ICU, I do (or, A Letter To A Bride)

Dear Deirdre.
Sorry to trouble you, I know today is a busy day for you.
I apologise about the handwriting: I’ve had absolutely no sleep and I’m shaking so much the nurses are using me to mix cough syrup.
Perhaps I should explain. I’m writing this from the intensive care unit.
It seems my liver has completely stopped and my body is now using my eyes to filter blood. That may not be the official diagnosis, but that’s how it looks and feels.
But I’m fine.
Last night was great, considering it began with the maxi-taxi refusing to take us. Shorty and the driver got into a fight about wheelchair access and the definition of ‘legless’.
So we walked into Northbridge, but we were careful to keep our fluids up by visiting a few watering holes. Seventeen of them, actually. Okay, we may have taken the scenic route.
The restaurant we went to looked like it might be going out of business. Honestly Deirdre, it was sad. They couldn’t even afford complete uniforms for the waitresses. We really felt for them.
It was absolutely no better at the nightclub Shorty took us to. We all slipped a few fivers into what little uniform the staff did have, just to make ourselves feel better about the fact they could well be on the streets soon.
Then things really picked-up. Rob’s steak must have been under-cooked because he suddenly felt terribly ill. We helped him to the side of the street and took his clothes off so he didn’t get them covered in anything unsavoury. We propped him against a lamp-post, but he kept stumbling into the road, so we tied him to it.
Shorty had a small fire-cracker and set it off in the drain by Rob’s feet, but it got stuck in the storm-water grate. He panicked, but there wasn’t time to untie him, so he had to ride the explosion through. It was really funny - the ambulance driver said he’d never seen anything like it.
As his Best Man, I thought it only proper that I explain why Rob can’t make it to your wedding today.
I do hope this letter sees you well.
Bolton.