This weekend we all journeyed through torrential rain to visit Alistair in Manchester. His house (pictured right) was full to the brim with money and pheasants and fox-hunting trophies. Rah!
By early evening, a whole host of engineers had arrived - not to mention Robzilla - and we ate BBQ, sang songs and drank everything.
We eventually found our way into central Manchester where me and Sean were denied entry to a club because we were wearing trainers. We hatched a cunning plan and returned five minutes later wearing black socks over our trainers. I had even put my t-shirt over the top of my shirt.
Unfortunately, the bouncer saw through my cunning disguise... so I offered him £70. That didn't work either. Although we did make him laugh a lot.
Plan B: myself, Sean and Mark left the group and got battered in a different club. And I literally can't tell you anything else about the following six hours.
Suffice it to say, we rocked up at Alistair's house at 4.30am after spending £32 on a taxi. And there was an empty bottle of wine by my bed.
Jolly good lash was had by all. Bosh!