When I wrote this post, I had a terrible hangover. Exacerbated, for sure, by the (literally) piss-poor quality wine I was drinking.
Aussies call cheap boxed wine "Goon". Before you ask, I don't know.
Last night, I spent the evening syphoning off "goon" into a tea mug via a plastic catheter attached to what looked like a big foil bladder. Classy.
Then I broke my "Jenga" cherry. I am now Jengameister General. Then I had a conversation entirely in French with a girl from Belgium called Fanny.
I stayed up until 3am and finished off the evening with an ill-advised verbal sparring match with an English girl who claimed her roots lay with Romany Gypsies. Suspicious, I immediately decided to test the theory by asking her if she had ever tarmaced a drive, walked a dog on a piece of string whilst thinking of David Essex or offered to sharpen anyone's kitchen knives.
She wasn't amused.
I was though.