoid of flaws and imperfections, that she would be best turning the focus of her attention to me. What she hasn’t quite realised yet, is that this is going to be something of a laborious project. You see I think she is overlooking the small detail that I have more vices than Fred Dibnah’s tool shed. No doubt she will waste no time hunting them down one-by-one, like some sort of emotionally sadistic splinter cell of the Salvation Army. Stalking her prey before finally moving in for the kill.
I should probably step back from the edge of the resentment cliff, before somebody – namely me - says something that they later find themselves regretting.

I don’t mind not being able to drink on a Friday night in my own house, even if it is after a hard week in an unfulfilling job. But after last weekend I discovered a minor problem that I am confident is here to stay. For some inexplicable reason, I seem to have been singled out for a phantom hangover, which looks like it will pay me a visit every Saturday morning regardless of whether I have been drinking or not.
The only possible cause of these phantom hangovers is that my body has been stockpiling surplus “hangovae” for some years now. Sadly, I am merely required to have a quick reminiscence to the last time I had a cognitive memory; in order to realise that I have a considerable reservoir stowed away. Instantly the phrase:

“My God, my God, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?”

springs to mind. And it is all accompanied with harrowing images to help conjure up my own personalized version of hell to boot. With the pain and anguish brought about by the phantom hangover, I have decided to give my girlfriend what she wants and just hide alcohol around the house in a variety of cunning and devious locations. After all what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

Anyway, I’m off to build a “speak easy” in my bathroom, but in the meantime I’ll have to just stick to my copy of “The Good Book”.