Dog's Dinner.

Vomit’s a funny thing, and until the other night I didn’t realise how much it can be used and abused to your advantage. Strategic vomiting can stop you from getting to the point where you can’t see, or stand. It can also save you from wrekin’ your mattress or hitting an unsuspecting innocent.

However, sporadic vomiting can be the scourge of the earth. When something undoubtedly ace is about to happen and you just have to blow the chunks, subsequently ruining the moment. Or when you’re sampling some popular wine and your stomach just rejects it (along with a butter chicken / rice combo). I guess it’s one of those ‘natural’ things that can be tampered with.

Drunk dreams however seem to be one of the more appealing features of a night in town. For some reason they’re easier to remember and they’re always ultra-realistic and full of decent subject matter. The only bad facet is that they never last as long as they should because – due to the sensitivity of a hungover body – something small always manages to waken you.

Example: upon finishing work I went to the old JJB store, which was now a secret underground cinema. Met a foxy tutor then stole a Ferrari and took it for a spin on our way back to hers for a ‘party’. Upon losing her friend, running over people I hate and arriving it turns out that there’s no party; just neds smashing up her house. So I get in a fight whilst waiting for the police to arrive and just as the coast is clear for some alone time my phone goes off and I awake to a nice, slavery pillow. SEXY!