I drank too much last night for the first time in a long time. My phone died in the early hours and I didn't get home until after midday, and even then the bloody thing wouldn't charge. I wasn't until after 5 that I could wish my mother a happy mothers day. This hour, in my opinion, is way too late to be doing that. If only I didn't drink too much last night.
The menu this evening was curly fries, topped with generous amounts of cheese; what was left of Thursday's tagine; fish fingers; BBQ sauce; mozzarella stuffed dough balls from the local pizza place; all washed down with a orange, passion fruit and mango smoothie. It was an exquisite masterpiece that now no longer exists outside of pleasant memories and this blog post.
Alcohol facilitated some quite healthy talk on mental health with good friends, but it amplified my internal childish sulk when finding out that the object of a bout of passionate ten minute infatuation was romantically accounted for elsewhere. Everything else is a bit blurry, and I'm happy to keep it that way. Luckily, my orange, passion fruit and mango smoothie was lucid as fuck.
The Wikipedia entry on 5 a side football does not portray the actuality very well. Think about men getting together as a team with other men in the office, congregating on weekday evenings in cages containing fake grass and fake dirt that collects in your shoe. They'll channel excessive masculinity into shouting at each other and taking a game far too seriously.
But to me it's something different. The biographical piece in the link was originally published on here as a draft, but I have slowly worked it to something I would like to perform as a speech at an open mic night if I pluck up the courage.