Zut Alors!

Damn it!

I would like to start this mornings/late night post with an apology. As is usual with my stages of posting grandeur, I admit my recent posts have been boring and as intelligent as a misguided toddler. I'm sure you, of all people, can understand that the Life of Mitten isn't at it's height at this moment. I'm stuck in between phases, trying to fill the time with money-gaining exercises until the golden days arrive. Refereeing is my main source of income at the moment, and seeing as most of my matches the last couple of weeks have become a victim of the monsoons, I've had to delve deep into my bank account. Bad.

It probably doesn't help that I'm spending most of my money at the moment on things that disappear down my throat. That's food by the way... Good. Just in case you were thinking on a different wavelength! Yeah, I drive past Tesco's regularly and give into the temptation 9 times out of 10 to pop in and grab a donut or a cut-price bar of galaxy. Lately, I've added to the collection by going back to the old days and purchasing a Capri-Sun aswell. As a couple of people say, "It would be rude not to!" And maybe a box of brownies... Plus some special Easter munchies. And then another drink... I know!

Still, I'm sure you didn't kindly log in here to read about my adventures with a Capri-Sun and the Easter Bunny.

The last couple of days then. Well, I think I mentioned I was going out on Friday, which I did. I am pleased to report I didn't, that's ... DIDN'T, end up in a pile of my own vomit, collapse in the arms of an estranged Bedfordian or get transported via van to the local hospital, but instead enjoy a friendly and fun night. Beddoe was a bit worse for wear, spending the final hour of the night gently swaying from side to side on the dancefloor, only being awoken by the presence of a Mohammed Asif lookalike, throwing some interesting "nods" on the dancefloor to the genuine horror of those around him. Imagine our surprise though, when he was quickly joined by a Sreesanth lookalike who, in unison, threw the dancefloor into disarray. If you haven't a clue who I'm talking about, feel free to Google it.

After leaving the club at around 2.30am, and after meeting a couple of people who we used to go to school with, as is usually the case on nights out, we ended up in some place where I purchased a rather poor cheeseburger that tasted like it had been taken from a cow with leprosy and watched on as Beddoe was ripped apart by, "Martin", an Army man with impossible knowledge of computers and then got a cab home in the pouring rain.

This pouring rain takes me on to the next stage of my story, which involves one of my hates. A waterlogged pitch.

I was supposed to be refereeing the afternoon after the night before. Part of the reason, (along with the obvious), as to why I was taking it easy on the alcohol front. Despite not taking it as easy as I expected, I went to sleep at 4am, with the alarm set for a very solid 11am. But before the scream of the alarm was set off, the phone rang, telling me my game was off. THANK GOD FOR THAT! My head was in pain, (something called "A Hangover"?), and I went back to sleep. I woke up at 3pm.

Just, thought I'd throw that in there, and hope that no one notices.

No, I did. Which is why I am awake at such an hour this morning. It is 03:12 after all. Despite feeling very tired at around 9pm tonight, whilst playing Taxi Driver with Miss Hinds in Letchworth, (again..), I am as awake as a bullhunter with a Man United shirt on. I don't have football this morning, but I am refereeing this afternoon in a 2pm kick off. I will be alright. I'm looking forward to it!

And as for the title. Well, I can't stop listening to some song. It's disgusting, horrible, frightful. I heard it on Reggie Yates' Request Show on Radio 1 this afternoon and remembered the name. Since I have put it on my music playlist, it has been constantly on. It's French, (automatically making it vomit-worthy), has a strange sort of dance rhythm and a continuous lyrics. "Alors On Danse". It's terribly addictive. I'd rather be a fan of Justin Bieber.

Ok, I wouldn't.

There are a few more funny stories I could tell you, but that would involve slagging a couple of people off, and at this hour of the morning, I'm not prepared to risk conflict on the off chance that they might read this. Some of the stories are comical and tragic, (or on one occasion, both), so if you're interested, just ask.

£5 per story. Remember, I need the money.