Hedonistic January

I am one of life’s social salmons. This January, in the spirit of swimming against the current, I have denied the implied rule of abstinence in favour of all things naughty.

Let’s face it; January is dismal, unexciting and where hope goes to die. Why then, do we choose to compound this time of unhappiness with a denial of all things fun? Why not give up fun in December when the osmosis of surrounding joy would balance out the withdrawal? From this vantage point of clarity I can see that the only way to survive this, the worst of months, is self-induced black-outs.

Friends who show the same willpower as Daniela Westbrook would in Columbia, ‘when in Rome, aye Daniela?’, have been easily led from the path of righteousness. Despite their best intentions of nights in front of the box with rice cakes and tap water they were unable to countervail my more exciting suggestions of dancing, drinking and eating. This behaviour is ‘so December’ they cried as I handed them their fifth tequila.

This trip down Saturation Lane has taken me and my other countercyclical crew members far and wide (Oval and the East End so far). This Saturday alone we did some sober sampling of the curry at Gandhi’s in Kennington, many a politician’s eatery of choice: ‘Gandhi’s Restaurant Kennington Road, my favourite Indian Restaurant. Excellent food and service’ – John Major. Gordon Brown is also a fan; it is pretty excellent grub.

Then we danced our endangered hearts out in the trendy East End, where blood circulation goes to depart this life and we go to party. How the skinny jean crowd don’t fall victim to more amputations I will never know. My loose fitters looked as out of place as the Trafalgar Square lions would outside my mum’s council house in Wolves. I certainly didn’t have the look and compared to those skinny boys I was easily 30 pounds overweight, but I was so blissfully drunk I didn’t care. In fact, I began holding hands with a random straight man who, whilst he didn’t seem to mind, was confused as to why we were holding hands.

And finally, we rounded off the evening’s debauchery by drunkenly wolfing down the finest kebab meat Old Street has to offer. Unsurprisingly this place has no political endorsement and if you’re wondering where your lost dog is, look no further than my digestive system.

However, when all is said and done, despite my best attempts to shine a light on the dismal month, it remains as pallid as my partied-out complexition. January is just rubbish, and going to work with a hangover from hell during ‘try-hard’ month is severly frowned upon. Perhaps next year I’ll join in with all the resoluting.

Image by Bruno Girin courtesy of Flickr

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