Sticking my head out of the abyss for a short moment.

London town.

Perhaps the only city in the world where your Tourist mini-map comes with a sub-section titled "What to do if you've been raped." God, if that ain't a warm welcome, I don't know what is.

These last two weeks have marked a pretty dramatic turnaround in my fortunes. I lost my job on Monday morning, applied for a new one on Monday afternoon, had the interview on Friday morning, got the job by Friday afternoon, then started the next Monday.

It's been a bit of a wild jump in to the unknown. Particularly in the sense that I wasn't expecting to be leaving Watford for a good couple of years. But I guess I can say proudly that I've achieved my lifetime ambition. I am now, indeed, a bonafide city boy. I work in Farringdon, stay ridiculously late, and read The Metro a whole 2 centimeters from my face. That's if I'm lucky.

So how was your Valentines Day? Mine was a washout of spectacular proportians. The best pressie I received was a Facebook poke, and even that, I sense, was intended to distract me rather than flatter me. Oh well, better luck next year. I've got no right to complain. People who expect gifts and send none are asking for a boot in the ego!

I've also had time for a round of Pub Golf in Sheffield this past weekend. For those of you unfamiliar with Pub Golf, it goes a little something like this.

A bunch of Londoners travel up north on a coach wearing argyle and sporting golf gloves. They meet up with some northern nancies and proceed to binge drink their way through 18 bars and pubs.

The opening hole - a pint of Carling - needed to be downed in 5 gulps to save par. Being the macho men that we all are, it was eagles that we targeted. Down in three mouthfuls went the first pint. Down in one went the Smirnoff Ice. Down in one went the Vodka Double Red Bull. In fact, down in one went a lot of things.

But this inevitably lead to severe drunken disorderly behaviour from all parties, in bloody quick time. I think I was drunk within the hour.

Friend A - is convinced that he's contracted a kidney infection, having been dragged both in and out of bars by Sheffield bouncers.

Friend B - was sick down both his sleeves, all over the back of his jacket, in two seperate beds, and was found in a pool of his own vomit. He also managed to lose his trousers and pass out in such a state that an ambulance was called to the scene. Primark saved his bacon the next morning when he was able to invest in a brand new jacket.

Friend C - was also violently sick, although thankfully in the toilet. He sent several mass texts pleading for somebody to rescue him from an unknown Sheffield location having lost the rest of the group.

Friend D - was sick before 6pm, hit square in the face with a banana thrown across the street by Friend A and was found in bed with Friend B, though we're told it wasn't quite sexual. Also had an ambulance sent to the scene for him.

And then there was me. I'm proud to announce that I didn't quite top my birthday for drunken carnage, but maybe that's because nobody was sober enough to remember it. What I do know, however, is that I'm covered in cuts and bruises, with a knackered left forearm, and a hole in my wallet.

I fell in to a kitchen, wandered aimlessly through a mosh pit (and subsequently got decked), told a good friend that I loved her, and tried to divert a taxi from Sheffield to Norwich.

Thankfully, each and every one of us made it back in repairable pieces. But either way, I think it's time to say; "I've had enough, mate."

It's time to pursue some non-deadly hobbies. I want to have a little substance in my social life, to go with the substance abuse. I want to go for a pint which doesn't have to be downed in two giant gulps to stay near the top of an imaginary leaderboard which probably should have read "Muppet to die first".

This time last year, I went out once a week. These days, I'm lucky to get a night to myself. And as much as I love the social peaks, it's bloody exhausting to maintain. Yet, foolishly I've agreed to so many things that my calendar needn't bother listing occasions. I've already set aside every single weekend in March for house parties, birthday parties and boozy trips across the Eng of Land.

And I know that I lack the self control to say no to a night out if its on offer. When you turn up drunk on your first day at a new job, having stupidly stayed out until 2am the Monday night before, you know there's something wrong.

Technically, I should be skint. Technically, I would be skint. But with a £4,000 pay rise, I can afford to fund an almost constant bender.

Somebody save me from this madness.