Moist

I wake up in a strange bed. Alone. Feel like I'd more than five beers the night before so the coffee is strong and sweet. Hits the back of the throat and rushes straight up to the brain.

Just like I'd hoped it would.

Already sweating. The sun is out and that bitch is staring right at me. Still in yesterday's clothes, which turned into last night's bed-clothes. The 'Barack And Roll' t-shirt quickly getting moist under the bitch's angry glare.

Onto the road - a fine new stretch of motorway. A/C rushing cool air at my face, my feet, my moist areas. Two hours and 41 minutes from Cork to Dublin, including a poxy 20-minute delay in Shabbeyleix. A new day-time record.

The FA Cup final watched, a shower had and it's down to the parents for a sausage and bacon sandwich. Then it's off to Tallaght with the old man.

Shamrock Rovers score against the run of play. Get fucking in there Twigg you beauty. Shamrock Rovers miss a penalty. It's okay. Drogheda United never score...

Drogheda United score. Jammy fuckin defensive shambles of a goal. Four minutes to go. I'm moist again. This time it's an angry kind of moist.

The rest of the evening is of lesser consequence. Home, TV, some burnt microwave popcorn.

Then I retire. This time to fall asleep in a familiar bed. Alone.