Apparently I’ve just gone to the toilet. But I’m actually standing outside. And it’s very cold.
I figure I should probably get out of Millennium Square. But according to the bouncers I’m too drunk to be let back into the club.
I don’t like being sick, but I usually am. I’m quite famous for it.
“Don’t I know you? Aren’t you that boy-”
“-that’s always sick? Yeah”
So far tonight I’ve been ok; although I probably shouldn’t have traded some Vaseline for a shot of Tequila. It’s been touch and go ever since.
God knows what I’ve drunk since.
Anyway I eventually find myself in another club. On a boat. Another drink, another, and then another. Perhaps one more?
Now someone is pulling me across the dance floor by my ankles. It’s only in the taxi home I realise that this is my house mate.
"twenty-one pounds please young man"
So now I’m holding onto the bed. And it feels wobbly to be quite honest. So does the floor.
I stumble to the en-suite.
Sick count: five.