Tactical vomiting.

After a hugely enjoyable afternoon in the pub watching City destroy Villa, I arrived home just in time for Sunday lunch. I may have drunk a little too much Guinness extra cold; I lost count sometime after Tarnet let loose his bullet free kick to put us in the lead. I wasn't drunk, just happy and a bit bloated. I felt odd about half way through the meal, a meal that Tracy had stayed at home to cook, and had to go and make a little room. It's amazing how much better you feel after lobbing the contents of your stomach down the toilet. After a cup of coffee I was ready for desert. It was our neighbour Nick, also a blue, who coined the phrase tactical vomiting, and thought it described things well. The whole episode mirrored City's performance, out of sorts first half, then after a 15 minute break came out fighting. I went on to scoff summer pudding and custard.

I don't make a habit of drinking on Sunday lunchtime, but when I do, I do it properly.