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!