I couldn’t be, could I?
In the end I decided not to go near the marathon. Anyone that willingly runs over 26 miles is quite obviously deranged and after my deeply unsettling incident with the mad German the other week I’m trying to stay away from those kinds of people.
I went and had bank holiday pints instead but there has been a worrying development. I’m good with a few pints but in recent weeks if I have a skinfull I spend the next day sneezing and woooshing and garumphing (that is the sound of one of my sneezes which are like snowflakes, each one has a unique melody) and it’s worrying me because what if I’m becoming allergic to Guinness? Life just wouldn’t be worth living.
I was slightly cheered by the thought that the sneezing has coincided with the acquisition of Throatripper the kitten. Maybe I’m just allergic to him.
He appears to be very grateful that I rescued him as he brings me gifts. Yesterday I was in the kitchen when I heard a strange mewling noise and he appeared at the door, wandered over to where I was standing and spat a bird at me. Not just any bird though. Somehow he’d taken down an emu. I’m always happy to get presents but what the fuck am I going to do with a dead emu?
I spent ages cutting the fucker up and putting it in bin bags before fucking it into the canal. I’m going to have to teach him to bring home wild boar or suckling pig. Emu just isn’t that tasty.
Anyway, let’s pray, and I’m sure you’ll light a candle or blow up a train (whatever your religion dictates), that this sneezing is not an allergy to Arthur’s finest.
I’m not sure I could cope.
