The entity you previously knew as fushandchips is long since gone, replaced by Jesús Montoya, Tequila Worm Extraordinaire. After one or ten too many Cuervos last night, he’s seized the reins of my brain and is now in control of my limbs. Look deep into my bloodshot eyes and behind them you’ll see an impish worm behind the wheel, in racing goggles and a jaunty scarf.
My last blurry memory is of trying to chat up someone or something in a little black dress, followed by a short savage burst of Tourette’s, then suavely kicking in the toilets at the Craighall YMCA. Thereafter is no data.
Pink Milk Fruitless
Bygones. Focus. Back to the present. This hangover’s got my number. All the usual cures- bacon and eggs, Sterie Stumpie pink milk, date rape strength painkillers- have proved useless as trying to flog a steamroller with a feather boa.
Pray for me.