August 14 (Saturday): The Call. This morning I find myself awake at 5 AM puking up into my bathroom toilet, more than once. Last night was regrettable, a wasting evening now well on its way to forming a wasted weekend day. I have no idea at what time I got in but it could only have been a matter of hours ago so at this early hour of the morning I can only still be drunk. I return to my bed but sporadically I have to run back to my toilet to bring more poison up. It appears I got home on a homing signal/beacon again, I am still clothed, wearing my contact lenses and on top of crap on my bed. I wet my flannel and put it over my forehead as a homemade ice pack. Who am I kidding?

Around eight there is a knock at my door. I heard a van stop outside and footsteps enter our communal hall (so much for the security door) and come up the stairs. Is it a raid? Nope, its just a postman. However by this point I have managed to get myself naked, out of alcohol stained clothes, and I am scrapping around for cover. When I answer the door, I must be the illest state. Postman Pat is very apologetic. I take the parcel from Amazon and I can’t even be bothered to open it, instead I curl up back in bed hoping to fall asleep and awaken all recovered, a brand new me.

Eventually, around 1pm I awaken and feel somewhat recovered but not really fully. This level of recovery however is enough to make a normal man function on the most testing of days. If nothing else, having a weekly routine set aside for days will allow a person to at least function on autopilot and get through a day even if it is at the mental level of a zombie. And with that in mind, I head out and buy the days newspapers.

Today is the first full day proper of the Olympics. Could I care less? I doubt it.

Lunchtime comes and goes and this was when I should have been out in town functioning like an average human being. Outside today is the most beautiful of days but inside my head feels like it is dripping blood. By 2 pm I feel almost recovered, my head pains pass but the stomach trouble kicks in and I need food/subsistence, I really could have done with going out to lunch today. At this time it also occurs to me that had Azmei told me earlier that she couldn’t go to lunch then I could have gone to Millwall to see them play Leicester.

The afternoon happens and Millwall beat Leicester 2-0, scoring their first goals of the season. And it sounds like I missed out on a genuinely great game.

In early evening I call up Mark and go around there for 7pm. He tells me that the message that I left on his voicemail last night sounded caveman-esqe, 100% neanderthal. Wow, I bet that means I was a catch last night. Aces, his brother is about when I thought he was long gone to London. He is in his basement making tunes but weirdly all we can hear is this wanky post rock music shit, its like Mogwai had never happened. Unlike the usual heavy raw beats, now Steve has gone horribly worryingly mellow. Mark and I find myself monging in front of the TV, for reasons unknown to us we find ourselves watching Olympic diving for no reason known to man. We pick up the Playstation 2 and have a few games of Pro Evolution 3 before Steve comes up from the basement to watch the new version of Match Of The Day with us. He also gets me stoned, to which I am eternally grateful. Once more, after a horrendous night out previously I am able to come home to Mark’s house and spend a fucking normal chilled night in and feel like part of the human race again. The new Match Of The Day turns out to be fucking wank, completely flat and utterly stuffy. What’s the deal with dragging out the 1986 FA Cup Final to host Premiership football? We leave it early, Steve disappearing to bed and me being politely asked (hinted at) to leave. I am happy to comply. When I get in, I sleep the good sleep, clear of conscience once again.

np: Van Morrison – Glad Tidings