Yesterday, at my company, it was our summer party. We all gathered in an underground club in Soho and consumed many, many beers. This morning I feel like my brain has been replaced with an old sock. This is one of the many reasons I rarely drink.

In addition strange things have been happening all morning. In the process of putting on my shirt the buttons switched sides, the floor tilted as I put on my trousers – spilling me on my arse – and the top  BBC headline seemed to be some footballer getting hitched.

Leaving the house it got worse.

The station seems to have moved overnight, turning a fifteen minute walk into twenty-five. No one seemed to be able to see me at the station as evidenced by their attempts to walk through me and, rather more memorably, sit on my lap. A church sign, concerned with the big questions of existence, asked me “What would Jesus say to Alan Sugar?”.

Then I saw the headline on a broadsheet and I realised that my beer must have had some special properties that slipped me into an alternate reality. After all, the legend “Brown wins 42 days vote” couldn’t be true in my world. I mean the collective parliament would have had to be lobotomised and replaced with half-wit reactionary media whores.

If anyone wants me I’ll be under my desk. Tunnelling for home.

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