Your bed is the primary example of comfortability. Lately these weekends I seem to be missing planting my big ol' white ass upon it's queen. Suffice to say, my bed isn't one of the most delightful possessions I have. The springs of the mattress poke into your back and the bedding unit is on the verge of collapsing as it promotes screaming as its way of telling you. You can only imagine its symphony when it rarely gets tested with more than one individual within. Sure, buying a new one has always been on the agenda, but alas that is the lack of me surfacing and going "bed shopping" one bright sunny weekend morning. However, my bedding represents a lot of pillows and a duvet the size of a small country. Sleeping is presumably the best hobby one can have. Tally up the number of hours I can sleep on some weekends and you would probably fall sleep yourself.

Friday evening had me pub-crawling with some of my friends within Battersea discussing relevant topics in their life. A somewhat intriguing outlook established with them on Friday with an email asking them to 'Bring along an article to discuss'. 5 drunk men talking about politics, random acts of obtrusive behavior, growing a beard (my next blog), racism and why Horse thought a picture that Colleen McLoughlin had helped replicate made him gush. Obviously intriguing for some it ended up with me doing really bad party tricks. This went until I was called away on a late night rendezvous at midnight, and escaping the next morning at an unforgiving hour to meet up for breakfast to discuss the religion of drinking coffee through a very small hole.

Only a few brain cells were firing for me so early Saturday morning as I sat in front of a fry up which could only be described as inedible. The word's of Alan, said upon one frosty morn after a night of raving many years ago, should of been uttered before ordering said fry-up - 'I can only do one lettuce leaf'. Unfortunately I was designated food which slid on a plate, a coffee which was determined to pronounce itself to the world as mud and a very deep accented Scottish girl. Time eventually slid by as I shuffled off to a nearby Sainsbury's to fill a shopping basket full of food. Little research has been discovered about the intricacies of doing you shopping on a hang-over. I believe it should be regulated.

Late Saturday afternoon ending two dvd's and with a mobile which would not stop ringing, I was soon in the land of 'kip' on my couch. Awoken a few hours later to a dishevelled DeeDee standing over me, smiling that I obviously looked worse then him. Tearing the tongue from the roof of my mouth I managed to smoke through broken cracked lips and gives nods of desperation that I was on a virtual landslide of unconsciousness yet again he eventually said goodbyes and left. I slept more ... on the couch.

Finally the mobile was answered to the familiar voice of Neighbour 4, Bec, around 10pm who was reminding me about one of her housemates farewell that night. I was expected to waltz to upstate Clapham Common and harbour some feelings of celebration. I was not in a state until I turned on some selected Stanton Warrior tracks, get into a shower, dress in the clothing hanging on my floor, and arrived at her door within 30 minutes, looking as fresh as a 2 week-old used condom. Only thing that kept me awake was the thought of possibly bumping into 'the strange girl' I met last week who was 'in the area... drinking'. I must have been producing the right pheromone's as I walked into the bar, between el naturale and old rust, as it seemed to have a few of the neighbour's friends conversing with yours truly, at least I think it was talking. I was obviously sober.

With continuous pre-designated spots in the bar via sms I soon Sherlocked that this 'strange girl' was actually not in the same bar as me, but in a club on the other side of town. Obviously my time was drawing to a close with these circumstances to the conclusion of - 'I couldn't be fucked with this anymore' scenario. Reaching for scarf and my air of drunken confidence I strode to DeeDee's doorstep at 2am on a Sunday. Ever so surprised he was still conscious, we both decided it wise to drink his bottle of scotch and sing very loudly while he played on his guitar. Thus eventually falling asleep on his smoke ridden couch at a time which seemed to be the arousal of life and light behind the fogged panel of glass in his living room.

I was awake a few hours later with a girl in loose fitting bathrobe standing over me mouthing words which were presumably Swahili questioning my comfortability during sleep. I left soon after with a grunt of thanks and shuffled home to lower myself onto that couch again. Now realising my reply in Swahili should of been "Adhabu ya kaburi aijua maiti" as I felt the burden of pain in my lower back.

Soldiering on, I was managing to keep one slinky eye open during Al Gore's droned monologue 'An Inconvenient Truth' and drink half a litre of coffee before my body registered the need to collapse. I crawled on hand and knee to my chapel of peace around 7pm on Sunday and realising 10 seconds later it was probably the best decision I made all weekend.

Awaking Monday I cursed the Earth that it had shortened my weekend since 7pm Sunday. Knowing the cycle of my ritualistic attempt to make me into a half decent monkey each morning for the next 5 days was now evident.

You cannot know the bugs of a bed that you have not lain on.