Today, readers, I am hungover. I feel absolutely awful and to be honest I really didn't have that much to drink. That's the worst part because it could mean something that I don't really like to think about. It could mean that somehow, someway, I'm getting older. I've always thought that age wouldn't happen to me, it's the sort of thing that happens to OTHER people. You know, OLDER people. I thought I was immune to it and carried on my desperately immature life, wallowing in an arrested development, thinking that aging in any way was never going to come my way. But lately I've noticed that things knacker me. Not things like exercising or hard work, I'm sure they would knacker me but I have absolutely no proof. I mean little things like standing up, walking to the DVD shelf, thinking or screaming at the telly. All things that I love but now slightly fear because they can exhaust me. It's a terrifying ordeal I'm going through. Last friday I got knackered drinking a bottle of Lucozade, that shouldn't happen surely? But last night really did tire me out. I went out for a few drinks with the writer Bennett Arron who very kindly lent me £20. Now that I've described him as "writer" I think we're evens. He lent me £20 simply because either I can't remember my PIN number or the bank hasn't sent me a new one. I can't figure out which. Which means that I'm either senile or just one of those annoying, fumbly types of old people that can't figure out anything new like banks, computers, TV remotes or stairs. After kindly giving me £20 (see how it's changed to giving?) I declared that I would go to the bar and get us our first drink of the evening. Bennett asked for anything but Kroenenbourg and his face looked confused and full of pity when I returned with two pints of it. That's how an old person's mind works. It doesn't. And mine is old and broken, friends. As we didn't have any dominoes to amuse me the rest of the evening was spent with the two of us quizzing each other on our knowledge of 80's pop, surely our generations equivilent to talking about the war. "Eeeh, in them days it were all Tight Fit and Owen Paul around here. And The Skids, they had the real eggs". Bennett and I have an enormously pointless knowledge of 80's trivia and can spend hours trying to baffle one another with questions like "Hi-Ho Silver" was the theme tune to what TV series and who sang it? That would take an hour in itself. What I'm trying to say is, if you think you're very knowledgable about the 80's then don't come out drinking with me and Bennett, we'll beat you every time! And if you don't know the 80's then still don't come out with us, we're THAT tedious. God, I'm rambling. Is this a sign of aging too? I'm going to lie down.
The main reason for my head being slightly mush at the moment, apart from being a doddering old cunt, is that there are just too many people in my house. Normally, I'm very used to it just being me and the dog but at the moment it's me and an entire family living here. Don't get me wrong, I've done very well out of it. I've been given a brand new microwave and a bed. It's like winning a quiz show in the 70's! Maybe I'll ask them for a Soda Stream next. But the house is full so I kind of hide in one room as I'm the very poster child for social awkwardness. Plus I get too many questions from my American visitors. Constant questions. "How much is a pound?", "Do the tubes run during lunch?", "Is Big Ben real?" And, of course, as friendly as he is I'm trying to avoid being alone with my Father-In-law for fear the conversation will turn to cocksucking, wanking or cunt hair. I'm under a lot of stress and there are NO Wispas left. Please help me.