There's sick in my hair

I woke up in someones guest bedroom, with a head which felt as though Thor was forging hammers in it, a mouth that felt as though a tramp had broken into the house during the night and shat in and vague recollection of violently arguing about the validity of executing soldiers in the First World War. IT MUST BE FESTIVUS!!

It all began on Tuesday when Tim, Cath and I had a Festivus meal at their place. All the elements were there, the pole, the feats of strength and the airing of grievances. Mainly about leaving the toilet seat up. If only this had been mentioned three months ago, it would have been fixed instantly. But oh no, Timmy likes to wind himself up and take the silent moral stance. We even had crackers, stuffed with middle class cracker trinkets. A hair bobble, a tiny roll of sellotape for pixies and a set of six dominoes. Seriously? Six dominoes? What fucking use is that?

Should you ever need to tie your hair back, play a very short game of dominoes or wrap and tiny parcel...

Anyhoo, after I wrastled Timmy to the floor and won with three submissions to one I went to bed with my tiny mind swimming in alcohol.

Festivus, where the fun never starts...

The next day at work was a grind, with gulag like conditions and Wincey being unrepentant and unheeding to my hungover needs. Like a lie down in a nice bed. Or a big sleep.

'FASTER!!'

'But I've got a headache!'

The evening saw me back in the bosom of the ghetto for Elmet's Festivus celebrations. During this one I mainly gossiped with Colin about the current state of British archaeology and slagged Dane off for punching above his weight. We were wowed by the barman and his David Blaine impressions. I had to take it quiet this time since I was still suffering from the previous evening and had to drive. But I still had a good time.

Fuck Christmas

Then Friday rolled around and Onsite had their annual party held in what appeared to be the kitchens of Pizza Express in York. Berny and I dropped a massive bollock and arrived after everyone else, this led to us sitting on the kid's table for the meal. We blocked it out by sinking as much wine as humanly possible. A quick repair to Thomas' bar after brought a reemergence of a two day long argument that Barry and I were having. He claimed he'd won it. I claimed he was a cunt. Kate tactically moved away and left us to it. I finally got to bed at about 4.00am only to wake up in the state described in the opening sentence of this post...

No one parties like the jerks at Onsite...

As usual this week I have had my fair amount of ridiculous text messages from Herr Docktor Clay. This latest one came in last night during a discussion about what would be better than watching the Morgana Show:

I'd rather be raped by a gorilla while sucking off another gorilla which was on fire, with lots more gorillas stood around laughing and jerking off in my face.

Not a fan then, Clay?

More shit for your dumb eyes

In other news, yesterday saw the sad death of Captain Beefheart. The word Genius is used a lot these days and generally comes no where close to describing whomever the epithet is applied to, but I think in this case we have lost what could be described as a musical genius. Why is it always the good ones? Why couldn't it be Elton John or Paul McCartney?