Tonight I'm going to Bedsitland in Islington; tomorrow, I'm riding down to Brighton to meet an old friend for a drink and a chinwag. (It was going to be for Ms SR's birthday bash, but that's been cancelled, sadly.) Sunday will be a day of recovery, reflection and filling in job application forms.
This evening I spend a small fortune buying a pair of proper hiking boots made in Yorkshire, went to sweat up a few hills and got ready for saturday and sunday.
Saturday I'm off to Hull for City-Latics then after the game I go the Yorshire Dales to stay in a pub in the middle of nowhere called The White Lion (in Cray)
Sunday it's off to Ribbleshead viadcut for a hike up Whernside and surrounding.
Tomorrow I'm off to Bromley to buy some of these Bromley Apple Pies that I've been hearing so much about. Hopefully I'll be back in time to catch the commentary for FC United v Whitby Town.
Sunday I'll probably sleep, then do some food shopping. Then sleep some more.
Last night: launch of a new club venue called New Hero last night (very impressive), followed by a gothy-metal thing called Transition at the Ocean Room (everyone was dressed like zombies, so for once I felt like I hadn't made enough of an effort).
Tonight: it's Mrs Rhino's birthday weekend so - instead of the beach party to which evilC alludes - a bunch of us (including some who have come all the way from Newcastle) will be drinking at the Caroline Of Brunswick then clubbing at Superdynamite Boogaloo at Komedia. Oh and I'm recording a podcast this afternoon for the Independent website (I think it's just a pilot so it might not get used).
Sunday: recovering and, because it's Mrs Rhino's actual birthday, cake and champagne. Oh and another radio thing (reviewing local bands' demos on BBC Southern Counties).
The usual: getting CDs out of library. Shop in Brum. Go home. Experience the Baggies lose again. Listen to CDs. Wonder whether it's just me or whether the ones I've picked (haven't heard them before. Trying out new artists and genres of music) are really noisy, unaffecting piles of crap. Pig out. Turn on telly. Go 'oh, jeez, is this all there is on the fucking box?'
Drink and watch telly. Go 'oh, jeez, is this all there is on the fucking box?' Go to bed. Fart. Sleep.
The last time I went to the Caroline Of Brunswick, I met a man with a top hat and an outstanding wax moustache. His girlfriend was wearing a kimono, too.
i'll be bemoaning the end of my 11 day holiday and wondering how a week isn't long enough to unpack a flat.
tomorrow i'll be mainly watching liverpool lose to fucking villa. on tv, obviously.
Yesterday - spent all day and night watching series 1 of The Wire, it was the living lick.
Today - just come back from the market, bought a Squeeze album for 50 cents and a new wallet for €3. Going to have lunch, watch West Ham v Blackburn on TV then go to Estadio da Luz to watch Benfica V Porto, meet erwin after the game for beers and chat.
Right, I'm off to a wedding in a church somewhere in darkest Somerset, followed by the reception at the Assembly Rooms in Bath. And tomorrow a garden party. Hopefully I'll get to take in a match whilst I'm down there.
Anyway, that's why I can't meet up this weekend for any of the drinks events that've been arranged. I hope you all enjoy them...
Saturday: Get up, call my girlfriend who's on a shoot for Beautiful and Busty Magazine. Go to shops and spend the excess funds brought about by the hefty wage rise given to me by my employers. Will dine with a friend in an exclusive Birmingham restaurant, as my other pals have banned me from afternoon drinkies, due to last week, where I was so funny and casually charismatic that their girlfriends took more interest in me than they did their partners. Pick up new sports car from showroom. End fantasy, look at double-chins and fat stomach. Cry. Drink copious cans of Strongbow Extra.
Sunday: Make noise similar to one that goes, uuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrgh.
Jonathan Rhys Meyers is going to pick me up later and buy me a gorgeous posh frock and then we're going to a club that's so super posh and exclusive and nice that it will not feature any Royals or any Geldofs among its clientele. After a night spent drinking Cristal and snorting blow off a hooker's perfectly formed arse, we'll be a bit bleary but it's OK because he's going to have a private jet take us to Biarritz for a few days of cocktails, casinos, and a hotel room with all white sheets and floaty curtains and dusty sunlight and hours of fantastic slow sex in the afternoons. And I'm going to win the lottery and lose 4 stone and Saints are going to win the league.
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