No matter how many bike races he won after doing a wheelie down the Champs-Élysées while playing Tetris on his Game Boy, a true hero like Lance Armstrong will always own up to those crimes which blighted his achievements. So, in this week's spirit of honesty, I thought I would own up to my one and only sporting drug crime. We couldn't afford to get Oprah and, while Lorraine Kelly did offer her TV shoulder for me to sob on, I would rather i had the exclusive. So, here we go (stressing, of course, that none of the following is advisable and that my only drug of choice now is Pinot Grigio).
A long time ago in Glasgow, I used to play five-a-side football with some friends. One day, on the bus across town to meet the guys, I thought it would be a sweet idea to take some LSD which I had bought at a party the previous night. Mere minutes later, the bus on which I sat was no longer a bus, but rather a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies, as so described by that dear departed Scouser with the bottle-top glasses.
Amazingly enough, I was able to find the right pitch and joined my teammates for the start of the game. Even though the ball was – to my eyes – leaving golden trails as it whizzed around the pitch, I managed to stifle my giggles sufficiently to put in a performance of quite astonishing virtuosity. Onlookers wept openly at the beauty of my passing. I ended up scoring a vivid hat trick and even won Man of the Match. Had I not ended the evening sobbing in the toilet, while sucking my own big toe, it might have been an even better day.
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