Monday is a terrible day to have a hangover.
I blame The Ryder Cup.
Ted and Beryl threw a huge party yesterday and let all their family and friends come round ‘to enjoy and celebrate another glorious win.’ That was the theory, anyway. But for some reason they had failed to consider the possibility that Europe might actually lose, and therefore failed to prepare for the onslaught of anti-American abuse from a rather drunk and disappointed Ted. Once he gets going he’s hard to rein in, and everyone runs for the hills rather than have to sit there and listen to him. Last night his house emptied quicker than a swimming pool that someone’s just shit in.
The result didn’t bother me too much. I like watching some sports but I never invest my emotions in them, so my mental wellbeing for the next few days isn’t ever hanging on the outcome of a silly game. For me it was more about the drink than the golf, and I certainly wasn’t going to slow down just because Europe were ‘playing like a bunch of pansies.’ That was one of Ted’s more quotable mentionings of the evening. Here are a couple more, just to show you what we all had to put up with for about three hours:
“McIlroy needs shooting. No wonder that tennis player dumped him. If he uses his dick as badly as he uses his putter she must have been constantly wanting.”
“Arnold Palmer died last week, and he’s still playing better golf than Willett.”
When we got home I realised it was a beautiful, still, starry evening. It struck me that a good idea would be to spend ten minutes or so sitting in the back garden gazing up at the heavens. Philippa called me a drunken twat and went off to bed, leaving me to fight my way past my drumkit and the lawnmower to get a sun-lounger out from the back of the garage. I put it up (eventually), climbed into it, and lay back, wondering to myself why Ursa Major had three times as many stars as it normally does. I woke up two hours later, freezing cold and covered in dew, and with a headache and a stiff neck. Today has been, to say the least, a bit of a struggle.
I’m going to have a quick, hot shower then crawl into bed.
RC 3-10-16
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