Thing 263 Vuvuzela

Right, so I may have been a little "tired and emotional" or as Brian Cowen once called it "hoarse". In case my meaning is missed - I was drunk, when I beat up on a pinata as only a truly hard man could. In fact, the extent of alcohol taken was such that I gave God Boy (who doesn't drink) my car keys, so he could drive himself to Shannon Airport that night for his flight to Mexico the next day, without a thought in the world for how I'd get the car back...

With such decisions and actions there are consequences. Nauseating and head-throbblingly painful consequences. Squeeze-your-eyes-shut, grab-onto-your-bed and pray-for-it-to-be-over kinds of consequences. So what's the remedy for it? You guessed it...

The vuvuzela. You thought I was going to say hair-of-the-dog didn't you?

Sorry, that airport bit wasn't pointless. It's where I set my eyes on the prize. And by prize I mean vuvuzela.

Yep. I went and bought myself the loudest, most annoying, irritating, bothersome and all 'round infuriating piece of sports merchandise that there is. And yes, I do mean sports merchandise. I'm sure that someone somewhere plays this as an instrument, or at least uses it to warn ships lost in the fog of coastlines they can't see, but in this country, the vuvuzela is a piece of sports merchandise. Cheerfully banned from most places.

The Frenchman urged me to get my hands on one of these bad boys during the world cup, but I hated them too much. I did promise myself that just once, during The Project, I'd give myself the opportunity to give one of them a blast.

Into the living room I went, with a big grin on my face. I watched Pony Boy, Token Northy, Little Flower and Lady Northy struggle with their hangovers. They had tiny black clouds of hangover just drifting above them. Perfect....

Deep breath.... nothing.

Crap.

Now they know that I was trying to blast their hangovers into next year (2012, not 2011). Instead of being upset, and I should've seen this coming, what with them being big kids and all, they were excited. And, even better, they knew how to use it. There's a technique you see.

Purse the lips. Big breath in. Blast. Wait for ears to stop ringing. Grimace painfully. Pass the vuvuzela on the left hand side.

Everyone got a turn.

That's at least six additional vuvuzela blasts. Which means... my plan came back to haunt me, and I withdrew to bed sheepishly, never to touch a vuvuzela again.

The end.