D'yer Mak'er

 After a week spent in a cage in the back of Logan Josh's garage I managed to escape his evil clutches and made my way back to Rotherham. Whereupon I was immediately ordered to get ready as we would be 'leaving in five minutes'. I was not in the best of moods to take this news on board as I was wet from working in the rain all afternoon. Wincey is of the opinion that there are several types of rain. One of which is 'the rain that doesn't get you wet'. Scratch that, he thinks that all types of rain is the 'rain that doesn't get you wet'. It would have to be weather akin to the storm that moves across Saturn's surface for him to allow us to go into the cabin to do 'Paperwork'. Speaking of the cabin, a fucking rat has taken residence in it. It was probably initially attracted by Berny's musk and has elected to stay due to all the cheese that falls of him. This is quite a concern, (the rat, not cheese falling off Berny, we're all used to that now) not only from a Health and Safety point of view but also from a infectious disease point of view. Now we are all at risk from Weil's Disease (which Barry doesn't believe exists, but that's another story) what with the rat(s) running all over the biscuits and pissing on them. I voiced my concerns about the state of cleanliness in the cabin on Wednesday and was roundly dismissed out of hand by Wincey. Barry then brought up the bone of contention again on Thursday, offering to spend an hour cleaning the cabin (not such a Samaritan act as you may initially think, he was just getting out of working in the shit pit with Berny) this request was also passed over until Friday when Wincey relented and said he would let us clean the cabin when it pissed it down later in the day (what a treat!!), it did but he didn't. The cabin stayed filthy, the rat remained and we worked through the rain.

'Time to go back out'

I had also just sat for two hours in the car on what should have been an hour long drive from York. As ever when it rains everybody on the road seems to loose their driving abilities and crawls along road at 13mph. On the Motorway. During rush hour. So I sat and listened to two Dead Kennedys albums in the time that it would normally take to drive the ten  minutes from Asda roundabout. So, no, gentle reader, I was not in the 'correct' state of mind upon arriving and being ushered into the awaiting carriage. The reason for the 'leaving in five minutes'? It was my cousin Sara and her husband Shaun's wedding anniversary.They had been married a year previously in Jamaica and wanted to recreate the magic of the moment by going to Huddersfield.

Bless

The venue was a Jamaican restaurant in Huddersfield and all the usual suspects were there. Sara and Shaun (obviously), Mr and Mrs Cat, Vicky, Neil and Lou, Auntie Chris, mother, Elaine, Janette, and a few others whom I'd not met before. Before we'd even hit the road there was copious amounts of drinking, the minibus stopped at Co-Op to pick up more drink and Scotch Eggs whilst Rotherham's finest champagne was being handed out like it was going out of fashion. Needless to say there was plenty of bellowing as the bus winded its way to the heart of Huddersfield. As though we hadn't had enough drink already the party was quickly herded into what must be the worst bar I've ever been in and I've been out drinking in Llanenlli. It would appear that an evening's drink in Huddersfield is not complete without a go on the boxing machine. Young men each take turns to proudly step up to the mark and smack a punch bag as hard as they can to the exultation or derision of their peers. These new found skills are used upon the visages of unsuspecting members of the public outside a nightclub later in the evening.

I coulda been a contender, I coulda been somebody...

Drinks were drunk, the restaurant was reached and my extended family began the ritual of making a show of themselves. Typical large group meal really, everyone orders something, instantly forgets what it is they've ordered and the ones with the fish allergies end up with the prawns, the vegetarians end up with steak and the veggie-phobes get a plate of peas. We scoffed until appetites were sated, we drank til we were silly and we shouted until the rest of the customers left the restaurant. The bill was duly brought and debated over harder than the Treaty of Versailles. A personal note here. This is something I fucking hate. Whenever I go out for a meal with a large group the bill is always broken down to its component parts and dissected into individual pennies 'I had the fish starter and a Jerky Chicken main along with two glasses of wine and three bottle of beer, so I owe exactly £23.41. Here's the exact change.' There is the argument that if you split the bill equally someone may end up paying more for someone else to drink some more wine or whatever, but so fucking what? It's usually down to pennies, unless of course all you had was a starter and no drinks and everyone else had a five course banquet with the finest wines known to man. But when does that ever happen? Most people's individual bills are roundabout the same cost and who wants to be the richest person in the graveyard? Then the poor minibus driver had to drive us the hour back with repeated requests for piss stops, fag breaks and to clear up sick. Saturday was ruined by a hangover.