Well, there we have it. The Edinburgh Fringe is over and I am back to living in London and I am ill as shit. Not ill as shit like a rapper, but actually ill. But not the kind of ill where you’re doing shits. The kind of ill where it hurts like FUCK when you cough and you need to keep an empty pint glass next to you for all the phlegm. My body has obviously come up with quite a clever technique to stop my month long drinking session.
“Make him ill!” Yelled Liver to Brain.
“Don’t you worry about that,” replied Brain, “when I die it’s going to be on my terms, not because this fuck-face had too much fun at a festival”
“BUT IT’S A FESTIVAL!”
“Shut up, Throat! Just shut up!” Brain shouted. “You NEVER has ANYTHING interesting come out of you apart from red-wine sick, and that’s mostly Stomach. You’re just a kind of B-Road to the outside. Like an arse. You’re just like an arse.”
“FESTIVAAAAAAAAAL!” Throat screamed
“That’s it,” said Brain, “You’re the one who is going to get ill as shit. you cunt.”
And that’s how I reckon I became ill.
You can prevent it by not drinking every night for a month.