Heroes
many years ago, probably around 1997, aged 19 my friends and I would frequent Heroes sports bar in Milton Keynes. Those of you who know the area, it is near to the railway station and is now a strip joint called Smiles, I think. Anyway, Monday nights were 80s Night... An amazing 88p for a pint of lager, dirt cheap even by 1997 standards. The night would start early, and we would bop around doing silly shoulder-jacking dance moves to the usual 80s cheese-pop, buying ostentatiously large rounds (well drinks were 88p ffs!) and generally acting more and more like a bunch of utter cunts as time went by and we got more and more drunk. Anyway ffwd to 2am, and I am safe at home. I think I may have gone to bed. Then wake up at 3am, stroll into mummy's bedroom still fully-clothed and turn the light on, demanding "where's the toilet?" apparently in an aggressive manner as if I'm accusing her of having moved the entire bathroom in the family home where I have lived for ten years. "Next door", my bleary eyed and confused mother says. I turn her bedroom light off and presumably go to the toilet. Ffwd to 4 am, still clothed, stride into mother's room again, turning the light on, "where's the toilet?". This time mummy looks cross and tells me to fuck off. Like a good little obedient son, I turn her light off and presumably use the toilet. Then to bed. Ffwd to 7.30 am. I am woken by mother's angry voice from downstairs. It seems my presence is required immediately. I drag my spectacularly hungover carcass down to the kitchen where it appears that someone has been sick in the kitchen sink all over the dirty dishes that had been left in there overnight. Mother was cross and blamed it on me, the only other person in the house. Yeah, prove it.

The moral of the story? Don't leave your washing-up til the next day.
(Freak Paw, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 19:12, 1 reply)

Now Phoenix Gentleman's Club.
Or so I am told...
(Galahad is out of his gourd on yellow bentines, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 17:05, closed)