I have changed the site web address! You will automatically be redirected to www.guybrighton.com in 3 seconds. If your browser doesn't automatically load, click HERE. Guy Brighton's Wishful Thinking: SUN 22nd AUG : SUN DAY



I wake up and the TV is already blasting. It's going to be another day of focus on American athletes. But no: all the talk is Paula Radcliffe and her marathon quest. I can't get up to check it out because my head feels like it's split in 2. I do something safe like have a night out with the Lady's brother and his Italian squeeze and wake up feeling like this. Lady won't be pleased.

I hear the Italian girl talking in the other room. This is unusual as she doesn't talk, tends to play I can't keep up card when she's disinterested. With the Lady away at the conference in San Diego I was chaperoned by her brother and the Italian last night. We started last night off in Korea town: amazing food, spectacularly tacky scenery (huge waterfall with no water) and this booze called Subu or Sulu or something. Like sake but like vodka so to speak. Amazing. Clear head, wobbly legs.

The Italian did speak at the end of the meal as I was clearing up the last few bbq pieces: she laid into the brother about how much he ate and how much he drank. It made me feel that I could be in a normal relationship myself. She poked at his tiny pot belly and shuffled the chair closer to the table to hide mine.

We met the English new guy, Adie, at Wallse with Rachel - a slim thirty something geezer bird who has been here ten years. My god she could talk: drinking, eating, smoking, football, English blokes, going out. One side of me the Italian doing her voyeur thing, the other side the English girl drinking my beer.

I missed her at it at first because I noticed Adie take a cherry from the bar for the third time. 'What are you doing, mate?' 'You should try these - the raspberries are great.' 'They're not bloody peanuts mate, they're for the cocktails!' 'Oh, is that why they're in those glasses the other side of the bar.' Just off the boat. See what happens?

With my beer already drunken we lose the English girl into the arms of a chap called Gabriel who works as a waiter somewhere. I get his name wrong frequently. "You don't pronounce it like a girl's," Rachel protested. I drag them round to the Other Room. Popular it is yes, overcrowded with tossers, not quite. Some how I got carried away with the Weisse Beer. It's good stuff yes.

Adie makes a late exit and I swear the brother carried me home but when I walked through the door he was there on the blow up mattress with the Italian. He looks a bit shocked. I grin. That's all over for him

Now it is Sunday and I am awake I am far from grinning. The hangover's just started for me.

I flounce down onto the couch and within minutes two hours has passed, the brother and Italian have gone site seeing (before she catches a flight) and Paula Radcliffe is crying. None of the spectators know where to look. The TV camera does. Well, why was she doing all that altitude training when she should have been doing some running in the sunshine. And up and down a few hills. And anyway, when I had a stitch in cross country at school I still had to walk to the finishing line. Lazy Cow. Altho I don't think Mr Hobson and the Italian Teacher, Miss Nisatitta, minded.

The brother and Italy come back in and are a little surprised I am still there. Surprised? Frustrated? I don't know. 'It's alovely day,' they plead as I make my way back to bed.

After they leave for the airport I get a call from the Lady. I am happy. I am always happy to hear from her when I am hungover. She asks me if I am hungover, I say no. She tells me that I should be proud that her (dear, dear) brother thinks I can drink a lot. I was just keeping up, I lie. She's got to go. 'What, that's all you have to say?' I ask I don't feel the happiness I had when the phone rang anymore and she's got a meeting or maybe a Margarita, I dunno.

Food I ate when I got up that evening whilst the Lady is 'on a conference': Bistro Burger & Fries with a quick McSorleys to help the wait and calm the nerves.

August 22, 2004 in Diary | Permalink


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