Every couple of months or so I get invited to attend to some car launch, which is generally in the form of an open bar (yeeey). A couple of weeks ago I received one of these invites in the mail. The launch is for the Land Rover Velar and the dress code? Smart… Fuck.
Wearing a suit for me is literally the worst. I have to look and act civilized, which is, to say the least, exhausting. I didn’t even want to wear a suit to my fucking wedding let alone for some god damn Land Rover.
After having the first drink I got to filming. The car was unveiled and let me tell you this, it’s sad seeing something you can’t afford.
I hit the bar, and by the third double scotch neat, the blazer came off and the shirt sleeves got rolled up. Of course I went overboard and got wasted (I didn’t drive don’t worry I had the orangutan with me on a red bull diet). But not too wasted, like the time I drank my weight in scotch and blanked out, only to be told by my wife the next that literally crawled into home with no shirt on… in February.
Anyway… Do you know what’s the worst thing about getting drunk at my age? The next fucking morning. Because, just like a swiss fucking watch, my son tests out his vocal cords at 6 am on the dot. That is when it hits you… I am too old for this shit.
Hang overs after thirty are the worst. You just feel like a helpless piece of shit with a massive headache and an urgent need to take a dump. You spend the rest of the day contemplating suicide and passive aggressively doing the shit you normally do at home. You have to get back to reality swiftly and act your age. Then at some point during the day you utter one of the biggest lies we all say to our selves after a night out… I will never drink again.
Well there you have it, you are officially up to speed with my fucking day.