IF I could have asked George Best one question and barred him from hitting me or giving the answer "more drink", it would have been: How do you deal with post-lash depression, George? For there is nothing truer than the saying: What goes up must come down. Like a cowboy builder with a spirit level, I spent Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday trying to find that internal equilibrium after a particularly ruinous weekend. Drink is a great servant but a poor master, and not for the first time, I allowed it to call the shots. Come Sunday evening I knew only too well where I was heading.
The thing with this reporting game is that 'muddling through' is impossible. You can't turn up on a Monday morning and expect, like someone from P-Diddy's entourage, to take a back seat and chillax. No, at all times you have to one finger on the trigger, another on the buzzer. A fuzzy head does nothing for a journalist's rat-like cunning. How the reporters of yesteryear managed to combine heavy drinking with story writing is something that still puzzles me. Anyway, I knew the only thing that would snap me out of this alcohol-induced low would be a Polish girl. And I found one. At a bus stop, with her Lithuanian friend. They are great, Polish girls, as are Lithuanian girls, and I have a lot of time for them. You can usually spot them because they tend to go for tight fitting at the thigh, two-tone blue jeans with buttons on the back pockets. I like them because their outlook on life is simple. They work hard and don't fritter away their money trying to buy fun at the weekends, like I do, only to regret it later. I once worked as a supervisor at a CD factory in West London where I was put in
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