It is morning. I know it is morning because daylight is starting to peer through the curtains. That much my brain can work out. I also know that it's Boxing Day. But any more than that, my mind draws a blank. Above the sheets hangs a sour, stale cloud of vaporised port, peppered with a fine water biscuit dust. Underneath the sheets, it's a veritable sulphurous Hades. The Brassicaceae peninsula has been breached and plumes erupt from dark chasms, spewing forth poisonous gases. In the corners of my mouth, a strange white residue collects, similar to creamy cottage cheese even though my throat is bone dry. My head thuds in metronomic time to the rhythm of an invisible Big Brass Band and it feels like the Chattanooga Choo-Choo is going to cleave my skull in two-two. Somewhere out there in the vastness of space, a small voice pokes me in the eye and asks if Santa has come to our house again. And could they also have some toast. I just want to lie there in my bed and let my broken, bloated body knit itself together. However, a little voice inside my head says that I have to get up. I have to get moving. I have to look at myself in the mirror and slap my pale, moribund face and shake myself out of this stupor because a new day lies ahead. This is the most queasiest, most painful part. Because suddenly all becomes apparent. I know I have to do it all again. Such is the turgid treadmill that is Christmas and celebrating the birth of little baby cheeses.
Forgive me if that sounds a little negative, I did really enjoy myself this year. The look on the twins faces when Father Christmas (future brother-in-law) came bounding into the room on Christmas Day would melt the most cynical of hearts. And being a 'faaamlee' kinda of guy, I revelled in the banter and social play that comes when you meet up with your loved ones, shouting and laughing over Trivial Pursuit. Plus I had a hearty two week break from work so I shouldn't complain but I have to admit the endless cycle of eating and drinking has really got to me this time around. So much so that over that last few days, Mrs FU keeps finding me slumped in front of our fridge, whimpering "Why? Why won't the Stilton go away?"
Believe me, the feasting really has been ridiculous this year. Intense. Heathen. Bacchanalia(ical). Proper pagan I tell thee. Over this festive period, my eyes have fallen up platter upon platter of meats, fish, vegetables, breads, cheeses, pickles, crisps, sweets and I have gorged and chomped and savoured to my hearts content. Yet in some respects, I feel like I have almost been sleepwalking through it all. After a while you kind of go on autopilot, nosing cupboards and fridges, wandering from room to room, picking from random bowls along the way. Because after the main event, there is still so much food going around. At one point yesterday, I even considered the merits of installing a bowl of Twiglets in the loo just so I could get my marmite fix whilst pointing percy at the porcelain. Of course this idea was born out of the last drop of Prosecco that was finally drained away down my throat last night.
But now it must stop. The eating, the drinking, the sheer gluttony of it all. My resolution is to lose at least a stone. Tomorrow I shall throw my running shoes on. Tomorrow I shall throw away that poxy Stilton. Tomorrow I shall become a new man.
I would also like to say that this decision is in no way linked to Mrs FU's fawning over a pubescent, bare chested pipsqueak who thinks he's a wolf.
And whoever bought her the Twilight Trilogy on DVD, thanks a fucking bunch.