Well, what a year.
WHAT. A. YEAR.
And to celebrate what can only be described as an approximate three hundred day molestation of my general health and mental well being, I'm going to march over to the nearest off license with as much swagger as the body allows, pick up a fat bottle of Jameson's, demolish the first curry I see and then get involved with another molestation of my general health and mental well being, this time brought about through my own designs. Should be a chuckle.
I've grown tired of holding out optimism for New Year's Eve, so getting plastered and following the crowd rather than spearheading the entire operation is my plan of action this time round. An Indian restaurant followed by a party somewhere? I can abide by that. Fingers crossed for fireworks and a calamity punch up down Holloway Road.
So aye, have a jolly night whatever you end up doing. But for the love of God, whatever you do, don't rub your nipples against a cheese grater.
Big love,
Ryan.
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