Staggered

Last night we went out in Halifax for a few drinks. And then a few more. And then a few more.

I'm feeling raddled this morning; I'm not sure if it was the pints at the hotel, or the pints at the waterside, or the pints in the Scottish pub, or the pints in the random shed at the end of Argyle Street.

Actually, maybe it was the tea I drank yesterday afternoon. That's probably the culprit. I'm not used to such strong things.

So I've had my stag night, I think, without being handcuffed to a lamppost or set on fire or drowned. They did make me eat a very large piece of cake; I was worried that a stripper was going to jump out of it and then I'd have to snort coke off her, but fortunately the cake was only full of cake.

(My impressions of stag nights are based partly on rubbish American films, and partly on going out in Staffordshire once and being put into a shopping trolley, so perhaps I haven't quite got the right idea.)

Thursday night in Halifax is surprisingly boisterous; not quite up with the manic alcoholism of Hong Kong, but there were lots of people out partying. There seemed little chance of being stabbed, so I think that was preferable to Beckenham on any night of the week, and there was also a bar with some aged people playing something Celtic involving a banjo and a flute, so that made for a nice blend. And now for the penultimate breakfast of my unmarried life.