There's sick in my hair

I woke up in someones guest bedroom, with a head which felt as though Thor was forging hammers in it, a mouth that felt as though a tramp had broken into the house during the night and shat in and vague recollection of violently arguing about the validity of executing soldiers in the First World War. IT MUST BE FESTIVUS!!

It all began on Tuesday when Tim, Cath and I had a Festivus meal at their place. All the elements were there, the pole, the feats of strength and the airing of grievances. Mainly about leaving the toilet seat up. If only this had been mentioned three months ago, it would have been fixed instantly. But oh no, Timmy likes to wind himself up and take the silent moral stance. We even had crackers, stuffed with middle class cracker trinkets. A hair bobble, a tiny roll of sellotape for pixies and a set of six dominoes. Seriously? Six dominoes? What fucking use is that?

Should you ever need to tie your hair back, play a very short game of dominoes or wrap and tiny parcel...

Anyhoo, after I wrastled Timmy to the floor and won with three submissions to one I went to bed with my tiny mind swimming in alcohol.

Festivus, where the fun never starts...

The next day at work was a grind, with gulag like conditions and Wincey being unrepentant and unheeding to my hungover needs. Like a lie down in a nice bed. Or a big sleep.

'FASTER!!'

'But I've got a headache!'

The evening saw me back in the bosom of the ghetto for Elmet's Festivus celebrations. During this one I mainly gossiped with Colin about the current state of British archaeology and slagged Dane off for punching above his weight. We were wowed by the barman and his David Blaine impressions. I had to take it quiet this time since I was still suffering from the previous evening and had to drive. But I still had a good time.

Fuck Christmas

Then Friday rolled around and Onsite had their annual party held in what appeared to be the kitchens of Pizza Express in York. Berny and I dropped a massive bollock and arrived after everyone else, this led to us sitting on the kid's table for the meal. We blocked it out by sinking as much wine as humanly possible. A quick repair to Thomas' bar after brought a reemergence of a two day long argument that Barry and I were having. He claimed he'd won it. I claimed he was a cunt. Kate tactically moved away and left us to it. I finally got to bed at about 4.00am only to wake up in the state described in the opening sentence of this post...

No one parties like the jerks at Onsite...

As usual this week I have had my fair amount of ridiculous text messages from Herr Docktor Clay. This latest one came in last night during a discussion about what would be better than watching the Morgana Show:

I'd rather be raped by a gorilla while sucking off another gorilla which was on fire, with lots more gorillas stood around laughing and jerking off in my face.

Not a fan then, Clay?

More shit for your dumb eyes

In other news, yesterday saw the sad death of Captain Beefheart. The word Genius is used a lot these days and generally comes no where close to describing whomever the epithet is applied to, but I think in this case we have lost what could be described as a musical genius. Why is it always the good ones? Why couldn't it be Elton John or Paul McCartney?

Fuck Your God

I hate Christ's Mass. Sorry, I'll redefine that. I hate the run up to Christ's Mass. You know, that kick off heralded by the closure of Halloween (AKA another fucking reason to spend your hard earned money on shit). As soon as the fucking plastic pumpkins are taken off the shelves they are filled again with plastic Santas and reindeer and MASSIVE FUCKING LIGHTS to bedeck your council hovels with. Michael Myers disappears back into the shadows only to have us confronted by bearded Pedos in red jump suits grasping at your kids. Again, don't get me wrong, I love winter, I love snow, I love the dark nights (I'm not right keen on getting up in the dark, travelling to and going home from work in the dark, oh and the shitty rain we always get at this time of year...), I love the cold as it descends like a black cloud over humanity. I even love the starkness of the trees as the leaves have fallen. Winter is probably my favourite time of year, but it's fucking spoiled by the run up to Christ's Mass.

OH, JUST FUCK OFF!!

I'm not keen on traipsing out that hackneyed old cliche that it's getting earlier and earlier each year, but it does seem like that sometimes. I was out shopping for some new shoes last weekend (it's early November). I'd fallen over in the fucking mud on site and covered my trainers in slop, so I needed a new pair and had to venture out the cold stark Orwellian nightmare that is Parkgate Retail world. After being shunted from a dual carriageway into single car lanes along with EIGHT THOUSAND OTHER CARS which only served to exacerbate my two minutes hate I finally found a parking spot after a further four hours of driving around the car park at two miles an hour. After parking up I hurried forthwith to the shoe shop. An aside about this place. I called into Sports Direct, the worst fucking shopping experience a man can have. After squeezing myself through the impossibly tight aisles, rammed with shitty sports equipment and filled with stinking chavs, I fumbled my way to the racks and racks of sports shoes. I knew what I was after; some skater's shoes. No, I don't skate, but I like the shoes as they are big and comfortable. I chose the pair I wanted and looked around for an assistant to help me get them from the back room. There was none. I waited a little while longer, trying to catch the eye of the feckless teenagers milling about that I took for assistants as they were dressed in matching track suits. They all fastidiously ignored me.

He's no athlete

After a while of this carry on I decided to take matters into my own hands and marched over to the nearest track suited teenager I could see (a man can get arrested for this kind of behaviour, don't tell the Daily Mail...) and asked if she could find me a pair in my size. Her answer; 'I don't have a radio, you'll have to ask one of the others over by the shoe stand'. Why did it even matter that she didn't have a radio? I wanted a pair of shoes not to listen to the Light Programme. There was NO ONE at the shoe stand except for other wannabe customers looking desperately for help from an assistant. Someone had fired off a distress signal but was still waiting in vain for help. A couple had starved to death waiting to be assisted.

All I want is some fucking shoes! I have money! Please, won't anyone help me!?

Anyway, cutting a long story short I eventually got the shoes but not before wrestling a track suit bedecked youngster to the floor and demanding they get me some in my size. As I was saying, on the way to Sports Direct I was bombarded with signs saying 'Let's Make this the BEST Christmas ever!' It was plastered all over Matalan's windows and it got me thinking how is a cheap clothes shop going to help make the conjectural birth date of a fictitious Bronze Age necromancer any better than it was last year? What if last year the celebrations of that zombie philanthropist's birthday was held in a massive mansion stuffed full of dolly birds and champagne Jacuzzis? With £50 notes blowing in through the windows? How about if last year, I'd been given the day as World President and been allowed to kill anyone I wanted and get away with it? What if Christ's Mass dinner last year had consisted of vast bowls of curry served on Natalie Portman's naked body? How was that going to be bettered by Matalan's range of last season's cast offs? What utter shit. On the reverse, what if this Christ's Mass my entire family had been wiped out by an Ebola virus caused by an undercooked turkey. How could a sparkly party dress even begin to blot out the over riding sense of grief and loss one would feel? HOW?

OK, so your house has been been bombed back to the Stone Age, your family have been murdered and buried in a mass grave, but cheer up... IT'S CHRISTMAS!

But this is how we are supposed to think: It's CHRISTMAS! GET WITH THE FUCKING PROGRAM! ENJOY YOURSELF! IF YOU DON'T SANTA WILL RAPE YOU! We are being forced into a state of euphoria determined by faceless corporations. YOU WILL ACHIEVE HAPPINESS AND THE WAY TO DO THIS IS BUY, BUY BUY! The more you buy the happier you will be! Stand up against this overriding tide of SHIT, stop celebrating Christ's Mess, end the domination of our lives by retail outlets, burn the churches so no remembers what it was all about, God, I hate you pathetic humans.

Obviously I'll be spending fucking tons again this year.

PS, I got a new phone, it's great except for when you use predictive text and type the letters T and A the first word that comes up is U2. You have literally no idea how fucking angry that makes me.

Swordfishtrombones

I only allow myself one trip to a church a year (not to PRAY! Good God, what do you take me for?) and as it's getting close to Jesus' Birthday this happened last Friday. I wasn't visiting the church for religious reasons, it was to see a musical group, The York Waits. I was under the impression they were a Tom Waits cover band. They aren't, it's a Medieval quintet of merry troubadours, who maketh a noyse of shawms. They were performing at Wentworth Church as they did two years ago when I last saw them. It was a great night of Sackbuts, Crumhorns and Hurdy Gurdys! Although there was no jigging in the aisles we were merrily wassailed all night. Mind you, the rest of the audience were at least three decades older than me, so there wouldn't have been much jigging with all those delicate hips. With the culture out of the way we ended up in the most unfriendliest pub in Wentworth. They even rung the time bell at 10.45! On a Friday night! Christ, I thought we were living in the 21st Century now, what with 24hr drinking licenses back in place. Obviously the news never reached Wentworth...

Tom Waits, not the York Waits...

Saturday evening's entertainment was thwarted by the weather. I love snow, I think it's great. I just don't like it when it stops me from doing things. Like getting to Newcastle for a party because the A1 is completely whited out from a blizzard. I was travelling up North to see Alistair, Keith, Jon and Shirley from No Man's Land for a curry party at Alistair's place. An hour and half into the journey and the snow fell in a flurry, turning the whole road into a Grim and Frostbitten Kingdom. Sadly I decided to turn around in case it got too tricky. I spent the rest of the night drowning my sorrows in the beer I'd bought for the party, a Chinese take away and Wife Swap (the program, not the actual act...).

The A1: approximately 19:00hrs 19/12/09

I made a Festivus card initially for Hrappi then I thought I'd make it available to all who answered the call for addresses on Facefuck. Only a few of you asked for a copy, so I thought I'd better make it even more widely available. Here it is for you to cut out and keep although you won't get a personalised message from me hoping you will choke on your Christ's Mess Pudding:


And just for Festivus, here is a rather long, but pretty amusing Singapore blog, don't worry it's getting closer to the point where I got fired so you won't have to read too many more of these...

Friday, June 08, 2007

Wednesday morning consisted of me laying out some grids until I got fed up with it, well, until we all got fed up with it and we left site at lunchtime. We did have a legitimate reason, Mr Wong and Sing were still Jungle bashing, so we couldn't get near the top part of the site anyway. Also the computer started playing up after I dropped it in one of the hangers... We had to pick it up from the repair shop so we could carry on with the scanning work anyway, so at least our break was legitimate. Ang is getting so used to it, he doesn't argue anymore, he just jumps in his cab, asks us if we are going to Yishun for a lift and drives the JCB to it's parking place. On the way back B&T had an argument, I sat in the back with my hands on my ears saying 'I hate it when mummy and daddy argue!' this meant that T**** didn't come with B*** and I to get the computer. The feculent assistant explained to us that the computer was beyond repair and nothing could be done, the warranty being practically useless as it only covered software. We took it back as it had all the data on it anyway and B*** had an idea as to how to get the stuff off it. We had a lunch of Curry and great Naan Breads and went our separate ways, B*** went back to Yishun to hit the computer with a hammer until it worked. I wanted to go to Chinatown, as I haven't been yet and wanted to make the most of my afternoon off. I went via Little India, just for fun, you realise. I was immediately asked if I wanted to buy a suit off some random punter in the street. 'I don't wear suits.' I told him 'What about a nice shirt?' he countered. 'I don't wear shirts either.' It took a while like this to extricate myself from the conversation. Trouble is, I arrived at Chinatown and I was walking down the main strip a certain Mr Michael Wong dragged me into HIS Manchester Tailor shop. He started by buttering me up 'You look fresh, have you just got up?' 'I've been up since seven.' I told him. It was about 2.30pm. Then he proceeded to go through the exact same conversation as the guy in Little India:

Michael 'You want a suit, I got good suits. All Italian cloth'

Alex: 'I don't wear suits, Michael.'

Michael 'These are very good quality, Italian'

Alex 'Yeah, they really are nice, but I don't wear suits.'

Michael 'OK how about a nice Italian shirt?'

Alex 'Again, I'm afraid I don't wear them.'

Micheal 'Good Italian cloth, very good quality.'

Alex 'There obviously appears to be some breakdown in communication here, Michael. It's not as though I am discussing the finer points of Sartre's Existentialism with Ang. All I'm telling you is I have no need for suit or shirt, no matter how nice or fucking Italian they are.'

I took my leave and went into the Chinatown Heritage centre, with a promise to Michael that I'd be back in two weeks with some money and a change in my attitude towards suits and shirts. The Chinatown Heritage Centre was excellent, as with most museums here. It had a great mock
up of a typical Chinatown building with all the little separate rooms. It also dwelt on the fact that the biggest building in Chinatown (the Theatre, I forget the name. Google it.) was
the best place for suicides until the modern high rise housing developments took it's crown as suicide choice number one.

At the end of Temple Street in Chinatown, is, unsurprisingly a temple. In fact there is quite a few. I went into the Sri Mariamman Hindu temple, a beautiful example of Hindu architecture, bedecked with fabulous beasts and heroes and heroines of Hindu mythology, it is the oldest of Singapore's Hindu Temples and probably the finest. All these wonderful beasts peer down on you as you enter through the main gate, a massive double doored wooden affair. Inside are further sculptures all over the roof of the main temple building. Dragons, Tigers, cows, men and women all compete for the space. I took my shoes off and went inside for a closer look. I saw that you had to pay $3 for the privilege of taking photographs. As the temple was free to enter I didn't mind this little fee and paid my three bucks. I took one picture and my camera's batteries promptly died.

That was one expensive fucking picture. I hope their fucking temple burns down.

I went to see Zodiac on Wednesday evening, a great movie that I will go and see again as it is quite complex and The Coughers Union was sitting directly behind me and hacking his sphincter up during the entire performance. Thursday brought about a full day of actual work, after which
B*** and I went swimming for a couple of hours. Today, Friday was declared a day off. I don't know what the idea behind that was. I prefer a Saturday or Sunday, so I can go out on Friday night. But, I'm not the boss, am I? I spent Thursday evening discussing the finer points of
European women with Ariff, I told him that they were all fat, ugly, violent, broken bottle wielding pigs, which is true for about 70% of them.

I got up this morning and set off to Bukit Timah Nature Reserve. It was fantastic, I saw a couple of Lizards, and a family of monkeys. In fact I walked around a corner and they were all sitting on the path, creeping slowly forwards I got a good few pictures of them, one of them was sniffing another ones arse, so I recorded that for prosperity, or should that be posterity? Then a load of schoolkids came up the path and frightened them away. I also went over to Bukit Batok Nature Reserve, where I looked at the historical site of the Japanese Shinto Shrine which was built buy our POWs. It isn't there any more and the original step appear to have been covered by modern concrete ones, but there is a monument. I finished my battlefield tour at the Memories At The Old Ford Factory, where the British Commander Percival signed the surrender. Again, a fantastic museum. I have yet to come across a bad one.

It's conversation with Ang time again:

I was listening to the Spice Girls on the radio:

Alex 'Ang, do you like the Spice Girls?'

Ang 'Spy Girls?'

Alex 'Spice Girls (starts singing Wannabe).'

Ang 'I only know one spy; James Bond.'

I thought I'd better leave it before we got too confused, then he came over and asked:

Ang 'Where's Bigfoot?'

Alex 'What? The Rockies I think.'

Ang 'No, big foot, your friend.'

Alex (twigging) 'Ah, Dave? He's gone home, may come back later.'

Ang 'I call him big foot, he has size twelve feet.' He then proceeded to show me his feet.

Alex 'I'm only size eight.'

Ang 'Me too.'

Alex 'Well Ang, you know what they say: "Small feet, big cocks"'

Ang 'I see show about Bigfoot.'

He then went on is some detail and gesticulation to describe the film Bigfoot and the Hendersons.

Alex 'Yeah, I've seen bits of, it's called Bigfoot ad the Hendersons.'

Ang 'No, called something else I think.'

And here we go round the mulberry bush...

Burn Baby, Burn!

I called the dole office on Monday and had a lengthy phone interview to see if I was owed any money, since I've been paying my taxes for years (OK, mainly in other countries, but taxes is taxes...) and it's time to suck on the foul teat of the corrupt state. I'm gonna milk that cash cow for all it's got, well £65 a week anyway. I had a lengthy interview in which they asked me a million questions about if I had dependents, other sources of income, massive savings or property here or abroad. It was a forty five minute long conversation on my part of 'no, no, no, no, no, no, no' I should have just rung up and said 'no' at the start and cut out the middle man. I secured myself an appointment at the Rotherham Job Centre and called down the next day. I don't know if you've ever been in a Job Centre, but they are the most depressing places on Earth. It's like a long a very bad episode of the Jeremy Kyle Show. The place is full of tracksuits, gold ear rings and chip bellies. The fraudulent and slovenly squirm about like limbless beasts tricking their way into free money and Crisis Loans. It is pretty close to what Dante imagined as his 5th and 8th circles of Hell.

Rotherham Job Centre: Find Your Way Back To Work...

Working there must be worse than working at an abattoir; after a short time in the 'Front line' (this is an actual term used by the Job Centre personnel for the position of signing people on, i.e. the closest contact with the great unwashed) the workers develop a Thousand Yard Stare. Lifeless eyes stare at you as you scrawl your name across the next available line on your signing card. The dead black eyes of a shark peer into your soul as they ask if your circumstances have changed at all since you last signed. It may be an urban myth, but I'm pretty sure you are not allowed to sit on a jury after you've worked in the Job Centre due to Dehumanisation. After wrestling with the interrogation of your circumstances and once you've signed your name, you're out, free again to drink Super Strength lager in the park with the other life losers as you await your next giro cheque. This is how I spent this afternoon.

A four pack? It must be Giro Day!

Last night however was another night of Pagan Idolatry, this time at the Dodworth Fire Festival. Kate had asked me along to her local Heathen celebration of Vinterblot. Like many communities cut off from the modern world, such as Amazonian Rain Forest Tribes and Papua New Guinean Mountain Dwellers, Dodworth folk have developed their own language, society and rituals to prop it all up. Few outsiders have ever dared attend the Fire Festival and I felt like an 19th Century explorer watching tribal activity from the safety of the tree line. First there was the hypnotic rhythm's of the Samba Band, they worked themselves up into a frenzy of lust which culminated in an animal sacrifice in their Godless religion. The women folk of the tribe stepped up and chanting a strange language known to Anthropologists as 'Barnsley', they preceded to dance a mating dance for the men folk of the village. With this over the male elders of the area gathered and danced the sacred 'Morris' each intending to attract the attention of the most fertile of the women folk.

The costumes represent a different bird, symbolising the flying of the soul to heaven and the virility of the wearer

Then the fire procession began, each of us, clutching the sacred fire stick walked through the village to arrive at the Wickerman where the village Virgins had been placed. Once the massive wooden edifice was ablaze the entire village packed into the local watering hole and watched a Mummers Play, where St George was attacked by a dirty Turk. It was touch and go whether George would make it through the battle but a few drops of magic potion from the local Witch Doctor brought him round to finish the fight and be victorious. The crowd went wild and the local youths went on a drunken rampage through Dodworth, burning and raping all in site. A good night was had by all.

Dodworth was left a smoking ruin

I was thinking about films plots the other day and came up with the idea of a Time Travelling Dog. I was going to call it Bark To The Future, if you can think of a better name let me know. But as I thought about it, it was a rubbish idea. How would anyone from the past or future know the dog was a time traveller? It was just a fucking dog. It wouldn't be able to tell anyone where it was from:

London 1666, ext: there is a blue flash and the Dog appears on a grotty side street. It walks out onto the main road and straight into two 17th Century Dandies:

Dog: Woof woof woof (Subtitles: Hey, you two, I've come from the future to tell you that London is going to burn down!)

Dandy 1: I say Gideon, looksee at yonder Dog, come a-parambulating from yonder lane.

Dandy 2: Aye Samuel, the Good Lord Bless'th me with sight to gaze upon yonder canine. We must use such opportunity to pander the beast with love

They both precede stroke and tickle the dog

Dog: Woof woof woof (Subtitles: Get off me, stop it, seriously, someone is gonna start a fire in a bakery, do what you can to avert this disaster! The city is going to burn down)

Dandy 1: Gideon see how he responds to our touching with his voice lifted to heaven!

Dandy 2: Thou ist a fine pooch and there is no denying it! Would thou beg'st for a treat?

Dog: Woof woof woof (subtitles: Listen to me, Please! Ah fuck it, I give up!)

What day is it? The date!
12th... May... Thursday...
WHAT YEAR?

And to finally wrap things up for this post, here is another mildly amusing Singapore Blog entry...

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

We got onto site yesterday and Ang helped us to dig the rest of the anomalies on the areas we had scanned on area three. We found bugger all in the way of ordnance. I then began to lay out the rest of the grids over area three, in the place Messrs Sing and Wong were busy smashing trees left, right and center. I was silently cursing Mr Sing for driving his bulldozer over my survey flags. Then the heavens opened, we ran for cover at the Thorhirah restaurant, where I pulled! It's a pity he was the wrong gender. The waiter (whom B*** and T**** are certain is a gayer, I'm not sure he's a
bummer, a bit effeminate, but no shirt lifter.), asked us if we go out dancing, he told me he knows this Indian Nightclub (full off Indian girls, he assured me...) and wants to take us there on Friday. I immediately thought no, then I thought about it and even if I end up in a Gay Indian Nightclub, it
would be a right laugh. I'm not gay, but then neither am I homophobic. So if he asks again, I will hang out with the guys from Thorhirah.

We sacked work off due to the rain and dropped Ang off at Yishun. Most conversations with Ang go like this:

Me: Ang, so you like Bruce Lee? (adopting Bruce Lee Stance)

Ang: Tai Kwon Do?

Me: No, Kung Fu, Karate?

Ang: Karate, Japanese, no good. I don't like.

Me: You hate the Japs?

Ang: Huh?

Me: The Jap Bastards? They invaded Singapore.

Ang: I don't understand your talking.

Etc.

Ang was telling me today how to speak Chinese, apparently it's something to do with cleaning your teeth with dental floss and snorting. I had originally asked him if he knew some girls in a photograph in a magazine. Our conversational paths tread through some pretty thick jungle, occasionally crossing over but generally ending up at two completely different locations. His most common phrase when in conversation with me is 'I don't understand your talking'. Mine is 'What the Hell does that mean Ang?' If you don't know, it's a paraphrasing of Big Trouble In Little China in order to amuse myself. Little things.

We finished early today as well, we are on the heals of the machines. The original plan was to go swimming but I ended up at the Asian Civilisation Museum instead. The Singaporean museums leave the British ones in the dark, they are a pleasure to go to, instead of a chore. There was a
really good exhibition on Beauty in Asia, it had a good little section on tattoos.

Vetrarnótt

OK, it's the day before we hang dead horses in the trees in celebration of the sun coming back full circle and providing us with the bounties of Earth again. Hail Wotan! I thought I'd do a short update on what I've been up to since getting back. I'll try to keep these short as Danny was complaining last night about how long winded they are. 'They're for me, it's an online diary.' I said 'Don't read it if you don't like it.' That told him.

I was out on Saturday night for Dave's 'Work do'. Which consisted of myself, Linzi and Dave getting into an awful state in Rotherham, deciding it would be a good idea to go to Sheffield and ending up in Club Shush at 4.30 falling asleep in the Chill Out room. So most of Sunday was wiped out until I called in on Mark in the evening for a game of draughts and then some more beer in the pub. Festivus is being very appeased this year!

I called in at Meadowhell on Monday morning to pick up a last present, I thought it should be relatively quiet, being that people are probably still at work. Boy was I wrong, it was like a nuclear war had been declared and everyone was panic buying tins of beans and other non-degradable foodstuffs. The place was rammed and it was quite frustrating seeing the lack of sense people have. I walked past a couple who were seriously eyeing up some pre-cooked roast parsnips. Now, call me dumb, but I thought that roasting parsnips was probably one of the easiest thing you could ever do. Peel them, put some stuff on them (olive oil and herbs or anything you have to hand...), put them in the oven, take them out when they are done and eat them. But then I guess some people have the ability to burn water, so need all the help they can get when it comes to doing the simplest jobs on the planet. God help them if there IS a nuclear war. Picture it; a time when shambolic groups of people are trading with different coloured pebbles and fighting over water. There would be another group of people slowly starving to death trying to find food that is pre-prepared in tinfoil trays with instructions to pre-heat the oven to 200 degrees. Unable to recognise food in it's natural state, i.e. with the skin on and not in a tray, they would be a dying breed. I weep for these times.

I called in to see Lauren at work, she showed me her body. Sorry, I mean bodies. Hundreds of them, in boxes. Rooms stacked full of skeletons. Some were rather interesting, especially the Anchoress. Then we both went and had lunch and then met Clare, which made for three hours of circular arguments. I still miss her though. I also bumped into Colin and managed to wrestle the last remaining Osprey books that he owes me out of his hands.

In the evening I called up to Dave's gaff and we celebrated Festivus yet again, this time whilst watching 'Get Thrashed' the documentary on Thrash Metal from the eighties. Pretty cool stuff. I was hoping Nathan would call over but he was obviously hopped up on copious amounts of cheap Dextromethorphan or something similar he'd bought in India.

Tuesday passed without much interest, I was listening to music and trying to find my Curb Your Enthusiasm DVDs, to no avail. I called over the Danny's, picked him and we called up to the Hind to meet up with Aimee and Juliette, whom I'd not seen for twelve years (she said thirteen, what's a year between friends?) (and that's Juliette, I'd not seen for 12/13 years, not Aimee, who I saw about six months ago.). The quiz was on and we did spectacularly bad. I did the first four answers on my own while they were all out having a fag and I scored 75% correct. It was only when I was joined by the other numbskulls that the brain drain began. Also Aimee and Juliette were both in trouble from their other halves for going out and having fun. Sometimes it pays to be single. all four of us piled up to Dave's for after hours drinks, even with Danny whining 'I have to be up at four'. I think he was a little taken aback at how drunk we were, but he was the kindly host as ever. Festivus was once again truly served!