i don't care if the sun don't shine
What kind of tin pot organisation puts a summer party on a monday night? One awoke fully clothed this morning, clutching the remains of a rather dubious looking fried chicken burger (as though there's any other kind). One assumes it's originates from the dodgy shop at the end of the street that one usually holds one's breath whilst passing, in an attempt to avoid greasy stench. One does not feel so much up to the task of licking the boots of those infinitely more privileged than oneself today. One is hungover, grumpy and at the mercy of oddly flavoured regurgitations.