Ooowwwwwwwwww. Everything hurts. I'm really trying to watch the Moto GP through eyes that just won't open, I can't lift my arms to rub them better, my mouth is sealed shut so I can't cry for help, and my legs are about as useful as Wayne Rooney's wedding vows. There's nothing good about today.
It's not been a good week, but fuck me has it been a good weekend.
I remember at some point, fairly early in the evening, discussing the fact that after a day spent hungover, tired, and drinking champagne in the afternoon sunshine I was knackered and 'won't be staying out too late.' I was still necking Rum with Norman Jay when the sun started to come up this morning. How does that happen?
I could see it coming though, despite a severe lack of sleep and too many tequila's on Friday, despite drinking throughout the afternoon, and despite not wanting to have a late night, I could smell danger. I just knew that at some point it would seem like a good idea to go through the gears and dance my way straight through the soles of my new vans.
It all started innocently enough. After (as predicted) parting company with the wonderful Sophie, (I think you know her as the 'smoking blue mutant') yesterday morning, I headed out to the land of Footballer's wives and Gavin and Stacey to celebrate my closest pal's engagement with the two families. I'd not managed to get any breakfast in, and was greeted by the father of the bride extending what I thought was a handshake and what actually turned out to be the first of many glasses of champagne.
It was a stunning day though, a really beautiful setting for two really beautiful people. We just drank way too much. I love them both, you don't often see two people smile that much, not two people you love very much anyway. That combined with millions of bubbles fizzing around my brain made me a really happy man.
Onwards and upwards..... to 'Concrete,' the boys and American girls had definitely had a few glasses by this point as well, which just spurred me on. I needed to get some circulation into my feet though and couldn't quite get going in that dingy basement, so I dragged everyone round to 'The Bedroom Bar' for some live Salsa - perfect. Not so fucking perfect though, there were 3 hen-nights happening. THREE!!! That's a lot of very drunk women, and by the time I'd walked from the front door to the bar (a testing 6 yards) I'd been accused of being Olly Murs 4 times. I just started saying yes, which was plain stupid.
2am rolled by really quickly, time for bed. I was looking forward to a nice Sunday. A spot of lunch in Borough Market, and maybe, hopefully, meet Soph a bit later in the afternoon for a glass of wine and a catch up. So WHY at this point, with the image of a lovely Sunday firmly in my head, did I suggest that going to 'East Village' to see Norman Jay and Terry Farley would be a good idea? It was only me, Greg and Ibbo who, (after successfully jumping through his own leg) had acquired the company of a girl that looked like Gary Pallister (which is just plain odd) and the thought of a sweaty dance floor and Mr Jay taking us through to 5am was just too good to turn down. I hate my stupid alcohol addled mind and it's stupid suggestions.
Anyway, it's only taken an hour to write these 3 paragraphs but I think things are starting to get easier, that's not to say that my legs won't behave like Bambi on ice when I try and get out of bed, but I can see straight, which is a good start and as such, I'm going to try and make a cup of tea and scramble some eggs.
This is it, my penultimate post. It's like Christmas Eve today. Tomorrow, is day 40. I never thought I would actually make it, when I met Tyler all those days ago and he was sitting smugly on day 39 I never thought I'd actually be able to say the same but I genuinely have done this, and it all finishes in less than 25 hours.
So as I lie in bed, watching '40 days and 40 nights' (it seems like the most fitting choice of Sunday evening entertainment) I don't know what I'm now supposed to do.
I'm not sure how I'm going to behave now, and I think more than ever the next 40 days could be more testing than the last.
Watching Josh Hartnett bitch and moan about things is making me realise that I've handled this far better than he. Maybe the title of this blog is unjust or maybe he's just playing a part and probably shagged half of the cast, but I feel better than he does on any of the days, and yes I've had my times but all is alright really.
It's over, I've got through hot financial people, a festival of feathered girls, Europe's biggest street party, and one of the most beautiful girls I've met, surely I can get through a Monday at work which makes me completed, finished, done. I've conquered sex, whereas not so long ago it conquered my life.
Granted, I miss the aforementioned girl. I'm starting to wonder that maybe if I wasn't doing this things would have been different, but then on the flip side if I wasn't doing this it never would have started in the first place. Rather than lying here missing someone, I would have been over it by Sunday afternoon and back to my normal shit way of life of disregarding beautiful people in an instance. I'm glad I didn't, and I'm glad I'm not that person anymore.
My final words tomorrow. Get in.
