About last night

I suppose I should feel flattered to be amongst those selected by Tallulah to come and listen to her witter on about it being her birthday month.

It was, to be fair, an OK evening, marred only by Beattie's usual testosteronically supercharged demonstrations of his prowess with a waitress.

Anyway, it probably has to be said that the highlight of the night of tap-arse was the revelatory confessions that were elicited from each and every one of the party as to who and/or whom they would do that might come as a surprise to those at the table.

It is therefore with no little apprehension that I record those revelations - henceforth known as the El Parador Jaw-Droppers - for posterity over the next few weeks in this very blog.

That time of year again

Ha! I'm not falling for that one again.

I participated last year and look where it got me - knackered for the whole of the next week.

Still, I suppose it is only once a year, and it's back to gentleman's hours on Monday.

Dear Cheryl...

I am getting in touch only to offer my deepest and warmest sympathies for all that malarkey and you giving Ashtray the second chance and all and more, wasn't it?

I know how much you must be a-hurting all over about dumping that cheatingest love-rat and all that damn misery-making he's put you through with that posse of lovely laydeez. It's shocking and not at all envy-making.

Anyway, I would like you to know that I am currently a single man, more than capable of showing affection and physical stuff and that old rubbish, and would dearly love to carve another notch on the barrel of my bliss-cannon, that is if you think you're ready to plunge back into the maelstrom that is getting loved hard and briefly by a chap.

I've always liked the Geordie accent, I am a big fan of the name Cheryl - especially as a middle name - and am an admirer of boniness. I must, though, draw the line at your tats.

Get them removed and we're in business.

RSVP 25th February.

Yours,

Big Col

Dedicated Follower of....Laydeez

In an alarming turnabout of the usual happenstance, I hear that London Fashion Week has not only been switched to ultra-chic Gateshead, but that the laydeez are being encouraged to mouth off as well. Talking up a storm, they are, I hear.

It's all very well, this moderne kind of thinking, but it's us men I worry about.

Next thing you know the laydeez'll be wanting the vote, and before you can say 'any chance of a cuppa, love' we'd end up with a woman Prime Minister.

Who knows where it'll stop? Women becoming scientists?

Marie Curie would be spinning in her lead-lined grave.

Blocked

You know me - and if you don't what the hell are you a-bothering to be reading this stuff, you blithering idiot - normally I'm quite the gusher when it comes to self-publicity and the recording down of my Derrig-do's.

However, of late I am become stuffed full of blockage, of which even a change of diet has not allowed things to come to pass in the usual way of the scriber's nature.

I am therefore forced to look for someone to be the blamegoat.

And that'll be you, then.

Yes, you lot have let me down big time.

Normally you invite me to all sorts of stuff I can report fearlessly of upon or, as is the case from time to time, I am required to deploy my credentials to gain entry to social stuff the like of which I have been dis-uninvited to or not at all invited unto.

So, think on, you useless gang of ne'erdo-nothings, and get getting me back into your social enjoyments.

Only then will I be able to discharge my blog-pen of delight for you.

Alternatively, send in your thigh-slappingly hilarious stories about me. Made up or not, I will render them into truthery.

Pearls of Wisdom

"A microwave - you can use them for heating things up, you know" says Lady Jojojojojojo.