If we took a holiday...ooh yeah, ooh yeah

I'm just back from a long weekend in Ireland, visiting my parents. I always sleep like a new born when I'm there. It's difficult to pin the very welcome blame for this on one cause; it's probably a combination of events: the clean air, the peace, the restful ambiance, the good food and the heavy consumption of Guinness. Each plays its part I suppose.

The odd thing is though as soon I step back onto English soil I'm unable to slumber, which makes no sense. Take last night for example. I spent the majority of the day in Ireland, so I had a plenty of exposure to clean air. I ate well, and because of the travelling, I arrived home in a fatigued state. The wife and I then popped out for a couple of sharpeners before dinner to bring the curtain down on the festivities. But could I sleep last night? Could I feck. The only conclusion I can come to, therefore, is that I'm allergic to England. It could be London I suppose. But I'd need a control group to be certain. Perhaps I should relocate to Leicester for six months? That's a high price to pay for catastrophic fatigue though; I think I'll just make do and mend.

Remember whotsisname? We were like brothers.

There was another leaving presentation at work today. It was the usual well-worn path of card, whip-round and ill-chosen words. In fairness, the chap who's leaving worked in a department who all seem very close, so the address was rather more heartfelt than is usually the case in these matters. Said leavee is moving to Australia, which makes the "you must come and visit" platitude ring even more hollow. Both parties know that "must" is a euphemism for "won't".

It's strange and worrying just how quickly genuine affection for long-standing colleagues is lost when they go. You spend the majority of your time with these people. This is normally a recipe for disaster, so when characters do actually chime, you have to suppose that it's a lasting kinship. No so. Our Botany Bay emigré will be forgotten by Tuesday next week. And unless his new life hits the Aussie buffers, he'll forget us. It's a necessary evil I suppose; no-one likes a moper in the workplace.

...I wrote "au revoir" in the card initially, but hastily revised it to "goodbye". I thick it for the best.

Football Pie

Being a dyed-in-the-wool lover of the beautiful game (no, not darts this time, football) like what I am, I feel duty-bound to at least attempt to get a ticket for Leyton Orient's upcoming FA Cup tie with north London's pre-eminent poseurs, Arsenal.

To make things fair (and expensive), Orient have decided that you must have tickets for the two Tuesday night home fixtures that precede the cup tie. They dropped this bombshell the day before the first game. This means then that I've had to shell-out for a ticket I can't use. Even then, I'm only buying the right to queue for a cup ticket. If they're gone before I pitch up at the box office, I'm screwed. But what can one do? If I leave the sauce alone, I might live another thirty-five years, and not see Orient reach these dizzy heights. They've got me over a barrel. I must attend.

All football clubs do this of course, but generally it's the reserve of the top-flight clubs to wring quite so much financial advantage for a single game comme ça. It's unusual for the blood-letting to descend to League One. Consequently, the wound is a little sore. Come on, you Os.