The words ‘never’ and ‘again’ should, for the record, be joined by the words ‘Guinness’, ‘Irish Pub’, ‘Hamburg’, ‘England match’ and ‘exhibition folk’. But above all, rising pheonix-like from the wreckage of last night, a single word transcends this list of prohibition:
Jägermeister.
I recall (clearly – how ironic is that?) SP taking up a tumbler of the nefarious cough mixture and downing incomprehensible measures of it during our post-run celebrations in Almeria. I had no inkling of the damage this foul concoction (described in some circles as an ‘herbal liqueur’
can achieve until I tried to open my eyes this morning. One of the early Motorhead ditties, (I won’t pay your) Price, opens with one of those Beattle-esque, apparently candid off-mic moments. Contrived or not it fits beautifully with my condition this morning. Lemmy, that silk-toned crooner of legend, is picked up on the mic an instant before the brain-mashing intro:
‘I’m so drunk.’
Indeed.
I remember very little of last night’s match, other than John Motson competing with (and yielding to) traditional Irish folk music (apparently they like their Jiggy With It in Hamburg) and a full-blown Pub Quiz. The Man-Child Walcott made a belated appearance but it all got a bit blurry after that. Our hastily cobbled together team of ne’er-do-wells managed to complete the quiz, scoring just enough points to win a small consolation prize.
A round of Jägermeister.
And the tenuous link to running is?
I’d scheduled an easy lope around the lake this morning.
Stuff that for a game of soldiers. It’s all I can do to drag my wasted carcass along to the show.
Have a nice day.
May . . . the farce be with you . . .
