Alcohol, n. A catalyst for the surreal.

   Saturdays aren't often a time of enjoyment during the day when your social circle is still quite small. Kyle reported severe chunderchunks by text and so I ventured in the Toon on me ones to sit in Costa, revise like a mad 'un and enjoy some coffee.

   A hard day's sociology revision and song writing later and it was five to six, Newcastle have kicked off some twenty five minutes ago, "where's the harm in having a wander up to the ground and listening to the crowd for five minutes?" I thought "I'll just have the one in the The Strawb' and go back at half time." Now, at this point it is important to note two things. Firstly, that nobody, in the history of beer, pubs and the number one has ever successfully "gone in for one" and secondly, something my dad said on his time at university in Belfast during the troubles, "alcohol is a catalyst for the surreal Richard, impromptu drinking only ever results in strange happenings."

   "Bottle a broon ale, ta flower." Lovely I thought, one-nil up against the Scouse at home, maybe this Alan Partridge bloke's alright. "Who scored mate?" "Nolan, three yards, tapped it in from Carroll's header across, we're all over them man!" I love how such a simple question can result in such an in depth analysis. 

   The Strawberry is the pub nearest St James' Park, it is a watering hole obsessed with Newcastle United, the walls are adorned with the city's adored from the last hundred or so years and nobody in there right mind goes in there to cheer on the away team on match day. Nobody that is, except one Scouser.

The Strawberry's the smaller of the two buildings, the other one is a football stadium.

   Anyway, the bloke I asked who'd scored, his name was Paddy and he was pished, like, right pished, and he kept buying the rounds. As a student, northerner and general small-time begger I've been known to check phone boxes for lunch money, busk for pints and scour the floors of bus stations for me fare. In short, I wasn't going to say no and eight pints later, we've won three-one, the Scouse bloke is wrestling Paddy and I, to put it lightly, am pissed.

   After being called Jamie Oliver in the bogs and kissing the match ball on me way out all I could think about was food. Walking through China Toon I'm amazed I made it to the bus without stopping for a Chinese, well I'm amazed I made it to the bus let alone without getting a take away. The X1 was packed and I decided that MaccyDee's was a good pit stop point for munch on the way though the Gall's and it was there that, pissed and full of chicken, I started posting on Facebook again, breaking my vow of a Facebook-abstinent fortnight.

   Stumbling in at half nine, over the moon as it were, I watched Match of the Day and logged on again where I discovered that wor Dave's coming up on Saturday! Gerr' in, I thought, should be a good crack in Newcastle and me day just got a whole lot better.

   Three or four hours of Facebook and ChatRoulette later I passed out and woke up with the most excruciating hangover I have ever experienced. Never mind though, that was the best Saturday I've had in a long time.

- Nous