Off the wagon

Waking up on a Sunday morning with a head full of red wine and a stomach full of Logi's Thai soup just isn't any fun when you've ran out of bog roll.

As predicted, I fell off the wagon on Saturday night. It was great fun up to a point, good food and company, but later I found myself in the queue for Kaffibarinn at 1am, head spinning from the wine, nipples cracking off from the cold. It's the only queue in Reykjavík that gets longer in front of you, rather than behind you. So we all piled over to the less cool Ölstofan instead, where everybody was amazed to see yet another queue. "A queue! There's never a queue outside Ölstofan!" exclaimed all the Icelanders, flabbergasted, like they are every time they see the queue outside Ölstofan.

I was relieved to finally get inside somewhere warm, but it's not the most inspiring bar downtown. Borgar summed it up quite nicely, I thought. "It's like pissing in your boots," he explained, authoritative as ever. "It's familiar and comforting for the first five minutes, then it just gets kind of tedious".

I left around 2am. If going home ridiculously early doesn't save me from hangover hell then I must be getting old.