Monday, 28 November 2011

Both sublime and indeed ridiculous/gangbang in a minefield

We were due to be meeting some old friends of mine on Saturday night, but as The Cat's Mother wasn't up to it I went alone. This was dangerous, particularly as history has a habit of repeating itself: when we were younger we used to go out as a group regularly and then spend the next few days recovering from severe hangovers. At our age we should know better. But it seems we didn't - this was just the start of the evening:

The good old days were much discussed: a visit to KFC to get a schlongburger (which was very funny at the time, after a day on the beach pouring beer down our throats); the time CD (he's on the left in the picture) fell off the kerb, smashed his shoulder on the ground and even now has a very large lump where it should be smooth, and so on. We headed to Pizza of London's trendiest eateries, and after a long wait (nearly and hour and a half) I had to explain to them them that one of our number is genuinely a VIP (not me - I wish!). The result was seats within moments, a free plate of charcuterie and some fawning that would impress even Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I managed to stay quite sober as one of our number just spiralled downhill, quaffing enough to out do Ollie Reid at his best. This was fortunate because when I got back to Loughton (as my friends returned to their Camden abode) there was an argument with the taxi driver. I had agreed to share the cab because it was so late, but then objected to having to pay full price when the couple I'd shared with had also paid full price, getting out just a hundred yards from our house. For one journey the driver thought he should get paid fact triple as there was yet another person who had jumped in as well. Nice work if you can get it.

Saturday morning I was dropping The Cat's Mother off at the hairdressers. The same hairdressers that she has been going to since the dawn of time. As she's been under the weather all week, this was a good sign that all was beginning to get better. As we arrived, across the road was a 'luxury coach' with 'TOWIE tours' signs on it. I'm sure you know my views on The Only Way Is Essex. My heart sank as I could see there was a posse of elaborately made-up blondes and brunettes gathered by it, together with a camera crew.

I parked and whilst The Cat's Mother's hair was restored to its best walked down to Cost Coffee to grab a flat white and a lump of lard with raspberry jam (advertised as a raspberry and almond bake). I suddenly thought that the man standing behind me in the queue was the somewhat extreme comedian Frankie Boyle, and as that thought crossed my mind I got a text from The Cat's Mother to say that Frankie Boyle was indeed following me into the coffee shop. I thought I might say hello, but unusually my courage deserted me. I somehow felt I was beginning to skip into a parallel universe. He bought his juice and left as I sat wondering what was going on.

The rumour at the hairdressers is that this is a Frankie Boyle programme and the citizens of Essex are in for a cruel and vicious mauling. I wait to see and be amused.