More Hammered Than An Auctioneer's Desk

I don't want this to turn into an Arsenal blog - but this deserves a mention! What an utterly epic win for The Gunners last night. Boomshakalakalaka. I woke up half naked (bottom half) on the sofa, mindlessly devastated after a pre-game couple of shots of tequila with Jack Whitehall and a post match liver assault in the public houses of Finsbury. Get in!

When I woke up, in a somewhat husky, wasted voice, I cheered to myself and went on search of food. I ended up finding a tub of caviar and some bitesized sausage rolls. SlumCogg Millionaire. Tucking into my unusual feast I remembered my journey home and offering the random Bosnian I built unexpected rapport with at Walthamstow bus station a taxi lift home. At the intensity of my drunkenness, I bet he felt like he was getting kidnapped - nothing unusual for him, bet it felt like the motherland in the good old days. I asked him where he was going and he could only manage "Leyton". Sweet, that's on the way home. I kicked him out at The Bakers Arms, about 45 seconds after the station, good deed done. With Mustafa gone and after a few blurred street lights, I was nearly home. Immediately I got in and fell asleep on a pile of shoes by the front door. Good start. When I woke up, slightly baffled as to what the fuck I was doing in the hall on top of the shoe box, I must of bumpercarred along the hall into the front room. I had the intention of watching MOTD, or the highlights and maybe writing this- not fucking likely! KO'd on the sofa and not even the bird with the chalk and her clown mate on the telly. Que sara.