Twigs and banners

Last Friday I was whisked around London on a non-stoppered tour of the finest drinking holes and other places, Club Derrig being closed for the removal of cancer-stuff.

I commenced the evening joining my local would-be MP and her newly-appointed protegee in that highly-respected booze shop "Marbles". It was a delightful hour ruined only by the presence of Cap'n Richards, Evans the Money, and the Genius Amanuensis Williams. Still, there were paid-for drinks to be supped. One or two stiffners in there, but mainly they could see I was in hot-politico chat mode and would have no time for the laydeez.

From there a short stagger to the Bar-Bellow where the party I was supposed to meet phoned on my mobility phone to advise they had repaired in disgust to the Dolphinarium. Apparently the Bar Bellow staff are not up to the high standards demanded by Beattie and his upper-crusty toff crowd. Hell's bells - what is the world coming to? We had already paid for a jug of Screaming Top-Knot Fancy and couldn't leave it undrunk. Are we not men? Give that flagon here, you knave!

So, to the Dolphinarium, and don't spare the horse-leather! Crowded with drunks and layabouts and men in silky Calvins. Much like Derrig Towers on a Sunday afternoon with Beattie.

Boozy. More boozy. Boozy boozy boozy!

And a little drinky-winky. Drinky, drinky.

Toilet.

Drinky. Boozy. Drinky. Boozy. Drinky. Boozy. Drinky.

Boozy boozy boozy.

GERONIMO! GET OUT OF MY WAY!

All of sudden I'm wheeled, brain akimbo, into the Roondhoose for a performance by those plucky North Sea Gas boys. And its chaos.

FLAGS! TWIGS! PLUS-FOURS!

You! You beardy twit in the flat cap! I can't see a bloody thing. Move aside. I said MOVE ASIDE!

And it all went dark.

All in all a pretty depressing night, summed up by me through the medium of monochromatic gurning.