We’ve all got that one annoying mate who decides when January comes around that a month off the sauce is somehow going to cleanse their souls and turn them into a health goddess. I get it, I really do. We all overdo it on the pigs in blankets over Christmas and come out the other side of December with slightly more padding than we intended to. We all chug 14 bottles of wine a day in the name of everything that’s festive. We all feel rotten as fuck after spending £3,529 on a G&T down the local NYE party and we most defo all feel the pain of the marathon wait for January pay day. But if you think that 30 days on the wagon – and on your high moral horse – is going to cleanse you of those xmas toxins you are fuckin barmy. Continue reading “fuck dry january”
January is such a wanky month, isn’t it. Winter in general for me is just not the one – all the extra layers add to the illusion that I may infact be the Michelin man, and having to toast my hands when I get home just so I can feel them again is just not ideal.
There are some (perhaps mentally instable) people among us, however, who love it. They can’t wait for the summer days of sticky tube rides and frivolous late-night sunset boozing to be over so they can get out their winter woolies and experience the joy of wrapping up against the harsh winds (weather bomb, anyone?). Continue reading “how to enjoy a skiing holiday if you’re shit at skiing”
So as we get a little older, and life (that cruel mistress) forces us into the world of work, there comes a time when we resign ourselves to the idea that we’re probably getting
very a bit boring. Hangovers become three-day battles, night’s out actually feel like a chore (“you mean, you want me to leave the sofa for a whole evening?!”) and you find yourself getting excited by the Great British Bake Off (love ya Mary you foxy bitch). Continue reading “christmas party etiquette”