Tuesday 16^th August

Woke to the cold touch of steel against my forehead. After a brief moment of panic and some desperate flailing I realised it was just my belt buckle. I managed the short shuffle to the bathroom where I instantly ejected last night's vodka and a hot dog I don't remember eating. I inadvertently caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror as I shuffled past. Rookie mistake. In addition to the usual ugliness that accompanies a hangover, I was also sporting the word “Levis” across my forehead. Excellent.

Ike called to the door to complain about “excessive noise”. Apparently I made quite the racket upon my return from the pub, and it woke him up, the poor dear. Also, he was very curious as to how half a hotdog ended up wedged in their letter box. I took a shot and blamed it on the kids upstairs. Turns out there are no kids upstairs. The temptation to blame Tina was overwhelming, and let’s face it, she's already in the shit house. I resisted, proud and relieved to discover that there was in fact a limit to how low I was willing to sink. I was beginning to think of my soul as a bottomless pit

Finally…rock bottom.

At work, Bert greeted me with black coffee and two Paracetamol. It has never cured my hangover in the past, and yet I remain pitiably optimistic. I began preparing the fish course for lunch, and as the pungent aromas assaulted my delicate senses, I made four speedy trips to the bathroom. One genuine trip and three false alarms. After ridding my stomach of all but the lining, I noticed a small white tablet lurking conspicuously in the bottom of the bowl. I took two more and waited for the painkillers to work their magic.

Two hours later and all was most certainly not well!

To the makers of Paracetamol and all those involved in the nefarious world of drugs, I would just like to say: I cannot believe it, four tablets in three hours and no improvement? This is not over! Somebody will be receiving a strongly worded letter from me tomorrow. Although I am quite busy tomorrow so perhaps just an e-mail. Ooh, internet connection's been down the last two days so maybe just a text. Can you text? I'll ask Bert.

I informed him of my situation and Bert was immediately on the case. He came back to me an hour later with a solution, if you could call it that. The plan was bigger and bolder than any we'd attempted in the past. I was a bit cagey about trying something that could ultimately land us in jail, but it was going ahead with or without me, and not wanting to miss out on the fun, I agreed. Bert brought me up to speed. Paracetamol HQ, on the outskirts of London, is run by one Joel Sanford. He lives in Kensington with his wife Madison and son John. Little Johnny attends Elmsford Elementary and his darling wife does sweet fluff all. Oh yes. A home addressed letter should do the trick I think.

Bert did the honours...

Dear Mr Sanford,

I am writing in regards to one of your products and my dissatisfaction upon trying it. I suffer from severe headaches as a result of frequent binge drinking, and after sampling your wares in an attempt to alleviate the symptoms, I found no such relief.

It is important to note that, as my suffering worsens, I often become quite angry.

And I can tell you right now Mr Sanford, your son wouldn't like me when I'm angry. How is little Johnny, by the way? Still attending Elmsford Elementary? That's neither here nor there, I suppose. Although be sure and pass on my kind regards when you see him. Just tell him the man with the sweets and the nice puppy sends his best. I'm afraid I didn't give a name. Kids can be such tattle tales you know.

I am writing this letter by candle light, as fluorescent lighting only assists in aggravating my headaches and fuelling my rage, and I am quite sure that you know all about the rage Mr Sanford…I've met your wife. Incidentally, there's a pain that could use some killing.

I'm sure my frequent references to your family must seem strange to you but this is merely a side effect of the headaches. I lose my train of thought and as a result, all sense of propriety. I wanted to inform you of my situation in person, but my psychiatrist insisted a letter would be far more appropriate and my parole officer agreed.

By the way, I had the pleasure of meeting your son's nanny recently and what a pleasure it was. She is delightfully proportioned, isn't she? But let me tell you Mr Sanford, as you may already know, that woman cannot handle her Rohypnol. The way she left personal belongings and house keys just lying about, was beyond careless.

Well Mr Sanford, I think I have taken up enough of your time for now. I feel confident that I have made my feelings quite clear. If not, I might see fit to ignore the advice of my psychiatrist and parole officer, and instead follow the advice of my friend and former bunk mate, Big Larry. Though not big on letter writing, he always has the best candy.

As strangers often do.

Yours painfully,

Dave (Newbie).

P.S. Give the nanny my best, if you can.

I will either get some serious relief or some serious prison time for this. I wonder if they will allow me to continue writing this from prison. Is a pen a shiv? I'm confident I could survive on the inside. After all, nothing says hard-nosed criminal like keeping a diary. Why did I have to ridicule Anne Frank? So much for outdoorsy.

Been lying awake for an hour, listening to the ominous peal of police sirens outside my window. Don't know what I'm waiting for. The letter hasn't even left the country yet, and if An Post has anything to do with it, it won't reach its destination for at least a week, if at all.

Please, just this once, let the postal service fuck up when it really matters.