Spiralling into a Lampshade Delirium


Here’s the story of illness, alcohol, and George Washington’s forehead.

There’s nothing wrong dancing naked to the tune of Walking on Sunshine blasting out of one’s own mouth, a dance that mainly consists of mime skiing with a lampshade atop one’s noggin’. There’s also a huge smile involved. A smile of utter delight. The type of smile a two-year-old baby boy has chasing a duck around a farm. Of course, the lampshade was imaginary, along with the rainbows shooting out of the puffy white clouds on high whilst Morris men danced around me with ribbons of candy. Remarkable it wasn’t a dream, isn’t it? It’s all perfectly rational and above board. I’m not well, you see, so I’ve taken to booze. Something I don’t normally do. So it may not sound rational, but for me, I was having the time of my life. Who knew one could spiral into a ski delirium with little more than 40% whisky? Well, ‘scientists’ probably, but what do they know? Alcohol when ill is bad for you, they say. Clearly, they’ve never tried it…

It all started on New Year’s Eve. I politely declined the champagne. I don’t drink alcohol, I’m a good boy. I hadn’t had a serious illness throughout the whole of twenty thirteen. I was rockin’ a feel good vibe, like when I chased that duck around the farm last week. What? Some habits die hard. Just ask Bruce Willis. Still going. And then came the last day of December. Oh no, my throat! My poor throat! What’s happening? I’m dying! I’m melting! Oh, what a world! The noises that come from my bedroom must leave others most concerned. I haven’t even got onto the naked skiing yet. Turns out, there’s a cold going around. I find it remarkable. I never leave the house. How do I get colds? Unless it was a new strain. A super virus. Ooh, I’m special. But I didn’t need a virus to tell me that.

New Year’s was brought in, in the traditional manner. Booze, for others, and a party popper fight for my brother and me. But as a responsible adult, I feel obliged to inform children not to try that at home. Wait until you’re adults. On New Year’s Day. It’s actually not as dangerous as it sounds. We fired off a huge racket load of the poppers. We then threw the still smoking empty containers at each other. I won. I don’t know how we declared a winner, but I won, and that’s what matters. And he doesn’t have a blog to rebuke this claim, so you’ll have to take my self-victory parade as the fact that it clearly isn’t.

I awoke the next morning in a fit of screams. That’s turning into quite a theme. The first day of 2014. I woke up with a bloody headache. Was it all the containers fired at my head? Surely not. Alcohol? Nope. Don’t drink unless I’m ill. Then it must be… Oh, no… Please, no – I’M UNWELL! ARRRRGH! Who let in the New Year? Oh aye, it was brother. Brother, indeed. Hmm. A curse. A curse he’s lain on my very soul. Dagnabbit.

I wanted 2014 to start well. Instead? Chest sore. Throat rough. Fever high. Muscles aching. Nose running faster than a giant pork pie down a quaint old hill. Eyes streaming. Vomit rising. Shaking. Itchy. The shaking was my ever-present low blood sugar, nothing too bad. The itching. Hmm. I’ve never had chicken pox. I always worry when I itch. Always running to the nearest mirror to check I haven’t got a disease that has a 95% kill rate in adults and absolutely no cure. It’s worse than The Terminator. They didn’t think of that, those cyborgs, did they? They’d have been better off if they’d sent a vile of chicken pox back.

I have a hard time convincing people I’m ill. They want the big theatrical production. So I don’t bother. 2014 is here. I need to conquer the cold. Bring on the booze! Bring it all on, baby! I may need to lay off the booze…

The numerous hot toddies have served me well. Boiling water, strong whisky, lemonade and sugar. All mixed together. Downed in a matter of minutes or it won’t work. If it doesn’t work, you just up the alcohol percentage until it does work. My record is 65%. I’m currently on 40%. But as I said earlier, I don’t drink unless I’m ill. So it does have the habit of making me a tad delirious. And also, very hot. Hence the nakedness. It also explains the lampshade. Although I have literally no idea where the skiing came from.

I’m already starting to feel a bit better, but I’m still not 100%. Nowhere near, in fact. Therefore, I’m not at my best, so I do hope you can forgive the shortness and crapness of this post. I am trying. I just wanted to make the effort to wish everyone a happy and healthy 2014. And my sincerest apologies for giving you the nightmarish image of a naked me skiing with a lampshade on my head singing the wonderful tune, ‘Walking on Sunshine’.

Oh wait, you don’t know what I look like. Hmm. This could work in my favour. Ah, well, readers, you see, I’m a gorgeous six foot Italian stallion with pecks as hard as the forehead of George Washington on Mount Rushmore. What? At least the Italian part is right.

Isn’t that good enough, readers?

British politician, Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill (1874-1965), once said: “Success is walking from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm”.

Peace Out :|:

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the little bubble on the top right if you are on the Archives Page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here To Read The Latest Post

Hark Around The Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here To Read The Latest Post


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