I was at a publishing 'do the other night in the very grand Stationers Hall near St Paul's. I had not had much to eat all day; I virtuously went to the gym at lunch time and only ate a multi-seed bagel and banana afterwards. Alas, I ended up having five glasses of wine on an empty stomach (I wasn't helped by the tiny wee canapes that were being served) and ended up very merry indeed. In my cups I told one of the UK's most senior publishers how I had been recently looking at the Organ's archives and he wasn't such a fat bastard fifteen years ago. He took it with good grace as I recall.
On the way home, I got myself a fried chicken takeaway. This is a very London thing, the city is full of KFC knock-off chicken places - all with red, white and blue color scheme and usually named after a state/city near Kentucky. I got this particularly meal at Memphis Fried Chicken.
I woke up today with a rather sore head. Later I read a very interesting piece in the New Yorker by Joan Acocello on hangovers. Didn't help the head, but at least had some tips for avoiding hangovers. And I had to chuckle about one of the cures from Scotland, drinking Irn-Bru, which Acocello describes as tasting like melted plastic. Which is pretty accurate. Probably nothing in an Irn-Bru can has been made from nature, even the sugar. There is the feel that it was whipped up by the boys in the lab as a sort of joke.
Still an ice cold Irn-Bru on a Saturday morning when you're feeling pretty ropey from the night before - nothing sets you up better.
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