I woke up in the middle of the night, my throat burning from all the booze and my head spinning, feeling worse for wear. I read about the terrorist attempt to bring down a plane with an underpant bomb on my iPhone. And it seemed that there had been some kind of strange chemical gas attack in my bedroom. A strange fug was filling the room. And no doubt that also explained the strange physical symptoms I was experiencing. But once again Al Qaeda's attempt had failed. I was still alive. You'd think if they had the backing of god that they'd have a lot more success in their campaigns. But maybe Allah wanted the terrorist to set fire to his own cock. That's the kind of thing I'd make happen if I was in charge. Especially if someone was trying to kill loads of the other people I had taken my holy time to create. If only all people who tried to kill other people got their cocks set on fire, then I think the world might soon be at peace. It's probably the final proof for the non-existence of God. Because He'd just have to do the cock burning thing to punish idiots. Wouldn't he?
I put on my running gear as soon as I had got up and I MEANT to go for a run around the reservoir, but you know, there was just so much to do, what with lunch and Quality Street and playing parlour games with my wonderful family.... all right I just couldn't be bothered. All right? But I spent all day in my running gear, which if you ignore all the beer and chocolate and turkey sandwiches and sticky toffee pudding means that I am on the right track back to the new healthy me.
Things will go better once I am home.
After my holiday.
And the tour.
Hopefully sooner than that. I think I have successfully made myself sick of eating, drinking and being a gross gourmand and will now be able to lose some weight. It's a two year cycle that long time readers should be familiar with. Fat, thin, fat, thin. Nothing ever changes.
