Bending over backwards

Yesterday was not a good day on many fronts and levels. The Gods have been in touch this morning to apologise for the festival tips they gave me, explaining they were actually meant for my namesake from somewhere in Lincolnshire who they wanted to make suffer. Admin error they said, but to make up for it they've told me to lump on Twentyfourcarat in the bumber at about 20s.

Over the course of the evening I managed to plummet my oxygen sats to a new low of 59%. I'm not sure of the long term consequences of doing that to myself, but I don't intend to find out.

Reaching a level of breathlessness where multi-tasking becomes impossible is not how I wish to spend my evenings. By multi-tasking I'm talking about my bodily functions. I can breath, but I can no longer guarantee I'll be able to control my bladder, or be able to listen to you if you're talking to me, and I definitely won't be able to respond.

In real terms, we will now have to accept that I can't function efficiently for longer than four hours without the comforting flow of lovely o2 wafting up my nostrils. Without O2 I am no more sentient than someone who works for the Post Office.

I of course knew that this day would come. CF when you break it down is just a life time of bending over backwards, making one concession after another to the condition to maintain some semblance of quality of life until you become a mindless gibbering vegetable anyway and wonder what the point of it all was.

Only joking of course. But I will have to get over my self-consciousness about using O2 in the publics if I'm to go to Coventry next week to bask in the glory of becoming the Amateur poker champion of the galaxy. I shall thrash this dilemma out with myself these next few days and get back to you.

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Speaking of bending over backwards..In other news.. a £50 freeze-out broke out in the pub last night, but I was unfortunately too knackered to participate. I was also unable to tolerate how cockney they were. They made Danny Dyer look like Henry Higgins from Pygmalion. Three of them actually were wearing cor blimey trousers.

They were so cockney that when they walked they were leant so far backwards the back of their heads were scrapping on the floor. I had no idea what they were saying, but they were saying it so loud I felt positively queasy. It was an appalling assault on the Queen's English.

Apparently they played a lot and thought it was going to be easy money. In fact they had just strolled voluntarily into the poker equivalent of the Battle of Balaclava. Not since that fateful charge by the light brigade into heavy Russian artillery has an opposition been so fatally underestimated. There's a seat in the Pigeons game for any of them if they're still here on Sunday.

"I'm from Laaaardan, ooooooo wants to play pokaaaaah?"