In other news...

I got to go out and get drunk last night, which was nice. It was made more nice when it turned out I had no money so my bestest friend paid for me. So it's an extra special hangover.

Our nights out consist of drinking, obviously (and this counts as a binge, but not to the irresponsible-tits-out-in-front-of-TV-cameras level) and chatting shit, both of which I love. The verb to roister is one you should look up. After putting the world to rights and perving on numerous women who are, depending on the bars we got to, far too young, we will inevitably end up dancing. Last night, for example, we were tipsy enough that dancing when the DJ was barely unpacked seemed like an amazing idea - and it was for a few reasons.

Firstly and most importantly, it's fun. Second, it's out of the box which is quite hilarious. Linked to that, it also amuses or annoys the DJ in different amounts. And you can get into battles where he or she begins to play songs which they think will remove you from the dancefloor.

Rookie mistake. Schoolboy, even.

So, we go up a gear. The next best reason is that it ups the ante for people who may or may not want to dance. You get pretenders to the throne who are either too unattractive or too untalented to beat us. You also get people who think it's fascinating, which is quite adorable. So we stomp around a bit, having the jolliest of times, and by 11pm, when most people have barely got into it, we fuck off, leaving a massive hole in the night. Last night ended in a cute little gay bar in this city of ours, and - despite the constant debate, apparently, in my group at University - I like girls. So we also got to play the 'dance with girls and have them wonder whether we're interested or INTERESTED' game. Double fun.

So, home at 11pm. Eat greasy takeaway. We then woke up my best friend's housemates and proceeded to debate the merits of spider torture - the captured arachnid in question being HUGE. I eventually negotiated his or her release, even though I don't really like the octo-legged fuckers. Good karma, maybe?

Then we watched Anchorman. And by 'watch', I mean 'quote all of the lines whenever we're not giggling uncontrollably'. Guilty pleasures, eh?

We woke up and played FIFA07, which I think counts as vintage, which the classic 'ouselves as superstars' in action. The wage bill for us four boys has almost bankrupted Chester City, but we're worth it.

Then, with money in my bank account, I took us to a fancy coffee shop and bought us drinks and double fudge something or other. Pricey, but another top notch guilty pleasure. The black coffee gave me the shakes, which have still not left me. These caffiene shakes are exactly what I want from a decent cup of coffee, so I'm pleased. As to add to the expensive hangover, I read my new copy of New Scientist whilst flirting with a hot barista (no pun intended) with a bar piercing between her shoulder blades. Very cool.

I've been stressed and fed up recently, but the last 36 hours have got me joyed up. I'm pleased. I have to attend a clinical skills class tomorrow on medication and injections, which is about five months too late since I've done hundreds already. But if I don't go, they'll take away my bursary. Bloody hoops to jump through...

But, no. Essays handed in, which will hopefully pass. Passed my first maths/meds test. Hopefully I'll have my car sold in a few weeks and I have no money troubles for a while. Hell, I'm even reading research for fun! It is, as the saying goes, all good.