Had a bit of a juicy weekend to be honest. I always consider myself honour bound as a dutiful houseguest to eat ridiculously hearty breakfasts and leave as big a dent as is possible in their stocks of liquid comestibles and I fulfilled my obligations quite spectacularly this weekend. One might say that I surpassed myself. So much so in fact, that it wasn't until late on Sunday night that I found out the rather dismal result from the Forest game.
Quite coincidentally, mine host for the weekend, a fellow connoisseur of all things over 40° proof, was talking about planting a shrubbery in the grounds of his new country retreat. I am awaiting delivery of ex-army issue flame-thrower as we speak. I shall torch the swine.
Funny how the result of twenty-two grown men kicking a pig's bladder around can dampen one's spirits so, wouldn't you say? Nevertheless it did and I must admit to having a bit of a strop on since Sunday and it was with no great sense of anticipation that I sat down to watch back to back broadcasts from Highbury and Monaco this evening.
How do I feel now? Well, I've stopped St. Vitus dancing around the living room, if that's what you mean. Suffice it to say that the cork was popped on a bottle of eight year old 63.4% Booker's bourbon (tasting notes to follow anon) and toasts were drunk to the pedocentric pen-pusher of Maryland with a nod in the general direction of Messrs. Ranieri and Deschamps. Thanks, all three of you. You've cheered me up no end!