Whiskey on a Sunday

I really shouldn't drink whiskey. Ever. Because I can't - simple as that. And I've been paying the price all day.

Yesterday was my mum and Derek's last full day of their visit and, with the skies chucking it down in Yorkshire, we decided to spend the afternoon at a Wacky Warehouse in Leeds.

And it was undoubtedly a good idea (of mine) because, after we all had lunch, Jamie went into the play area with "the ladies" whilst "the men" (GRRRR!!!) watched the rugby in the main bar - everyone's a winner (in my view).

The six pints of Guinness were not a problem for me. I can drink Guinness all day and all night and still be OK (ish). The pre-dinner can of the same was also no major deal (Vanessa's mum Judy and stepdad Mike came over to join us for some food). And, I suppose, the majority of a bottle of red wine with my roast pork might have marked something of a turning point in my evening.

But it was really when the Bushmills and then the Black Bush came out that I began to scoot down a big hill at breakneck speed. Before crashing. Horribly.

You see, I think I'm Jimmy Dean or Jimmy Stewart when I'm drinking whiskey but, in truth, I'm more like Jimmy Crankie. And, after not very long, the roof caves in and I wake up a mess. Just like this morning, in fact.

Derek stayed with me sip for sip and seemed alright this morning as I waved him and my mum off from the comfort of my bed. But I was far from alright and, today at work, was one of the longest I can remember.

All day I've pined for my chair, a mug of tea and crap TV. And, as soon as I finish writing this guff, that'll be my lot. Thank goodness.

The one good thing about the two of us drinking my whiskey supply dry last night is that, by definition, I now have none left.

So, as the festive season begins to approach, I make the following plea to my friends and family: buy me pants, buy me socks, buy me the dullest and cheapest Christmas present you can think of. But please, please, please don't buy me any whiskey. It's evil.