Sunday 1st August

I thought I'd start writing the date in the titles of these posts rather than just the day of the week, as it has become a bit of a nightmare looking back over old ones when it's just a long string of Mondays, Tuesdays and so on. The first day of a new month also seemed like a good time to do it.

Ah. Now that's a real hangover. The AM suffering of the last two days has, apparently, just been a warm up for this one. Or perhaps what I'm feeling now is the aggregated punishment for three nights of highly irresponsible behaviour. I can't summon the wisdom to blame myself quite yet, though - at the moment it all feels like Old Rosie's fault. Or possibly Mike's.

I wake up on the sofa at around 7.30, with the lights on and some dreadful soap on ITV2. I have no idea why I was watching ITV2. I look around and notice my brand new netbook lying face down on the floor. I can only hazard a guess that I rolled in, started fiddling drunkenly with my fun new toy, then passed out and dropped it on the floor. Cursory, bleary investigation seems to show no damage to the computer - which is good; I'm like a pissed-up, one-man Gadget Show at the moment - so I head to bed, setting an alarm for an hour later. I'm expecting K back from Sonisphere later so I'll need to be up to clean and do the shopping.

I'm a little surprised, then, when K calls me at 8.2o to announce that she's on our street and will be in presently. Luckily, given my fragile state, she's in no mood to force me to start cleaning the house just yet - as she apparently had a couple herself last night too. Phew.

After moping around for quite a while, we eventually force ourselves to do the shopping and some basic cleaning to the flat. Needless to say, I feel terrible. No amount of food or fluids can alleviate my stomach ache and throbbing headache. Is this one of those real hangovers that people say you get as you get older? Or is it just because I've been drinking like a tramp for three days? It's very hard to say.

What's even worse is that our plans this afternoon involve going to the pub. Not planning to drink (or even feeling able) we get on the tube at around 4 and head south to Stockwell, where K's friend Tristan is running a kind of variety cabaret afternoon at the pub he manages. After walking through some oddly-residential areas in the unfamiliar surroundings of South London, we end up at The Cavendish Arms to see a stand-up comedian performing on a small stage outside the front of the pub. Stood in what would have been the car park, facing out onto the street away from the door of the small bar and surrounded by people, a man with a moustache sings a song about a panda (which, incidentally, I had seen on YouTube only a couple of days ago).

Other acts include a banjo player, some dancing children and a couple more singer types with acoustic guitars. Mike and Ant show up and eventually we're all having a nice time, even daring to sip on a couple of Kronenbourg tops. It's not a good idea - but it's taking the edge off the boozeache. This is the last of the drinking for at least a week, I swear.

During the headline act, we are given a startling image of the worst case scenario future should a life of drinking this much continue. As a young woman sings a funny song about advertising, an old man sat on a picnic bench in front of us suddenly projectile vomits pure cider some five feet in front of him, soaking the table and splashing onto his arm. Suddenly no one is listening to the song, rather staring and giggling at this horrible, pathetic and undeniably weird display of hitting rock bottom. He does it again, without facial or physical reaction, and is eventually led away from the pub by one of his reluctant mates. The singer/comedian does well to handle the moment ("Did you not like that bit, mate?") and it all adds to the surreal mood of the day.

I think the puking man is the wake-up call I need - for this week at least. Shuddering as I walk away, I'm already looking forward to a wholesome working week.