After the madness of meetings that was last week – I mean real madness; 7am starts, the works – the only real course of action was to beat the shit out of myself this weekend, mentally and physically. And so it is that I’m nursing bruised ribs, legs so sore I can’t walk and a forearm which would struggle to lift a can of diet coke. As indeed it is.

It was Friday night that did it. Not only did I fall off a rickshaw at one point, but I also decided to try quite a complex Jive to some unknown band at some unknown gig. The floor was soaking wet, as was the rum, and I hit the floor three or four times, each time with the force of ten men. I’ll spare you the details save to say I arrived home at approaching 7am, barefoot and soaking wet. Happy daze.

Saturday brought Pond’s houseleaving do and more fun. Savannah was there, as were a couple of the Fridaycities users, which made things interesting. And this time, when I strolled home at 5, at least I had my shoes.

Today it was off to Vision Express for a new pair of glasses (my old ones being somewhere in Soho, I suppose) and then into the office to catchup with mail. Of which there is plenty. I’m still in two minds as to whether to order takeaway or to go home and watch Casino Royale with the mince and stir-in pasta sauce I have in my fridge.

Oh, and before I forget – Feel Good Drinks can fuck off. And so can Innocent Smoothies. And all the other examples of cloying corporate cute that are taking over the world. I bought an orange juice today. Glass bottle. All natural ingredients. Just what the doctor ordered. But what’s this on the label? “Sugar from fruit – no sweeteners or sugar lumps”. Sugar lumps? Cunt off. Cunt right off.

And as for Innocent(tm*) . Just die. Just fucking die.

Sorry, it sounds petty I know. But I’m genuinely worried that if it doesn’t stop, in a generation or two we’re all going to have turned in to super-healthy mongs unable to understand labels unless they talk to us like five year olds. Do not exceed the stated dosey-wosey or your tummy might get hurty.

Honestly.

…

* TM = Trust mother. (I shit you not)