Thank God, it's more like. This Faustian nightmare* shall be over in around 8 hours.
* = I don't know if having to be at work early is some sort of Faustian nightmare but it sounds good. Bear with me.
At the Tube station.
The Jubilee Line, so early in the morning, is packed with an incongruous bunch of people.
Blue-collar immigrant labourers in paint-spattered cheap tracksuits who smell of turpentine, sat next to Paco Rabanne-infused City boys on their way to Canary Wharf clad in Armani suits.
And me, straddling the divide. Primark vest (concealed) and Prada shoes (visible).
The choice in the canteen at work is pretty lean. Unlike the pork sausages that are oozing under the carvery lights.
I opt for the vegetarian sausages instead. Two of them end-to-end in a roll and smothered in tomato sauce.
It is food that has as much nutritional value as an Ikea lampshade smothered in custard.
I've had another one and it tasted even better the second time around.
There seems to be a concerted attack on my will. No, not the thing you use to fuck over your kids once you're dead (leave it all to the dog).
But instead; on the desk where the teabags live there is a packet of Minstrels, Haribo and a box of biscuits. Like an industrial sized shoe-box of biscuits from Tesco.
Football. What do you know about it?
I know that it's a game, you support it by being a bit lairy and sometimes you run onto the pitch.
The running onto the pitch thing is bad. And anti-social. And nobody likes a thug. It's so wrong. Hooliganism is arcane. Revolting. Urgh. What thugs. Pigs. Ohmygod that's so hot.