I'd had very little sleep, it was baking hot and I was making my way to Hyde Park for the Bon Jovi concert that Simon S, Michelle C, Nick L, Nick M and I had been looking forward to since November.
I joined up with Simon and Michelle about 2pm. They had done well and got very near the front of the queue, we could see the impressive stage ahead of us and the excitement in the lines of people was there for all to see. There we stood, slowly being grilled by the 28 degree heat but looking forward to what lay ahead. "Alright Ginge?" I said to Nick L as I checked his progress via my mobile phone, at which point a red-headed freckle-infested woman turned round and glared at me.
We could see the big screens in the distance. They were advertising a 'text and have your message displayed on the big screen' feature. So to relieve the boredom of cooking in the sun, we texted, and five minutes later, thousands of people were reading our 'LET US IN' message from outside the gates, much to our delight and cries of "OH OH OH, LOOK, THERE IT IS", alongside frenzied jumping up and down, whooping and general hysteria.
Nick L joined us a bit later and eventually the time came for us to go inside. It was mayhem - people were running everywhere, desperate to get as close as possible to the stage, we settled for a brisk walk and a position about 100 metres from the front. I was a little disappointed because I found myself squashed against a repulsive bearded fat Spanish thing that quickly earnt the name Enfanta. It would have been bearable had the heat not made her start to sweat.....
A band called 'Live' came on and played a few tunes to get everyone going, but they were nothing compared to the sheer brilliance of one of the best bands in history.
All 92,000 people went absolutely wild when Bon Jovi appeared. The man is cool personified - forget Elvis, forget Will Smith, forget the Fonz, this guy is the coolest man to have lived. Put him alongside the God-like Richie Sambora, wearing his 'F*CK ME' jeans and amazing everyone with his guitar talent, as well as Tico Torres (the one person in the world who actually makes the tuft of hair between bottom lip and chin look good) on the drums and you have one ultra cool band.
They played all their best hits - Livin' On A Prayer, Lay Your Hands On Me, Bad Medicine, I'll Be There For You, Keep The Faith, These Days, You Give Love A Bad Name, One Wild Night, Bounce, as well as Shout, Rockin' All Over The World, Lola and Twist And Shout, but they saved the best for last - it all went dark except for one spotlight on Jon and Richie, silence. The hairs on my arms had been standing on end for the entire evening, particularly when Richie played his solos, but this was an even better emotion. Then Jon started singing Never Say Goodbye - my personal favourite - as the very last tune of the evening and I must admit to having a large lump in my throat, it was absolutely, totally and utterly one hundred percent superb.
"Do you fancy going into town tonight?" Alex asked when he called me last night. "I wouldn't usually go out on a school night, but why not?" I replied.
An hour later, Alex, Tony, Julia and I were in Watford town centre drinking our cut price bottles of warm Stella and feeling very over age. "What's wrong with you Julia?" Tony asked as she struggled to drink her wine. "I can't drink it too quickly" she replied, Tony frowned, "well come on for God's sake, you're drinking like a pigeon".
Soon after, we were in Bodega's drinking the 80% strong Polish Firewater and slowly getting the feeling that the evening was going to rapidly progress down that all too familiar road to debauchery.
Much banter and beer later and we were in Destinys. Here the alcohol began to settle in and the dancefloor beckoned, much to the confusion of the teeny-bopper clubbers there who had never seen the shopping trolley, wash the dishes or reverse the car dances before. We danced for what seemed like hours, I don't really remember it and I certainly don't remember getting home.
What I do remember, however, is waking up fully clothed this morning, peeling a slice of bread off the side of my face, removing the half-eaten remains of my mouthful from my chin, glancing at the clock and saying 'F*CK' very loudly when I realised I was going to be late for work.
Mark R then informed me that when I had arrived home in the early hours, I had tripped over a bag in the hall and fallen into his bedroom door, which promptly opened, I then said 'SH*T' several times and stumbled into the kitchen where I spilt the squash and attacked the bread.....
The first mistake Nick M made was to invite Simon S, Michelle C and I to his birthday party. The second was to host it at a cricket match in which he was playing.
As soon as we noisily arrived at Pyrford Cricket Club during the hush-hush silence of the visiting team's innings, Nick became edgy. Simon S, Michelle C and I positioned ourselves directly behind the bowler's arm (strictly forbidden in cricket etiquette) and sat on two rusty old rollers, immediately enquiring at what time the bar opened. We put the 'Happy Birthday' balloons in the tree behind us and held up the large double bed sheet we had brought with us, with the word SPLENDID in huge bold letters scrawled across it, at the most inappropriate times.
'WALKING IN' I yelled in Nick's direction as the bowler ran up to bowl once more. Nick was clearly not amused and gave the signal for us to stop heckling. 'CROWD THE BAT' I shouted, demonstrating my impressive tactical knowledge of the cricketing game. Then the batsman hit a boundary and we vigorously shook our sheets of paper with the number '4' on until the fielder retrieved the ball from the overgrown bush and returned it to the bowler.
'TOP OF THE STUMPS' I shouted, as one of the fielders fizzed the ball passed the wicket keeper's ears in a bodged attempt to run the batsman out. 'GOOD CATCH NICK' Simon shouted from the sidelines when Nick was tossed the ball by the slip and asked to return it to the bowler.
Then the batsman hit an almighty six, and we watched in awe as the ball sailed over our idiotic heads, bounced once and landed directly on the top of a Ford Ka. I ran to retrieve it, but only succeeded in tripping over a concealed tree stump and spilling my beer.
Pyrford had only scored 157 in their 55 overs and the visiting team were slowly (at a pathetic two an over rate) knocking them off, so to speak, and something had to be done.
Suddenly the batsman swiped wildly at a delivery outside the off-stump and took an edge. The wicket-keeper saw it late but dived spectacularly to his right and caught the ball with an outstretched right hand. 'WHAT A CATCH!' I congratulated from the boundary and, with that, stood up, took the 1920's rattle from my pocket and shook it fiercely, creating a very loud rat-a-tatting noise that got the attention of absolutely everybody there. Simon S immediately held up the 'SPLENDID' banner once more before collapsing in a hysterical heap of laughter.
Nick, in the meantime, didn't know where to look. 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY NICK' Simon offered, as another few runs were knocked off the total. The batsman hit a superb shot in Nick's direction and, to our utmost delight, Nick couldn't reach the ball in time to prevent it going for four runs. 'COME ON NICK, ALERT IN THE FIELD PLEASE' came the cry. You could sense the embarrassment in his face.
Eventually the visiting team won and the players left the field, which was great because the bar would then be permanently open and we would be able to get started properly.
In front of his entire cricketing colleagues, and some of the second eleven who had since returned from their unsuccessful match away at a neighbouring village, Simon S and I revealed Nick's present to him - a two foot donkey made out of cardboard and confetti, with a hole in its hind quarters so that it could be filled with various bits before being clubbed open by a blindfolded game-player with a view to winning its contents. Nick was clearly chuffed and choked for words.
After draping the 'SPLENDID' banner over the face of the scoreboard, taking charge of the barbecue in true Pighead and Teacosy Reheated style, some serious drinking took place. Overhearing a cricket-related conversation, I reminded someone I had never ever met that the 'pitch' is actually known as a 'wicket' and Simon made some comments about Nick's ass (his present, not his rear end...)
Anyway, eventually it was time to take the short taxi ride into Woking town centre where we queued up for a late bar/club thing. I cursed the white-trainer wearing, ear-ringed vest types that shared the queue, but was comforted by the abundance of good-looking women around.
So there we were, in one corner of the insanely hot club, when the two hungriest people on the planet appeared and tried to eat each other. Honestly I've never seen people go at it so vigourously. It was quite grotesque - the bloke clearly hadn't eaten for a fortnight, yet the girl he was eating was definitely no stranger to a fish supper. A round of applause ensued when the couple came up for air ten minutes later, but were soon back where they started from, with Simon S dancing stupidly right in front of them, trying to get their attention.
Nick's girlfriend turned up, and we'd never met her before (Nick had, luckily), so it seemed like a brilliant opportunity to make some stuff up about him. By the time we left the club, Sarah was left thinking that her boyfriend was a converted homosexual that had once been ejected from Tesco for juggling chickens.
It's 2.30pm and Mark R has just returned from his night out in London.
"I LOST MY TROUSERS" he announced as he appeared at my door, trouser-less. Apparently he and Chris were being chased by an angry pimp wielding a wooden crate, when a tramp ran off with them, as well as Chris' shoes.
God only knows what people thought when they saw him walking back from the train station or queuing in the newsagents to buy a paper.....
So there I was, sat at my desk, frowning because I was concentrating so hard on the spreadsheet I had just created. The lady at the desk next to me let out a big sigh. I looked over. Mistake.
"Here's a picture of my cat" she said, and handed over a photo of a grey tabby. I didn't really know what to say "he's lovely, although a bit fat" I replied. "Yes, I know" she said, taking the photo back and staring at it once more, "I must feed him too much. I've made him fat, he was thin before. A bit like my boyfriend, I've made him fat too. Still, makes me look thin I suppose". I didn't know where to look, so I glanced back at my screen and hoped that was the end of the conversation.
Out of the corner of my eye, I then saw her put one elbow on the table and rest her jaw on her open hand. Her eyes flicked up to the ceiling, she tutted and said "I wonder what the time is in Canada".
It was so odd that I was in stitches for ages.
It was like a scene from Four Weddings. "Sh*t" I said, as the clock ticked ever quicker, the minutes flicking by with absolutely no consideration for those of us still struggling to get dressed and leave the house in enough time to travel the 50 miles to the church for the cousin's wedding.
"Sh*t".
"Sh*t".
'SLAM' went the door as I bounded down the concrete stairs, tie flapping wildly in my wake and rucksack slowly dropping its contents everywhere. I had a long way to go and a short time to get there, but if the traffic was kind, I'd make it with a few minutes to spare.
"Sh*t". The M25 was playing up again. There were queues of cars at a standstill, no-one was going anywhere. I naturally assumed that Heathrow was the cause and banked on a pick-up of speed once I'd past it. Wrong. "Sh*t".
"GET OUT THE BL**DY WAY" I yelled at ear-shattering volume, "YAAAAAARRRGGGH". My frustrations were getting the better of me and I began to take it out on my fellow motorists. The time ticked on, and it was clear that I would struggle to make the church on time. "Sh*t", I said, as it dawned on me that I was also late for the last wedding I went to.
Eventually I got to the church, fifteen minutes late, slammed the car door shut, forgot to lock it, and trotted for the gate. "I know I'm late" I panted to the man there, "bl**dy M25's a nightmare". "Not as late as the bride" he said. My eyes lit up, I smiled gleefully and almost hugged him.
The rest of the wedding was splendid fun - a combination of family and people I used to work with. The highlight of the evening reception was probably watching my stepfather hit his head on every single one of the thirty-odd low beams as he crossed the room to get another cucumber sandwich.
I wrote an email poem about a colleague today.....
She is lovely, Kelly Trew
face so pretty, eyes so blue.
Long blonde hair and gorgeous smile,
will she soon walk up the aisle?
Does every rose have a thorn?
Not this rose, that's for sure.
Caring, friendly, warm and true,
always finds some time for you.
Her boyfriend is a lucky man
she's rather like the New Megane
not that she's a touch of class,
more she's got a bulbous ass!
"Right, I'm only coming out for a couple and I'm definitely NOT getting p*ssed" I stated to Alex MacH who had been trying to persuade me to go out on Friday night.
Upon arrival at the bar, I was presented with a shot glass filled with a clear liquid. "Here, drink this" Alex said, as several pairs of eyes turned to stare at me, including the lovely Julia's. SO, I necked the drink and took my place at the table, a mild burning sensation in the back of my throat. "That was Polish Firewater" Alex said, grinning from ear to ear. "Oh right" I said, "and...." Alex smirked once more. "It's 100% alcohol". "Sh*t" I said and progressed to while away the latter part of the evening dancing with a 30 year old lap dancer from Slough. Marvellous.
Then Saturday came, and I woke up fully clothed on my bed (both shoes still on - sure sign of an excellent night). After an afternoon of guitar playing and general recovery, I motored down to Cranleigh for a party at Simon H's house. After several hours of abusing Simon and his entire family, Shaun H attempting to tip my curry down my clean shirt, and finding out that the good looking girls there were only 15, I wandered home at 2.45am.
It was a mild night, but slightly misty and deadly quiet. Not a soul stirred, I could hear the wind whistling through the trees, rustling the summer leaves and birds nestled in the gorse. I ambled through the short-cut route past the church, my mind flitting to summer holidays, relaxing and sipping cocktails in the warm tropical sun. 'DONNNGGGG' went the church bells, at an odd 2.52am, replacing all peaceful thoughts with images of being bludgeoned to death by the grim reaper and his midnight cronies. I hastened my walk, consistently checking behind me for mad axemen and poltergeists, praying that I'd make it to the main road and a car would light the road with its beams.
When Sunday arrived and I finally regained my sanity, I went back round to Simon H's for some cold curry - only to find out that he'd thrown up earlier that morning and had started back on the beer. He is a bad person.
Open Mic night in Watford beckoned in the evening, so having had a few beers and topped up the excessive alcohol levels in my blood from the previous two nights, I introduced myself to the new Open Mic night host in the bar, and promptly got up to sing a few songs. The repertoire consisted of: The Drag (BBC Snooker Tune), mixed into 3am (Matchbox 20), followed by Postman Pat, which I fused into Good Riddance (Green Day), then Flash (Queen - including all movie lyrics), the Bare Necessities and then bringing the house down with Fraggle Rock. Utterly splendid, and the good looking girl on the next door table was very complimentary.
It is for that reason that I intend to go back this Sunday.....
Observation: The new Smarties bar is like a Milky Bar with chicken pox.
I've updated my friendsreunited profile.....
I received an email from a work colleague this morning -
'Morning babe, sounds stupid but I need some help. I'm having a cussing match with Darren about mums. You got any???'
to which the reply was clearly an unavoidable -
'Yes, one natural and one step'.
On Friday night, Mark R and I visited the delightful Luton to celebrate Amy B's defection to the north. We had been promised chicken wrapped in bacon, combined with the mouth-watering prospect of a tasty mushroom sauce. So, we sat in the garden and drank beer whilst Amy slaved over the hot stove and we waited for the other guests.
After dishing dirt on each other to Amy's good looking housemate, telling numerous random stories, and Mark amazing us all with some totally obscure facts about nothing in particular, with a brief pause for me to kick the football over the fence, we tottered inside for our nosh.
And very nice it was too, the only flaw being that Amy had forgotten to make the mushroom sauce. Not to worry, we washed it down with red and white wines, followed by a few tumblers of port. "Oooooh" I said as I examined the port bottle, "it's a San Burrie". It took a full half hour before the other guests realised that the port had been bottled by Sainsbury ("San Burrie") and that I was just trying to act posh.
Saturday morning produced perhaps the most amusing incident of the entire weekend. Having woken at some ungodly hour still fully clothed and nowhere near a bed, I switched the NTL box on and started watching televison. Mark R soon appeared, also still fully clothed, but there was simply nothing to watch, except SMTV where the presenters were wandering around the set looking for the 'carrot clue' with a view to opening the 'carrot cupboard', thus revealing the mysterious item inside. 'Brrrrriinnng' went the doorbell, so up we got and headed for the door where we were greeted by a smiling man wearing shorts. "Mr Hart?" I was confused, it was too early for such a question, and besides which I was still wondering what was in the 'carrot cupboard'. "Ummm, no, but he is here somewhere" I replied and with that, the man announced that he was here to disconnect the NTL and take away the box. I showed him through, just as the presenters located the carrot clue and were making for the carrot cupboard. 'Click, crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr' went the television, as the man pulled out all the wires. "Ah" I said, extremely disappointed at such an abrupt loss of viewing, "now we'll NEVER know what's in the carrot cupboard".
Saturday night was a different affair. Simon S, Michelle C, Mel N and Elli C all came up to Watford to join Mark R, Alex M and I for a night of drunken tomfoolery. After several beers back at the ranch, we sampled Chicago's where Mark R was most impressed by the high average age of the women. We then moved on to Jongleurs where we spent the majority of the evening drinking a dubious red cocktail and inventing new silly dances, such as the Motor Neurone - which pretty much entailed the imitation of controlling a wheelchair with a joystick. Not nice, I know, but blame Simon S.
We then kebabed up and headed home where we passed out in front of Jackass for the umpteenth time.
And then this morning I decided to finish off my kebab (that I'd very efficiently put in the fridge), which gave me indigestion for the entire day.