Friday - a drive to Goole for a stopover en route to friends who live in Dunbar. 250 miles.
Friday Night - a skinful of Magners
Saturday - drive the rest of the way to delightful restaurant/hotel - 250 miles. All on a Macdonalds breakfast and the worst petrol station sandwiches I've ever had.
Saturday night - a lovely meal, in a lovely place, , loads of Magners and some red wine. No memory of going to bed.
Sunday Morning - no breakfast as clocks went forward and we slept in. I fucking hate this bollocks of moving clocks. Leave them on BST and be done with it. Fuck the Scots - if they want a separate time zone then let them get on with it.
Sunday - drive back 500 miles in one hit. Hellsbells slept for 98% of the journey.
Monday - forced to grovel to The Master for day off as I could barely move through tiredness.
Is it any wonder the likes of Keith Richard and Steve Tyler all live cleanly now they're older? At some point the body tells you very quickly that although the candle can be burnt at both ends, once you're in your forties it can only be done infrequently for short periods of time. In my case, 2 nights of drinking required 2 days of laying on a settee, drinking squash and watching TV.
Later, Grocerjack
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