WHEN I first started watching soccer eight years ago I thought to myself, ‘oh well, it looks somewhat entertaining and dad and the boys seem to enjoy it, so why not?’
At that point I was what Allan described as an “utter embarrassment to the entire soccer genre.” I could not discern between a free kick and a penalty and kept referring to the linesmen as wingers. But I soon discovered that soccer is addictive.
When my mind could retain team statistics for the last six games but only scanty facts about the morning’s Chemistry lesson… I knew I had to tone it down.
But now that I realise soccer is the only socially acceptable non-retarded way of getting an adrenaline fix these days, I just might do that.
Now, students at my institution are not known for their discerning taste in alcohol. In fact, most tend to gravitate towards the cheapest intoxicant that will do the job.
What really sucks about these sh200 tots of waragi they put away is by God they reek of odours more redolent than formalin. I wonder, do people know that they stink when they drink?
I’m not a drinker (or at least much of one) but I like good wine, and if my budget could afford it, I perhaps just might borderline alcoholism, so I try not to judge faces of drunkenness around me provided they keep at a 2ft radius upon losing their sobriety.
But what I mind is the boring excuse, “I was drunk,” that accompanies every regrettable action that follows their first bottle. What I am saying is; get drunk if you must, but be accountable afterwards and do not “blame it on the ah… ah…ah…alcohol.” Intoxication is the fault of the man, not the bottle.
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