"Who was General Malaise?"

Keeping this thing up and running's a pain in the arse while I've got actual things to do. Time was I could roll out of bed at four in the afternoon, stagger into a pair of marginally decent strides, and molest some library hardware for a while until my fingers woke up. No longer though.

For example, my comments about hair have proven prophetic- up until this morning I was forced to use shampoo of all things, to stop Saudis trying to put up a derrick on my forehead. To avoid this ridiculous, unnecessary and frivolous expense, I have got a man to bald me again. Still, strikes me as an awful waste of time and a fiver, even though I seem to have a good rhythm down: get sheared twice annually, and if any of it annoys in between times, hack it off with whatever razor comes to hand. This tactic backfired recently however, when a girl asked if I had been fighting a cat on seeing scratches on my neck. Daft business all told.

Then there's finances. There's only one thing worse than having no money, and that's having a small amount of money. When you're picking up gutter change and cutting the backs of alley sofas before the Romanians get to them, you at least know that the seventy-six pee in your hand represents the entirety of what you can spend on food. And if you want to drink or smoke, then you'd better get your charmingest smile and your cheesing trousers on. And hope you've some soap left.

It's hellish when you've a limited supply of funds, say enough to keep you in a bar for about a week straight, and you know that you will have no more for a month-odds until the next unfeasibly, incomprehensibly large student loan installment, because to get a job would be to necessitate the use of public transport, which you can't afford if you want to eat as well. And it's no fun whatsoever doing call centre work with nothing in your belly but Tesco Caffeinated Sawdust Coffee Substitute and smoke from someone else's roll-up. And that's all I'm qualified for until I get this spackering degree.

But Paddy's Day approaches, and the idea being floated is a game of Edward Ciderhands to start the day off. For anyone unfamiliar with the rules, (*clears throat, and puts on best Blue Peter presenter voice*) you will need:

-Two bottles of cider, at least two litres apiece, preferably three;
-Some sticky-back plastic (obviously), gaffer tape, or failing that a hell of a lot of sellotape;
-A good party, and some forbearing housemates.

Fairly self-explanatory- tape a bottle of cider to each hand, and on pain of a very nasty (and extremely plastered) forfeit, no freeing either hand until both bottles are empty. That means no smoking without an assist, no dancing unless it's the Running Man, and no toilet breaks whatsoever. Unless you have an incredibly helpful and understanding girlfriend. This is one of the most destructive drinking games I have yet come across, rivaled only by the Winning Streak game. But that's another story for another afternoon.

Well in any case, after whatever silliness the universe has in store for my first Paddy's away from the Old Country, I will almost certainly have no more money at all. Back to a more familiar set of gripes. Now I'm off to draw up a budget or something. Be good, keep it holy, and whatever you do, don't pull a Dara O'Briain.

-J