10th May - The Uni Diet

Yesterday marked my 7-a-side finale for the season, and in all honesty, we got absolutely smashed. I think the final score was 6-2, but it could have been even more. They just kept the ball so well and we were constantly using up our energy trying to (unsuccessfully) gegenpress them. It felt like prime 2011 Barca spinning us with tiki-taka, and I'd already run out of any pressing abilities by the half-hour mark. From there on in, I adopted a sort of lazy Yakubu vibe, mincing around up top and using hold-up play from long balls to try and work us back into the game. 

On the way home, I had a salmon sandwich (see, sometimes it really is okay to be boring), as part of a Tesco meal deal. My other choices were a little Tropicana smooth, and a tube of Dairylea dunkers. I chuckled whilst in Tesco, because as I walked past the hummus, I was reminded of my Uni days, in which my friend and I would venture up to the 'big' Tesco, which was at least a 45 minute walk away. We'd get there, purchase a big baguette from the bakery section, and then go halves on one tub of potato salad, and one tub of hummus. We'd walk another 45 back, and then use half of our baguette in eachother's dips (not a euphemism), swapping between the hummus and the potato salad, and that was our daily sustenance. We probably repeated that process daily for at least a month throughout Summer 2010. It was cheap, it was filling, and I'm surprised we didn't develop scurvy. 

The plan itself seemed to be going pretty well until one particular night when this evening ritual of the lining of our stomachs before nightly excessive drinking, backfired somewhat. Knee-deep in lager after lager, I'd staggered out of the student union and wombled up the big hill towards the main campus accommodation, where two of our friends, Hana and Helen, lived. We'd often end up back at theirs after drinks, generally chatting shit in the kitchen, or being silly on the giant grass common outside all the blocks of flats until the Sun came up. On this particular occasion, we were laying on our backs at around 2am, out on the grass, looking up at the stars and picking out shapes within the constellations, as we often did. Suddenly, I felt a surge coming up inside of me.

It jolted through my stomach and quickly travelled into my throat. I catapulted myself up and rolled over, like a damaged slug, unable to speak whilst those around me asked what was wrong in panicked tones. I elevated myself onto all fours, into a 'doggy' position, but I didn't have time to stand up, and spewed up there and then, all over the grass. As heaps of white lumpy mush started to pile up on the crisp green grass, those around me started to gag and wretch. "It smells like chives!", bellowed Helen, running back towards the safety of the kitchen, whilst Hana supportably rubbed my back as if I was a pregnant woman in labour. From that night forward, potato salad - much like Strongbow, Eggs Benedict, or Frosty Jacks (those are stories best saved for a future diary entry) - only evokes one particular memory for me...

... One filled with chives, and regret.