After a long, tough, sweaty night of partying hard at local night spot, nothing makes me happier than stubbling across to the PlayStation 3 and booting that bad boy up. I grab whatever online enabled game is close to hand, which is usually SOCOM, and jam the Blu-Ray into the drive. I get everything set... controller? Check. Headset? Check. Mobile phone to see if that girl in the club will ever text you, but know in your heart to hearts she won't and you are okay with that but you decide to keep at it hand anyway? Check. Munchies? Check.

While the game is loading and connecting, I seductively strip out of my evening lounge-wear and slip into something a little more comfortable... and sometimes this is absolutely nothing. I open the window a crack to let a cool breeze swirl around my assets as I take a deep breath and lay back on my bed, ready to take on the terrorists... err... mercenaries when the nights antics and alcohol consumption, totally out of nowhere, hits me. Like a brick. Like a brick stuck on the front of an 18-wheeler lorry. Like a brick stuck on the front of an 18-wheeler lorry being driven by Lewis Hamilton.

Next thing I know, it is no longer darkness... the sun shines through the skylight and the first thing I hear is the menu music blaring out of the television. An odd sensation on my right ear.. I panic as I unhook the bluetooth headset, knowing it will need re-charged. A controller sits to the right off me, a packet of Jaffa Cakes to the left. I try to think back to the last five or six hours.. Did I fight the good fight and destroy Zulu Exports? Was I able to defeat the mercenaries and plant a bomb in hotel on Urban Wastelands? My gaze falls upon the television where a fully armed SAS commando and an unshaven african mercernary bobble about, impatiently. Yet again, I have passed out before I even play a game. I think of the good times I could have had, drunken rapping down the headset to nocturnal clan members, pretending to be American and coming off with the best colloquialism ever to grace a mans lips.

I let out a sigh. The morning will only get worse. The hangover hasn't even begun to kick in yet, I have that to look forward too. I can't even look at the Jaffa Cakes, knowing if I attempt to eat one, I will be violently sick. The little red LED that flashes on my phone when I receive a text message has decided not to grace my with it's pressence this morning.

Fuck you, Saturday. Fuck you very much. Why can't it still be Friday Night.