The All-Nighter

While some of the greatest minds of our time continue their endeavours to understand the punch-line of the nacho cheese joke, and while others contemplate what a convincing and insightful forgery my recent (and forged, did I say forged enough times?) confession was, I will share with you what thoughts I can muster about the all-nighter I just 'pulled' (that being the verb usually associated with this phenomenon that is unfamiliar to me usually) in the immediate aftermath of it.

I went out last night with a man I will pseudonymously refer to as "Jordie le Forge," (as he is known both for his counterfeit confessions and for spending much of his time in outer space) in effort to not so much 'resurrect' as just good-old-first-time-ever 'erect' (though now that I think of it, this is a an exceedingly poor choice of phrase) the lost art of going out on the pull.

Now given that you know I was out all night tonight, you might think that we took to this operation like the proverbial ducks and their water (not the 'off-the-back' metaphor - the other one) but for those of you who know us, or our reputations which preceed us, a little better, you can pat yourself on the back (as perhaps some kind of supine simile is appropriate recompense after my prior rejection of the image) as you were entirely correct and we didn't score.

We did however talk to 'chicks' (technical term) twice. The first instance was when I was obstructing a toilet-returnee's access to her seat, and the second was when some girls asked us to watch their stuff while they went out for a smoke. So the evening was not without its successes.

You might ask yourself how such an uneventful evening continued somehow until I finally found my bed at half ten in the morning, and if you come up with any plausible reasons, you might send them my way, as personally, I'm still struggling to understand it myself.

We did meet up with some other folks: Tinseltown, and Hydro-Lithium; and i am going to lay the blame for the bulk of the madness at their proverbial doors, even though I still can't remember exactly what happened except for some hoola-hooping, some rolling down the hills on the lawns of the civic offices and some getting moved-on by security guards after I passed out on said lawn sometime around seven in the morning. They initially thought that I was a wine-drinker as I had a bottle opener protruding from my trousers but when I told them that I only drink a half glass with dinner, they seemed to warm to me and thankfully did not give me the hiding that they customarily reserve for the winos of Dublin city.

I feel like shit by the way.

It is my solemn vow not to be quite so ridiculous, unbridled or chaste in my party-antics as I have been since the end of exams and to come home to my bed from now on at a reasonable hour (I'm setting it at 3:30) with a minimum of bodily (and other) fluids staining my clothes and without a drunken a posse to wake and harrass my flatmate who will no doubt meet (sp?) out the wino-beating i narrowly escaped this morning on his return from work for all the racket that we caused. Furthermore I also promise not to italicise random words with such reckless abandon.

Deal?

Deal.