Zen and the art of bicycle maintenance1.

Christ, I don't know where to start with the weekend. My anecdote gland is dry, so I'll just list what we did in a cold, clinical manner:

• we got mortal.
  

Alright, there 's a bit more to it than that, but you get the idea. It's Jeff's birthday today (<fx: waves weakly at Jeff, sings bad chorus of "Happy Birthday">), so the weekend was devoted to a debauched carnival of preemptive celebration. It kicked off relatively tamely, with Neil coming through for a 'few' quiet ones in the Traverse Bar.

I woke up with a killer hangover2 and a pressing need to get to the bathroom. Of course, the bathroom held neither painkillers, Irn Bru nor toilet roll, so I ran screaming to the corner shop to score the required items.

By 5 pm that evening the flat inmates were all present and correct, and so it was time to rock and roll. We headed to the Southsider to inaugurate the 2004 Bar Olympics. Currently, the only official events are pool and table football; and needless to say, I suck at both. After being ritually humiliated by Jeff and Josh (current scoreline is Jeff: 2, Josh: 1, me: nil) at said events, the fun really started. Josh's pictorial record of the evening's entertainment is more eloquent than that your humble correspondent could possibly muster (or indeed remember), so I'll leave it to him.

On Sunday we went to see School of Rock. It rocked, but not as hard as Tiny Monkey.

1. I tweaked the gears on my bike this morning. I needed a title, 'kay?
   
2. Honestly, you pay through the nose for a wanky beer that comes in a wanky glass served by a waif-like barmaid in a topologically-challenging (because it's in the process of disappearing up its own arse) bar, and what do you get for it? Pain like no human has ever experienced. I may have to rethink my laissez-faire attitude to financial self-flagellation in Edinburgh's blossoming array of style bars.