Head pounding? Check.
Mouth dry? Check.
Liver complaining? Check.
Wallet emptying? Check.
Bowels loosening? Check.
Poo blackening? Check.
Not nearly enough sleep? Check.
Thoughts of cutting yer wrist cos you have to go to town today of all days?
Oh God just kill me now!
Oh, it’s a fun time of the year, isn’t it?
I fucking loathe amuse-bouches; those dabs of poncy, mucked about with food on a really large plate which the waiter brings, unbidden, before your starter arrives.
I hate them because they have a gay, french name which is innacurate because my mouth is not amused by them, no, not a bit of it, my mouth wants to shout obscenities at them instead.
I hate them because they taste horrible, as they are normally small spoonfuls of pureed gizzard, or just a glorified cheese on toast with a small fucking olive on top.
And I hate them because the last thing you need before you tuck into a five course christmas meal (yes another fucking one) is a ponced about owl pellet to “put you on”. Fuckety, fuckety, fuckety, fuck right off.
Actually, I hate everything French, ok maybe not everything. I think the guillotine was a great idea. Shame they didn’t chop off more of their own heads.
