Continental Colonic Irrigation

I'm past it.
Sad, but true, and frankly, I couldn't give a fiddlers fart.

I've just endured a weekend in the company of 8 other guys all of whom are older than me.

As I stood in the 4km long check in line I scanned my range of companions for the weekend...
The crew included a semi-crippled groom to be, 2 new dads who both saw the weekend as a chance to catch up on some sleep, a guy on the verge of marital breakdown, an 8 foot tall Dutchman, and 1/3 of the microbiology section of a very very very well known alcoholic beverage brewing company.
....I prayed for an easy way out, I considered lunging for the nearest security guard's semi-automatic, but instead I decided suffering in silence was the way to go, the fallout of an Irish Christian brother's education I expect.

In truth, the 48 hours that follwed were neither as dull and tedious as I expected, nor as wet and wild as others did. I did manage to consume 17 pints of (admittedly shockingly bad) beer on Saturday and live to tell the tale. A somewhat prostrate sleeping position and a sense of bewilderment for 2 days did follow though.
What came closer to being my downfall was the eyeball chewing boredom that was a 0-0 draw at the game which I paid £22 (Eur 33, $45) to watch.

On the upside I did get to see England lose the rugby world cup final and have the chance to be irritatingly smug about it.

In need of somewhere warm to sit and have some hot chocolate on Sunday we ventured into 'Hooters', which believe me is a poor relation to it's American cousin establishment. The outfits look like hand-me-downs, and don't do the saggy bottoms or weightliftern thighs on the staff any favours. On the plus side of 'Hooters' there was a wee kid sound asleep on a bench in there as his folks drank him into an early orphanage, cute all the same. Reminded me of BusyDad here, minus the intelligent girls and responsible parenting.

But the definite highlight of the entire weekend was Sunday morning at our hotel, where at reception stood a make-up worn woman wearing nothing but a man's shirt and stilettos.
She had little or no recollection of how she'd gotten there or why (er..take a guess sweetheart, the clue is in the outfit), and was pleading with recption to get her home, to whereever that may have been.

At least she must have had a good night.

I still maintain, much to the disgust of my English friends and colleagues, that in summation, if Europe were to get colonic irrigation, England is where they would shove the hose.

So all in all, I survived, I drank and swore far too much, but I was marvelously behaved right up until I landed in the arms of my loving, albeit somewhat suspicious, wife.

She was a bit miffed though, apparantly I'm missing a shirt......