Back by popular demand*, it's this thing. I'm not sure just how long it will be back, but i'll stick my neck out and say as long as i can be arsed/remember to update it. And, of course, if anything remotely noteworthy happens to me - which it hardly ever does. But it kind of did last weekend. And i stress kind of.

Owing to the fact that i've been a pretty lame friend to my old uni chums for the last year, i decided to take a trip down to our nation's capital (that's London for those of you who are very poor at geography) and see how those Bright Young Things were getting on. The plan was also to get together with some pals from home down there too but that never materialized - clashes of schedule/absenteeism/vomiting all taking their toll. However, Alec, Tom, Rob and Jon were all there as expected and even Miss Turner managed to get her act together long enough to put down the lesson plans and head over from Bristol.
Friday night involved that ever brain taxing decision - stay in and watch the cast of a mundane soap doing a movie pastiche on Children In Need or go out and get pissed down the pub. There was only one winner though, and it wasn't Terry Wogan. [As a side point i've always found Children In Need to be a very broad title for a charity - if it means children on a council estate in Toxteth needing a new youth club to vandalize then i'm not giving a penny. Bastards]. So out to the boozer it was, and a karaoke boozer at that. Despite this aural assault a rather good time was had by all i think. We established that Tom has ridiculously high standards when it comes to women: the fact that the bar was staffed by a couple of rather nice, yellow clad blonde girls clearly wasn't good enough for him. Several pints and a couple of gin and tonics later and it was back to the unofficial House Of Trouser (kebabs at the ready, of course) for that most logical of conclusions to a Friday night on the razz - a theological debate as to the existence of God. It always happens like this: just as leaving a skip outside your house always invites some shit to put a mattress in it, so a night spent drinking with a Christian ends with a fierce discussion as to whether The Big Man really is there.

Having woken feeling intellectually drained the next day we embarked upon that ritual which should only rightfully take place on a Saturday, namely getting beered up and going to watch some football. The match in this case featured perennial non-achievers Luton Town against my own club, the mighty Derby County. Having managed to find time to sink a quick beer before catching our train we made the short journey to Luton hoping to get in another crafty pint or two before the match but encountered a small snag: Luton, having a large muslim population, has seemingly no pubs (it's not hard to see why seeing as a pub in a muslim town is about as much use as a handbrake on a canoe). Foiled in our plot we decided to head straight for the ground; there was bound to be a bar in there, right? Well what do you think?? It turns out that there wasn't so much as a rum truffle in the entire bloody place - a particular bastard considering that you need to get pissed to take your mind off the fact that you're in a cesspit.
I won't go into the details of the match itself. Suffice to say Derby were excellent and won comfortably 2-0. Legends.
Saturday night was spent in O'Neill's in a part of London i believe is called Angel, although let me tell you there is nothing celestial about any part of that city. The closest any area of London has to an appropriate name is Arsenal i can assure you. Still, we had a bit of undercooked and error strewn food - Rob's steak and Guinness pie was still partly frozen and my steak and Guinness pie wasn't steak and Guinness pie - and a few more beers before another, less tired Rob and the aforementioned Miss Turner arrived. Looking all teachery as we expected, and a bit more pissed than we expected. In restrospect we should have sent her to the bar to get all the rounds in - being a girl she gets served about 10 times faster than us blokes. Must be that twinkle in her eye!
Merriment abounded (apart from for Rob C, who went home looking rather tired) and the night flew by. They even played AC/DC, bless their hearts. Countless drinks later (noticing a theme here, anyone?) we began the arduous journey back to base camp Macnaughton, stopping en route for a particularly overpriced kebab, in my opinion. I must confess i caved in and went pretty much straight to bed as i couldn't stomach the thought of staying up, or another beer. But at least i'm making progress.
Out of the house fairly early on Sunday morning, i toddled off to make it through big old scary London all on my own to St Pancras station with every cell in my body relieved at the thought of leaving the bloody place. I'll tell you something - the streets really are not paved with gold. Unless when those myth making people said gold they were referring to a now defunct brand of chewing gum.

And that is about it. Sorry to bore you to tears but, as Bob Hoskins once said, it's good to talk.




* a couple of people liked it.

Back by popular demand*, it's this thing. I'm not sure just how long it will be back, but i'll stick my neck out and say as long as i can be arsed/remember to update it. And, of course, if anything remotely noteworthy happens to me - which it hardly ever does. But it kind of did last weekend. And i stress kind of.

Owing to the fact that i've been a pretty lame friend to my old uni chums for the last year, i decided to take a trip down to our nation's capital (that's London for those of you who are very poor at geography) and see how those Bright Young Things were getting on. The plan was also to get together with some pals from home down there too but that never materialized - clashes of schedule/absenteeism/vomiting all taking their toll. However, Alec, Tom, Rob and Jon were all there as expected and even Miss Turner managed to get her act together long enough to put down the lesson plans and head over from Bristol.
Friday night involved that ever brain taxing decision - stay in and watch the cast of a mundane soap doing a movie pastiche on Children In Need or go out and get pissed down the pub. There was only one winner though, and it wasn't Terry Wogan. [As a side point i've always found Children In Need to be a very broad title for a charity - if it means children on a council estate in Toxteth needing a new youth club to vandalize then i'm not giving a penny. Bastards]. So out to the boozer it was, and a karaoke boozer at that. Despite this aural assault a rather good time was had by all i think. We established that Tom has ridiculously high standards when it comes to women: the fact that the bar was staffed by a couple of rather nice, yellow clad blonde girls clearly wasn't good enough for him. Several pints and a couple of gin and tonics later and it was back to the unofficial House Of Trouser (kebabs at the ready, of course) for that most logical of conclusions to a Friday night on the razz - a theological debate as to the existence of God. It always happens like this: just as leaving a skip outside your house always invites some shit to put a mattress in it, so a night spent drinking with a Christian ends with a fierce discussion as to whether The Big Man really is there.

Having woken feeling intellectually drained the next day we embarked upon that ritual which should only rightfully take place on a Saturday, namely getting beered up and going to watch some football. The match in this case featured perennial non-achievers Luton Town against my own club, the mighty Derby County. Having managed to find time to sink a quick beer before catching our train we made the short journey to Luton hoping to get in another crafty pint or two before the match but encountered a small snag: Luton, having a large muslim population, has seemingly no pubs (it's not hard to see why seeing as a pub in a muslim town is about as much use as a handbrake on a canoe). Foiled in our plot we decided to head straight for the ground; there was bound to be a bar in there, right? Well what do you think?? It turns out that there wasn't so much as a rum truffle in the entire bloody place - a particular bastard considering that you need to get pissed to take your mind off the fact that you're in a cesspit.
I won't go into the details of the match itself. Suffice to say Derby were excellent and won comfortably 2-0. Legends.
Saturday night was spent in O'Neill's in a part of London i believe is called Angel, although let me tell you there is nothing celestial about any part of that city. The closest any area of London has to an appropriate name is Arsenal i can assure you. Still, we had a bit of undercooked and error strewn food - Rob's steak and Guinness pie was still partly frozen and my steak and Guinness pie wasn't steak and Guinness pie - and a few more beers before another, less tired Rob and the aforementioned Miss Turner arrived. Looking all teachery as we expected, and a bit more pissed than we expected. In restrospect we should have sent her to the bar to get all the rounds in - being a girl she gets served about 10 times faster than us blokes. Must be that twinkle in her eye!
Merriment abounded (apart from for Rob C, who went home looking rather tired) and the night flew by. They even played AC/DC, bless their hearts. Countless drinks later (noticing a theme here, anyone?) we began the arduous journey back to base camp Macnaughton, stopping en route for a particularly overpriced kebab, in my opinion. I must confess i caved in and went pretty much straight to bed as i couldn't stomach the thought of staying up, or another beer. But at least i'm making progress.
Out of the house fairly early on Sunday morning, i toddled off to make it through big old scary London all on my own to St Pancras station with every cell in my body relieved at the thought of leaving the bloody place. I'll tell you something - the streets really are not paved with gold. Unless when those myth making people said gold they were referring to a now defunct brand of chewing gum.

And that is about it. Sorry to bore you to tears but, as Bob Hoskins once said, it's good to talk.




* a couple of people liked it.