I might well turn up, but it is the day after a home game for the Rovers, so if any previous games are the norm, the day after I’ll be as high as a kite on Tramadol. Sitting in the cold, despite thermal long Johns, my leg muscles will have seized up, and left hip will be singing. I won’t have been out of bed for more than a couple of hours, for sure, but I promise to have trousers on. Only takes about ten minutes to get those on. I also promise to mute the tv in the man cave when the football is on.
Mind, you may not see me through clouds of vaping in an attempt to get the nicotine to suppress the opiate sedation.
So if I sound like Keith Richards on a bad day, that’s why. Except I don’t drink, apart from special occasions like Birthdays, Christmas, and if there’s an “r” in the month.