This morning I am going to write about something not in keeping with the usual tone, that is, my drunken night. It's my newspaper, I can write what I like, dammit. Nothing fortunate to be learned here today. In fact, I think my mental capabilities for the day are looking somewhat dim.

Last night started out with sampling a couple of glasses of red (you have to sample the whole glass to get a proper idea of the quality) in the back quarters of the Oak Barrel on Elizabeth Street, my friend Joel's place of work. We moved up the road to the Burdekin, where we took liberties with the complementary bruschetta at the bar, and washed it down with a refreshing beverage. Vodka cranberry for the Miss.

Our group of ten proceeded to the Sydney Taste Festival at Centennial Park, for which we had free tickets, courtesy of Joel. Actually, courtesy of Joel's boss, unbeknownst to Joel's boss. Once there, we swapped our human dollars for 'Crowns'  official festival currency. We felt like we were in Monopoly Land and I strongly approved.

It's called a 'Taste festival', but our consumption was heavily skewed towards alcohol. Food-wise, we swiped lots of free Ferrero's, and then there was the mini pork burger which I swapped my crowns for at the end of the night in desperation. Oh  and some bits of deep-fried prawn, I think they called it 'Fries with Eyes'. I don't even eat prawns, yet there I was popping battered versions, 'eyes and all', as the boys delighted in telling me, several times.

At some point, I was accused of flirting with a Smeg fridge salesman. No, dear friends, I was merely asking the kind man to contrast the price of an average fridge to an amazing Smeg. Why? Well I don't know, do I? I do not seem to be in the market for purchasing a fridge, but it cannot hurt to gather these details, now can it? Okay, so maybe I was trying to get a free fridge. So shoot me!

Such thinking calls for an overview of alcohol consumed. Here's the progression.

Fancy Shiraz  > vodka > whiskey > margarita > absinthe > limoncello > bourbon > tequila > beer > Passion Pop

Notice a pattern?

The one useful thing I did do last night was to cajole Joel into exchanging his last crown for a packet of watercrackers and fancy dip, rather than the shrink-wrapped salmon he actually wanted. "Joel, we're going out, what are we going to do with a salmon?"

As we were being ushered out, my friend Owen and I decided it would be a smart idea to rob the Ferrero stand of its shiny treasures. We loitered  oh we loitered  but sadly that wiley little Ferroro man could not be had.

We departed from the festival, all talking with faux Irish accents (as opposed to talking with our real Irish accents, which we stored away in the name of comedy). I cannot explain why we were doing this. Although we were swigging marshmallow vodka at the same time; I'm not 100% sure, but I think the two might be connected? In any case, we thought we were amazing.

Without any realisation of the time and my train deadline, the five of us who remained paid to get into Spectrum to watch three minutes of some band, only to find ourselves five minutes later sitting in an alley off Oxford Street with a paper-bagged bottle of Passion Pop. Clearly the Taste festival taught us nothing and there is no hope for us whatsoever.

It was around this time, with the fruity overtones of Passion Pop dancing in my mouth, that I decided it was time to pack up and hit the trains.

The day is early, the air is crisp, the head is cloudy. I sit here pondering what hangover-cure delights I shall invest in today.It may be too late to save me today  but guess what  St. Patrick's Day on Wednesday! At least the accent is sorted. Ho ho ho.

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