Bearded hangover

Today I suffered disproportionately for my commitment to the booze; two and a half pints shouldn't put me over the line, but I was wobbly today.

I had to get my beard trimmed today, which normally would be a pleasant distraction from the cares of the world, reclined back in a barber's chair, at peace. With a hangover, this transformed into fifteen minutes of hell, with a wizened devil plucking hairs from my face at random, chuckling away. I don't think it can be right to use a nose hair trimmer to tidy up my moustache, it's not that long yet.

Or to use tweezers on my cheeks.

Luckily, a beard doesn't take too long to trim, so I could scuttle away from the Mandarin Oriental and return to my bed. Or I could have done, if I didn't have to go and spend two hours yelling and being thrown through the air. Curse having pastimes that require doing things at the weekend.

Then again, a pastime that requires doing things on Monday mornings is usually called a "job". I'm not going to reorganise Excel spreadsheets for free, you know.

Beard Psychosis

Tonight we went to see Butch Bradley at the Take Out Comedy Club. This was the fourth time I've seen him, and the best yet. This time round he was fresh and free from jet-lag, and killed for an hour and a half, while still taking the time to berate us all for sitting in a darkened basement.

Hitler Moustache

Last night I stayed up until after midnight, watching Richard Herring's Hitler Moustache. The DVD of his performance, that is, rather than just using some complicated video apparatus to spy on the facial hair of a comedian several thousand miles away.

Cutting down

Up early this morning, to shamble to Causeway Bay and buy a jolly big knife. For about 18 months we've had a blunt knife I bought from the supermarket for 50 HKD, and a breadknife that's good at slicing my fingers open but not for much else.