A Very Awkward TASG Halloween

So, this is a day late, for which I apologise. Last night I tried to post a stalling message that read something along the lines of:

"DUE TO OBSCENE AND IMPROMPTU DRUNKENESS, THIS POST HAS BEEN DELAYED. NORMAL SERVICE WILL RESUME TOMORROW."

However, my drunken thumbs wouldn't let me send it. Damn them.

This, I believe, was a blessing in disguise, because I didn't have this idea until this morning. Now, I know it's not technically a comic as it's only one picture, but I am immensely proud of myself.

So, without further ado, my imagining of a TASG Halloween:

Pfft.

If I'd zipped the hoodie up, it would read 'REPUBLIC'. Just saying.

The last two weeks have forced me to reassess my relationship with the Royal Family. Relationship is the wrong word - it's not like they invite me round or anything. My opinion of the Royal Family would perhaps be a better wording.

A few weeks ago, I was certain. I was sure that they are neither use nor ornament and should be ousted in favour of someone like me, who would use the tax payer's hard-earned cash on drink and fun instead of fancy cars and castles. In this way, the country would be united under a monarch who was just like them.

However, in the run up to the wedding things have reached fever pitch. I walk past shops selling Kate Middleton masks. MASKS I TELL YOU. My brother's girlfriend is having a street party. The hairdressers on the High St is offering a ROYAL WEDDING DISCOUNT. It's as if the world has gone mad and I've unwittingly wandered into 1950.

But then it hit me...it's not annoying me. I don't look at all the hype, all the Union Jacks, and feel anger. I feel something else. Is it...patriotism? I think it might be. And that's unusual. You see the British don't often celebrate British-ness. It's quite a rare occurrence. Unless you're Welsh or Scottish in which you have loads of options. The English, then, rarely unite unless there's a World Cup on. But despite the differing opinions on the matter, at least everybody's talking about the same thing for once.

It's difficult to put aside 20 odd years of not knowing what the Windsors actually do, but I think for tomorrow I will try. I'll concentrate on the pomp that Allison mentioned. And, as I'm going to a Royal Wedding party, on the drink that I hope will be flowing soon after they tie the knot.

But after tomorrow it will be business as usual. Honest.

Kicking the Habit

Given that Lauren highlighted her habit of posting two days late in her Bad Habits post, I think it's only fair that I do the same. Especially as this is a week (and a day) late. Not two days.

Ashamed as I am, my lack of punctuality is not the bad habit I want to concentrate on. No. I am here to discuss the mother of bad habits, the habit that sends biting finger nails, turning up late for work and swearing running and screaming in terror: smoking.

This is really quite topical for me, as I gave up four weeks ago. This is harder than it sounds. It should be easy to resist the temptation to waste money on things that do you no good at all, but there's a reason that companies can make millions by 'helping' people kick the habit.

While I know that it was bad for me, I do miss it still. But I suppose that's part of an addiction isn't it, if you didn't miss it, you wouldn't be addicted. And I was.

I should say though, while I'm sure there is lasting damage, it's incredible how quickly the human body can turn itself around and start to repair itself. It's impressive, really. At first I wondered why not smoking was making me cough - I assumed it should be the other way round. Apparently it's the lungs getting rid of all the crap. Sorry, that's disgusting. But good, too. It was the best cough I ever had. And not just that - there's pins and needles as your circulation improves, your sense of smell improves. All this I'm grateful for, I just wish the insomnia would sort itself out.

Anyway, that's my uber-late bad habits post. Wish me luck, as I'm not out of the woods yet and could still succumb to tobacco's siren call. And don't go anywhere - royal wedding post coming right up.

A Slurred Word from the Brit

If ever you feel like you need a drink, please refer to the above photo as a reminder of how bad an idea it can sometimes be.

Reading Allison's list of things she does when she's had a drink but would never do sober set some bells ringing. Singing, dancing, hugging, texting people I shouldn't; it's all a bit too familiar. One thing I always find myself doing when drunk which I've never had to do sober is running for the last train, leaping up the escalator at Fenchurch Street in a mad rush to catch the 00:25 departure. When sober, I won't even run for a bus.

I think I've blogged before about the time a bouncer escorted me off a dance floor after I fell over and I accidentally held his hand as he led me through the crowd. I don't think I've told anyone about how I was sick all over my dad on Boxing Day (I blame the bacon sandwich, not the hangover). The list of my alcohol-fuelled embarrassments is long and...embarrassing.
People at work have noted that after two pints I sound like someone from Eastenders (the bald one in this video here). I stress I sound nothing like this normally. My laugh also transforms into a pantomime cackle, and I think everything sounds like innuendo.

My friends, I am not a man who can hold his liquor without making a complete twit of himself. There may come a time, in the distant future, where I can nip to the pub for a swift pint without feeling the need to dance, cry or pull stupid faces.

And while part of me is impatient for a respectable drink, there's another part of me that's secretly in love with Drunk Tom, because he's more fun, less inhibited and sounds like a TV character. I don't think I'm ready to grow up just yet - besides, the sun's coming out for the first time this year and it would be rude not to greet it with a bevvy or two.

Cheers!

*pulls stupid face*

I hate it when people are late. *shame*

Cast your mind back, if you can, to two weeks ago, when Allison and Lauren published their posts on their pet peeves. This is my effort and, as I'm sure you'll notice, it's incredibly late. Fortunately for me, the Yank and the Canuck were incredibly understanding - I've been away with work for a week, far from technology with but 30 minutes to myself every day. I'm knackered.

Not too knackered to reel off a few pet peeves, however. I've been storing them up.

Airports and travelling by plane: though I appreciate that being able to travel any where in the world in a matter of hours is extremely impressive, I'm not sure that there really need to be so many queues involved. On my way back from Italy I queued for a taxi to the airport, then for check-in, then security, then passport control. I queued in the shop for a bottle of water, I queued when getting on the plane. I queued when the plane landed, waiting for the people in front of me to get the $*%@ out of my way. I queued again at passport control, then for a train ticket, then for a ticket for the tube. By the time I got home, I never wanted to leave in case I'd have to queue to get out.

Hangovers: I think Mother Nature was needlessly cruel when she decided that anything that is either delicious or makes you have fun must have some kind of nasty side effect. Either you get fat, or wake up on the bathroom floor in a puddle of sick with a splitting headache. Why can I not get drunk, have fun, and feel well the next day? Would that be so wrong?

People who dawdle: I joined a Facebook group entitled 'I Want To Punch Slow Walking People In The Back Of The Head'. This is only half a joke. I really do want to punch them in the back of the head, it infuriates me. I only fear the consequences. Especially if said slow-walker is twice my height and built like a brick $%£@ house.

I'm so angry now. I think I'd best stop before flying off the handle into a fit of rage. Second post on its way - please forgive my tardiness!

A Tale of Two Cities (Two Days Too Late)

1. I wake up. Late. Looking rough.

2. I miss the bus.

3. I don't get a seat on the train.

4. I'm swept along in a river of people, like Simba in the Lion King. The stampede scene.

5. I get the tube.6. While being swept along by another human tide, I pass Mufasa the lion's trampled corpse at Kings Cross Station.

7. I finally get to work.

8. And the rest of the day looks like this. Until half 5, at which point I repeat steps 1-7, in reverse.

Wednesday, however, did not look like this. On Wednesday, mes amies, I went to Paris! This goes some way to explaining why my post is somewhat en retard. Yes, it was a work trip, but Paris is beautiful and, thanks to Erin's incredibly patient other half, I got to see some of the sights (and to meet Erin herself making her the first real, live blogger I've ever met!).

Sorry! I was busy spoiling myself!

***The Brit would like to apologise for the delay to the service. This was due to a technical error that has now been rectified.***

I shouldn't lie; there was no technical error. In fact, the only reason this post is late is because I've been enjoying myself a little bit too much since the end of January. I suppose that makes the theme of this post even more apt, as for the first time in six weeks (but seven, yes seven, weekends) I have a small amount of money with which to spoil myself rotten.

Like Allison, I include drinking and eating out in the list of activities that make me happy. Unlike Allison, I probably do them too much. It sounds terribly stereotypical, but a nice, cold pint in a nice, warm pub makes me happier than most other things. I'm not sure if it's a sign that I'm growing old that I look forward to pub nights more than clubbing. I find clubs increasingly frustrating, and yearn for a comfy chair in a corner of an old-fashioned boozer instead.

Eating out turned into an addiction for a while; I've since toned it down so that I only do it when I really have something to celebrate, or if I really need cheering up. There's something wonderful about sitting in a restaurant chatting over a drink while your food magically prepares itself in another room without you having to lift a finger. That sounded offensive to the people that cook the food, didn't it? I didn't mean that - I envy the culinary skills of professional chefs. It's just that eating out is even more fun if you imagine the kitchen to be like that scene in Beauty and the Beast when all the cutlery starts singing in a French accent. You definitely don't get that when you cook for yourself.

I am also guilty of spending a large amount of money on a season ticket for the football team I support. While sitting for an hour and a half in the cold watching a ball kicked around a pitch may not be everybody's idea of fun, for me it's a treat. I especially like mid-week evening games; the walk from the tube station to the stadium takes you through a beautiful park right on the banks of the Thames. The walk is probably about a mile long, and the anticipation and suspense build with each step. Admittedly, we don't always win and on these occasions following Fulham feels like less of a treat. But when we win (as we did yesterday, by the way) it leaves me feeling ever so satisfied.

Other than that, my other vices include buying shoes (as admitted in the comments on Allison's post), books (because I refuse to move with the times and invest in an e-reader) and scarves, of which I have several.

You know what? It's been nice writing about the things I like. While they may not be absolutely necessary, I'm not sure I'd want to live without them. It would feel like January every month if I did that. *shudders at the thought*

Over to you, Lauren!