I don't what it is about lost weekends that make them so enjoyable. It isn't as though you can recall much of what happened. This is probably a good thing, what with the benumbed and befuddled shenanigans which have an unerring ability to produce intense embarrassment when harsh daylight assaults ones sensitive corneas.
There was the time when I woke up in the Lochmaddy hotel, North Uist, with no idea where I was or how I came to be there. I blame it on the rough mash Talisker whisky foisted on me by a hairy Celt. Rough was the word. The stuff had been 'liberated' from the distillery and was no less lethal from being dispensed from a litre Blackthorn cider bottle.
It's the time change, the countless hours seeping through the pores that do the trick.
This is why I'm off to stay in the Mishnish Hotel on the Isle of Mull. It should be interesting.If I can recall anything about the experience I may even Blog about it.
9 comments:
Take a camera and let somebody else take charge of it.
If you can even remember what a blog is,it will have been a wasted weekend.
Where better place to get Pishnish, than in Mishnish.
Lost weekend, my arse. You've lost a month and a half, you skiver!
Take lots of pictures.
Please bring me back a copy of Bobby MacLeod - Vintage 78's Volume One.
What a fetching avatar MJ.
You would look most at home in the Pishnish spreadeagled in those tights.
Those aren't really tights.
First medical case of horizontal varicose veins.
Fatima's been lonely - are you going to take her to Mull?
She may come in handy should things turn ugly. No belligerent fisherman will want to mess with those biceps.
*weeping with relief that the horrible, horrible thighs are GONE*
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