Yesterday I found myself the not so proud owner of a hangover. A real humdinger of a bastard splitting headache and a craving for shite food that would make Ronald MacDonald look like Rosemary Conley. I met up with a friend on Saturday night and one drink led to 2, led to 7. I would like to say I went out with the intention of staying sober and enjoying good conversation in a civilised way but that would be a lie, I cracked open the Sauvignon at 5.30 and planned to pour as much cheap wine down my neck in 4 hours as humanly possible.
I have learnt from the occasional (ahem) past experience that the best way to deal with the self inflicted ailments of which I speak is to stock up on a food which is carb heavy and health free and to bed down with a good pile of Sunday papers on the sofa. You see, I have learnt something from my mistakes.
Bacon sandwich consumed, pillows plumed. I started to read the Sundays.
Now perhaps I am focusing on the negative and correct me if I’m wrong but is it fairly safe to say that at the moment we find ourselves amidst wars, famine, national economic crisis, the highest unemployment rates since God created man and a coalition government that’s draining every fibre out of the country’s backbone. I think it just about sum’s it up to say, as a country, nay, as a globe we are up a pretty shitty creek without so much as a toothpick, let alone a paddle. One thing is clear; there is PLENTY for papers to write about.
Good, we are all agreed.
Maybe it was the hangover, or slight intoxication that was still circulating the mind but given the above observations would I then be the only person who finds it slightly bizarre that the front cover story of a significant number of the national papers was about … a dog. A dancing frigging dog.
Now anyone that has been reading my blog for a while will understand my dog phobia by now. My dog phobia is not directed towards dogs themselves, you understand, but more so towards people (read – men) that treat their four legged friends like humans. I believe all dating sites should be cleansed of any man that mentions an animal on his profile. This also applies to photos with pooches and if that sounds extreme, trust me, some of these freaks take their mutt loving to almost sexual levels. Buddy, I don’t care that your Red Setter ‘get’s you out and about for long walks followed by a nice glass of red in a country pub’ all I can visualise is him mounting you in your sleep. I have a sick mind, so shoot me.
So given this personal bugbear you can imagine my shock to learn that not only had educated, real live people phoned in to vote for this pitiful boring pile of performing monkey shit but that it had actually made our front pages. People want to read about a dog that jumps for biscuits. Words fail me.
To add insult to this injury I then logged on to twitter to escape this canine hell I had found myself in the middle of only to find that there, too, people were continuing to embrace the ‘hilarity’ the ‘novelty’ of the story. My heart was heavy, my faith in human intelligence rapidly waining.
A cynical old bitch? Maybe. A miserable hungover excuse of a woman? Perhaps. A middle aged boozer with issues with any man that can show emotional attachment to something that isn’t going to cook for him, flatter him or fuck him? Most definitely.
Just please God tell me you didn’t vote.