It has been a boozy, boozy weekend.

It kicked off with a solid session on Friday night with the usual suspects and continued on Saturday night, when we'd been invited to an 80s party. Out came the yuppie suit and red braces.

I'd decided that this was going to be the night of the German Beer Experiment. I've started to suffer from some truly evil hangovers of late, and I'd heard that German beer - made as it is from pure beer and nothing else, is a lot kinder on the old noggin the morning after.

Tesco didn't have any German beer.

They did have Grolsch though, which is pretty much German in style and execution, so I reasoned it'd be close enough. Also the advertising slogan 'Schtop!' is hilarious to repeat while drunk, so that more or less sealed the deal. We trooped off in power suits and dayglo pink leg warmers* once the Mafia were assembled.

The party was in a miniscule flat on Easter Road, and was fairly lively. I wasn't really on particularly good party form...extremely tight 80s trousers, some cookies of distinctly herbal provenance and a disciplined attempt to work my way through a 10-pack of Grolsch (2 of which acquired cigarette butts in them in before I could finish) were all contributory factors. I headed home about 2 or so and hit the sack.

The German Beer Experiment actually seemed to work. I wasn't exactly dancing around the flat the next morning, but I felt a damn sight better than I have done of late, after similar booze action.

Neil had been at a leaving do in Glasgow on Saturday and he came back with Waxy, Siobhan and Hannah in tow around 1 or so; I tagged along to the City Café with them for lunch and a couple of restorative pints.

Of course, a couple of restorative pints spread out to encompass the entire afternoon, then the evening, and before I knew it we were crammed into Waxy's Clio, clutching bottles of Miller** cajoled from Josh and heading for Glasgow. Things finally starting to unravel about 2.30 am, when drinking a 50/50 vodka and lemonade from a champagne flute with gilt edging and watching a School of Rock DVD with Russian dubbing and Arabic subtitles.

Siobhan and Waxy put us up in their ridiculously overblown, opulent flat and I got the train back this morning. It has taken me three hours to write this bastarding entry. That's what three nights on the sauce does to me nowadays. Just say no, kids. (Unless it's German beer, which is fine.)

* Fortunately no-one combined the two.
** Apart from Waxy, obviously. That would have been Bad. Waxy was a saint, really. Not only did she suffer our increasingly dire chat, she drove a car full of stinking borderline alcoholics sweating off around six binges each across the country and back to satisfy our foolish demands.

Waxy, I salute you.