2005-01-28

The world’s most expensive yacht is moored (anchored? parked?) in Portsmouth Harbour at the moment, which is nice, because it means I get to gaze upon it in humble awe as I’m paid five pounds an hour to serve overpriced lager to the sort of yobbos who go traipsing about on great big fuck off yachts. Yeah! Work is fun. I hit the apex of hilarity last night when I changed the ‘Wet Paint’ sign on the kitchen door to read ‘Wet Pants’, which in England of course means ‘Wet Panties’. You get your jollies where you can.

Monday night progressed pretty much as you’d expect, right up until my friend and I saw a girl pass out on the pavement in front of us: which, again, you might expect on a typical Monday night in the nation of functioning alcoholics (ie England), but then she started having a seizure, so that was a bit of a kick. We got to put a jacket over her and turn her on her side so she didn’t choke on her own vomit and generally act heroically useless until the ambulance finally showed up (“Can I have my jacket back now?” said Darren). Later on we jumped a fence on the way to a club: all adventure, all the time!