Yes, ’tis true. Someone hired me.

I managed to sober up long enough to get a job offer last week. Hop, skip, etc.

It’s with a creative agency and it’s very exciting. I will be a pro blogger, would you believe. Given that I only started dicking around with this format a mere year ago, that’s not bad going.

The best bit? They have a massive booze cupboard in their board room. It is literally filled full of throat stripper. I had to do a ‘welcome to the company’ shot of sambuca last Friday.

Damn. I think I found my spiritual home.

Tomorrow the great abyss of unemployment starts. And so, in true fighting spirit, the solace of lunchtime binge drinking also begins.

I’m going to start off on a gin and tonic around 11am, then move onto a crisp white wine (perhaps a chilled Pinot) by 1pm. Then after that I’m sure a glass of fruity Merlot wouldn’t go amiss, before a strident march towards a large coffee accompanied by a port or three.

After this I may need a snooze, but I’ll set the alarm and crack straight on with a refreshing cider, before hitting the vodka and soda (with fresh lime squeezed in, not that cordial shit), before vomiting with gusto and starting all over again the following morning.

The question is how long until I’m skint, drinking dirty double strength lagers and weeing myself?

Things are getting a little too close to the bone.

As of next Thursday, I’m out of a job. I’ve cobbled together a hotch-potch of freelance writing gigs that will keep me afloat, but it simply won’t do. I get the fear too much to be a proper, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants freelancer.

I am still waiting to hear about one particularly shit hot job. The powers that be have been on their holidays so as yet, no golden handshake for moi. Chop fucking chop, people.

I am assured that jobs are like buses. I am placated with the truth universally acknowledged that August is a crappy time to get an answer about anything. I am soothed by stalwart friends administering a tonic of compliments about my alleged infinite employability. And yet I’m still squealing like a stuck pig as I imagine myself careering into no career.

There’s only one thing for it. I shall pull myself together and start drinking at lunchtime.

Gin and slim anyone?

Wales. What a jewel of a principality this pocket of infinite rolling green is. Of course, the reason for it’s bountiful lushness is the near-constant pissing rain, but you can’t have it all. Anyway, I digress…

My parents are building a house in Powys, which I believe is Welsh for ‘the middle of fucking nowhere’. They plan to decamp there permanently as soon as the doors are on. I don’t blame them. Their other house is in Kent, a county so overpopulated with pikeys and fat bastards I’m surprised the council haven’t built temporary floating houses to spill out into the Channel. One can only hope that the day this happens, the anchors come unstuck and the dross can float off in the direction of France. Sort that, Sarkozy.

Anyway, I digress… again.

The German and I are headed to Powys for the weekend because we’re going to a festival there. It’s a small community affair, granted, but I love all that. It’s something you just don’t get in the smoke. Everyone’s too busy avoiding a knife attack to worry about polite human interaction.

There’s always a generous helping of village gossip to keep me scandalised for weeks and the booze flows. Oh, how it flows. Never mind the Irish: bless my daffodils, the Welsh can drink. Last time I was up there the dogs needed letting out the morning after a particularly heavy duty session. It was nearly 9am but I was still wazzered from the previous night, so the local farmers were treated to the eye-watering sight of Ms Hsh-Hush staggering around outside in naught but a teeny weeny towel and a massive pair of wellies.

I am all class.

So wish I and the liver luck and have a good one yourselves. Stories to follow, I’m sure.

I’m feeling slightly hard done by. I think I have good reason. It’s Sunday, I’m in the office and I drank ALOT of red wine last night. Which considering I knew I was coming into work, was a woefully inadvised decision.

I’m sure I’ll be fine once the painkillers kick in.

Or not… I’m getting too old for this shit.

Sweet Jesus, Blog of Rob. If ever there was a withering and sanctimonious post to take the wind out of your sails, here it is.

According to this happy chap, most of us are going to die of either lung or liver cancer. It just depends on what your poison is. Fags or booze? What, both?! *Jaw clangs to floor* Then you’re doomed! DOOMED, I tell you!!!

Rob, did no one tell you that death is sooooo last year?

And while you’re updating to 2008, cheer the fuck up mate.

This weekend I discovered interpretive dance. I now understand how one can casually leap from derisive onlooker to converted living room legend in the space of one evening.

Thanks go to Bjork and 10 year old vintage port.

That is all.

There was a serious moment last night, after the third heave, when I began to question my decision to drink a vat of Champagne on only a handful of wasabi peas.

I’m not a religious person, but on the other hand I don’t discount the possibility that God exists. He is definitely in my Top Ten People To Have Over For Dinner. Worryingly though, it occurs to me that the only time me and Him get together is when I’m shouting into the big white telephone, begging him for leniency.

Not exactly speeding my passage through purgatory, am I?

And now I’m panicking about the liver damage. Again. And imagining I can feel my swollen and belaguered liver, reproachfully pressing its battle-scarred self against my ribcage.

I think I may have to ask The Bishop (father of a good friend, terribly well connected on the spiritual scene). He’ll know. Perhaps he can put in a good word.

Meanwhile, I’ll be drying out in a church near you.

Today’s topic: Various.

There was a woman on the tube this morning who, at the top of her rasping 20-a-day voice, took it upon herself to delight and entertain her friend (and thereby all of us) with details of last night’s taudry bedroom antics. And she had Weetabix breath. I hate public transport.

On a lighter note, I realised something. Amy Doghouse might be looking increasingly more unhinged when she pops to the 24 hour garage for fags, Haribo and chilli flavoured Walker’s Sensations, but she’s always got her face on. Which given her lifestyle, leads me to believe the eyeliner is tattooed on. Either that or she’s got a make up artist stashed in her flat, ready to leap in for a touch up inbetween the crack pipe and the syringe.

Glad to see Posh has sorted those tits of hers out. Fuck me, they could have had someone’s eye out. Now all you have to do it plaster a smile on it, love, and the gutter press might just turn down the heat on the daily drubbing. Or not. Best job in the world being a gossip hack. Those c’lebs just hand it to you on a plate.

This weekend The German and I are heading to Kent for a weekend with the outlaws. My parents are entertaining his ever fragrant stepmother and The German Senior, who despite being of diminutive height, can’t half put it away. And fair fucks, cos I’m right behind him. Highlight of the weekend: a protracted trip to the bottle bank.

But at least I can stave off the liver damage panics on Sunday night with the corsets and bonnets in Cranford. That combined with a bit of Top Gear and a Chinese take away is the best antidote to the Sunday night FEAR.

Possibly ever.

Something bad has happened.

I can’t go into details but what I will say is that it was a work-related fuck up of stratospheric proportions, which induced rocketing blood pressure, sweating and jabbering.

My insides look like Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

Holy Christ, I hope it’s a storm in a teacup.

Now it’s the weekend I intend to switch my brain off and drink myself into numb oblivion. Perhaps I’ll stay like that all of next week too, so that any further bad news and resultant panicking will simply drift away on a sea of inebria.

And maybe, I’ll enjoy having a go at seeing if the answer lies at the bottom of multiple bottles of that fruity looking Cab Sauv that’s on offer at the corner shop.

Bottoms up. Here’s to morbidity.