Tonight, Michael . . .

Welcome, one and all, to my post.

Life has been quiet on the whole. I've been moved to Newcastle, which is a little bit awesome. One of the Boss' is on his way out, and so we had a bit of a shindig down old Newcastle town to see him off.
Being me, and knowing exactly who I am, I decided to not drink during the meal, instead preferring to sup on a cooling pint of Coke. This was my fruitless endeavour to retain a sense of decorum throughout the night, at least as long as the head honchos were present. Being the newest addition to the Newcastle team, I was anxious to not make a complete fool of myself. Being the youngest, I was more anxious still to not be thought of as the idiot child.

All out the window, naturally.

My request for a coke (no ice, cheers mate, I know your game . . .) was met with derisive sneers and various colleagues questioning my sexual orientation. After assuring them that I was indeed heterosexual (and attempting to prove it by sharing my personalised chat-up lines) I was permitted to order my drink, amidst relentless mockery.

After the meal I was forced to have a "real" drink, and somewhere between ten and eleven pm, somewhere between six and seven pints and somewhere between explaining to my Boss that I really did need to "have a poo" and my Boss explaining that I'm a bitch and applying make-up to me, borrowed from a waitress, somewhere between all these things my night turned a deeper shade of hazy.

I recall being in a nightclub and seeing two of the delightful young ladies who served us our meal. Usually my shyness would have stopped me from going anywhere near them, but emboldened by Mistress Artois I took the liberty of introducing myself. By introduce, I mean that I walked behind one of them at the bar and dry-humped her bottom.
Responding quite well, somewhat surprisingly, we had a bit of a chat. I remember struggling to hear her over the hubbub, so curled out the verbal version of the pile I'd been discussing with my boss earlier.

"Look love, I can't really hear you. You might as well go, y'know, away."

I really am on a roll in the whole women department at the moment.
I recently managed to compare a pretty girl to my dead cat before getting into a rather heated debate regarding everyone's favourite British Hero, Major Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles. I'm told that this conversation culminated with the timeless line "You might be pretty, but your opinion on this matter is incorrect. I'm going write your name next to the word "worthless" in my dictionary."
I also managed to get punched by a girl in Lancaster last night. I have no idea how I provoked her, and more worryingly, I have no idea which venue I was in at the time. All I know is that she tapped me on the shoulder, said something and then punched me in the face. And because I was drunk, I hit the floor like a sack of shit.
Still, at least it's not knife crime.

So, in my honest opinion I am not to blame here. I am the victim. Alcohol is the culprit, and I damn well mean to ensure that things change. There's a good person locked inside me, a good Sheep who doesn't poo in inappropriate places, who is capable of holding a pleasant conversation with a lady and who, essentially, is not a social hand grenade.

I am now on a mission to find this Sheep, and I shall be documenting my attempts here. In order to make things a little but more interesting, I shall also be launching a campaign to find Mrs Sheep. Doubtless, hilarity shall ensue.


Reference drunken text messages, I can safely say that all of the ones Ben receives are relevant. Quoting TV comedy is one of the few things in my banal existence that actually brings joy into an otherwise lifeless day.

Starting . . . NOW.