PROLOGUE

It began, as all good stories do, as a mistake. It may sound unlikely that somebody could get engaged by mistake but I’m sure that it happens every day. All will be explained shortly but needless to say there was a misunderstanding or two along the way.

You see, I was in the pub. I know what you’re thinking - you’re right. But regardless of my dependency problems I was in the pub celebrating some momentous occasion. Wednesday, I think. Now, I may have had one or two pints, or possibly twelve. Actually, now I come to think of it, it must have been twelve because any more or less and I wouldn’t have fancied a kebab at all. However, I did.

I staggered my way to the kebab shop - well I’m guessing that I staggered because my memory of the journey is somewhat hazy. After ordering my extra large chicken donner with extra onions (what!!!!) I took it upon myself to phone the bird. Sorry, the special lady in my life. I had a little chat with her and then walked along the road towards home. At some point on the way I decided that the damp, leaf-filled gutter would be far more comfortable than my nice warm, dry bed so I slept there.

When I awoke, with a small dog sniffing my crotch, the sunlight hurt my eyes - it took me only a few minutes to realise that it must be morning. I pulled myself to my feet and dragged my leaf-covered corpse the twenty or so yards to my front door. I let myself in and collapsed into my bed. An eternity, or perhaps a couple of hours, later, I was awoken by a ringing sound in my ears. It was my phone. I grabbed it and mashed the keypad hoping to reject the call and return to my slumber. Unfortunately, in my hung-over state I couldn’t tell the green button from the red one and I answered the call. It was the bird. Great, that’s all I needed - being moaned at by a high pitched un-hung-over person.

“You were so pissed last night!” she said as though I should be ashamed.

“I may have had a couple of pints - but I was not pissed.” I replied trying to hide the hangover and the fact that I was very drunk the previous night.

“So, did you mean what you said then?”

“Of course I did - I wasn’t hammered!”

“What all of it?”

“Yes. I was quite sober - why would I say anything that I didn’t mean?”

“Even the bit about getting engaged?”

SHIT!!! Where did she get that from? I more or less remembered the conversation I’d had with her the night before and marriage never entered into it. I’ve heard about women being from Mars and men from Venus but how she could get “Will you marry me?” from “Fancy coming round tomorrow night?” I really can’t fathom. But I still couldn’t admit to being pissed and how do you tell someone who thinks you’ve proposed to them that you didn’t mean it?

“Yes, even the bit about getting engaged.”

What was I thinking? I should have admitted that I was pissed and told the bird that I also proposed to the 999 operator! God, I’m a fool.

“Good. Well, shall we go ring shopping today.”

“In a couple of hours. I’m still a tad hung-over!”

And they said Mad Cow Disease had been eradicated!

ONE

            “Congratulations.” Said the barman. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”

            “I’m not, mate. A pint of Guinness and a pint of Stella please.”

            It seemed everyone in the pub had seen the announcement in the paper. What worried me more is why I ordered two drinks when I was sitting on my own. I don’t even like Stella. I changed the order to two pints of Guinness - in case one of them got lonely.

            I had to get out of this wedding one way or another. I would need a miracle!

            A voice interrupted my dreams of turning water into wine and brought me back into the real world. It was Mad John. I’m not saying he is mad - that’s just his adjective, but he did once tell me that he feared that King George III may still be alive in Argentina.

I explained my problem to Mad John in no less than the time taken to order another two pints of Guinness and whatever John was having. John threw his head back and laughed. He laughed and laughed. I went to the toilet. I went to the fruit machine. I went to Egypt. When I came back over John was still laughing. Maybe he is mad. Do people become their adjectives after a while? Or did I only give him that adjective because subconsciously I could tell he was mad?

            When John stopped laughing I asked his advice. He said that I had four options; honesty, suicide (or at least faking it), murder or convincing her that she didn’t want to marry me. Now, I took Mad John’s suggestions seriously and analysed them one by one.

            Honesty. Get real! I’m not brave enough to tell anyone that I don’t want to marry them and that it was all just a terrible mistake. Let alone an angry spurned fiancée. Honest always gets me into trouble. I remember at school I broke a window with a ball. The teacher came rushing out to the playground and asked who did it. We all stayed quiet, as is the norm with kids in such a situation. He said that if whoever did it owned up they wouldn’t get into trouble because of their honesty. I stepped forward and promptly got given a punishment exercise. Proof positive that honesty is never the best policy.

               Suicide was not really a valid option either. I think I’m allergic to death. And faking it would be too hard. John suggested joining the army and letting myself be shot at. But the thought of getting injected, inspected, detected, infected, neglected and selected (as Arlo Guthrie would put it) put me right off.

            Now I may be a very immoral person, and to really compete with Jesus I’d have to be a very immortal person, however I do believe that murder is wrong. That doesn’t mean I couldn’t order a hit on her though. I asked John if he could lend me the money. He obviously isn’t that mad.

            So that left only one feasible option. I had to convince my “fiancée” that she didn’t really want to marry me. I had to make her realise that I wasn’t the sort of person who would make a good husband. I had to persuade her that I was not the person she thought I was. This is far more difficult than it sounds. It’s exceptionally hard to make someone dislike you after they’ve got to know you quite well. It’s even harder if you are as wonderful and likeable as me. Maybe it wouldn’t be too hard after all.

TWO

            After a couple more nights in the pub, a lot more alcohol and three more laughing fits from Clinically Insane John we decided that the easiest way to get my wife-not-to-be to hate my guts would be to embark upon an illicit affair. John made this suggestion but I had absolutely no qualms about it - it sounded like great fun.

            The only problem was who to indulge in this extra-non-marital activity with. I’m not the kind of guy who can chat up women in nightclubs - I prefer to actually be able to hear the girl’s conversation before I ignore it in favour of staring at her tits. I admire people who go to clubs because they actually like the music, like I go to Bryan Ferry concerts because I like the music. It’s the people that don’t like the music yet go anyway because, they say, everyone else goes. If everyone who doesn’t want to go didn’t go then our generation might invent a new kind of socialising where we can pull each other in comfortable, fun surroundings and not embarrass ourselves by attempting to dance after fourteen vodka and Red Bulls. Not that I’ve got much experience in that department, I don’t drink vodka and Red Bull.

            So it would have to be someone I either met in a pub, met by accident in the street, knew already or paid. I thought that getting a prostitute would be an ideal way to piss off my “fiancée” but John obviously isn’t mad enough to lend me the money for that kind of activity.

            We listed all the women I knew who were single. I thought I got on well with all of them and that they could all be potential targets. Mad John told me, however, that they all thought I was a creep and he thought that I had more chance with a woman who had never met me before. He said that she would have had less time to go off me. I don’t know why I talk to Mad John he is obviously quite insane. I hope.

            It was getting late in the evening and I was just getting merry enough to have problems asking for a round of drinks. Two young ladies (one of whom was brushing her long blonde hair) had been in the pub nearly as long as we had. And they were pissed.

            We call it the pub because it has no other name. It has no sign outside and the owner’s have never answered when we ask what the place is called. Years ago it was called The Hub but the sign was stolen so long ago that I think it has simply been re-christened The Pub.

            Whilst I was standing at the bar, trying to remember how to ask for two drinks, I couldn’t help but overhear the two girls talking. They were moaning about being single. They didn’t know how lucky they were - I never get into predicaments like this when I’m single. In fact, singularity is a far safer option. But, for the purposes of my plan they may be ideal. I carried our drinks back to my table and told John about the girls.

            He suggested that I go over and offer to buy them a drink and suss out which one I was going for. He said he would happily take either. My choice was definitely the one on the right but it really didn’t matter who I had the affair with. NOTE: - for the word “affair” please read “mad, passionate sex”. Baba O’Riley came on the jukebox. How could I lose? I had consumed just enough pints to become Super-Confident Man. I stood up and started to walk over to them. My legs had other ideas. They made me swerve and bump into a barstool. The two girls stood sniggering at me like the "cool" people at school did. I had become Super Drunk Man. I realised this and snuck back to my seat. John was laughing again. I’ll kill him one day. How can he laugh so much and still breathe? I kicked him under the table and he stopped. We left.

            Having an affair (see above note) was decidedly difficult. I have never had the need to try to convince women to sleep with me. I’ve always had the money to pay them to do it. Well, I haven’t but I’ve always been able to borrow the money to pay them for it.

            It was proving too difficult so Mad John came up with his most sane idea yet and said that it might be best if I came up with another plan.

THREE

            A few nights of misery passed. Then one more passed. The night after that Bonkers John and me were in the pub again when my "fiancée" phoned me. At that precise moment I came up with another plan. Before I answered my mobile, I told John to pay attention because there was a genius at work. He didn't look too convinced.

            I answered the phone.

            "Where are you?" said my "fiancée’s nagging voice from the other end.

            "I'm in the pub. I'm just out for a few drinks." I told her.

            "Who are you with?"

            "I'm just out with some friends." I said. She was biting onto my bait - and it wasn't quite as painful as the last time she had bitten onto something by accident.

            "Which friends?" she demanded to know. As you can see my "fiancée" is one hell of a conversationalist.

            "Just Sarah and Helen. It might turn into a bit of a session though - so I don't think I'll be able to see you tonight. OK? I'll see you later, bye" And I hung up without waiting for a reply.

            John was looking at me as though I was the mad one. How does he manage to raise one eyebrow that high and keep the other that low? He said

            "Who are Sarah and Heather?”

            "Helen." I corrected him. "Sarah and Helen are the key to my new plan."

            I went onto explain to him the principals of my new plan. If I can't actually have an affair, or even just mad, passionate sex, then I can fake it. If I can make my "fiancée" think I'm having an affair then that's as good as actually having one. Jealousy is a horrible thing and it'll eat her up from the inside. Eventually, she'll hate me - and Sarah and Helen (but they're imaginary so she's unlikely to do them any harm) - and leave me. Happy days!

            "The one problem remaining" I said to John "is that I haven't decided which one of them I want to shag yet."

            John sipped the pint I'd bought him and looked contemplative.

            "Which one's best looking?" he said.

            "Oh, definitely Helen." beginning to feel the six or seven pints of Guinness I'd already consumed take effect.

            "Shag Sarah then - makes it more believable. You never get to fuck good looking birds."

            I was going to argue this fact but my sensible side had already conceded that he was right. And anyway Sarah is still fairly good looking. Nobody would slag me off for sleeping with her. Unless they found out that I'd made her up.

            I told John that whenever asked I was planning on replying that I’d been out with Sarah. We’ll go to pubs, clubs and the winning ticket - restaurants. We’ll share a mutual love of good food and fine alcohol. We’ll enjoy the same kinds of literature and cinema. In fact, to anyone else, it’ll seem like Sarah and I were made for one another. I’ll tell my fiancée stories of people mistaking us for husband and wife, and of people saying what a wonderful couple we make. In reality, however, I’ll be in the pub with a pint of Guinness and a good book. Or John. What was is John Lennon said? “Love is wanting to be loved”.

            Over the next couple of weeks I developed a small alcohol habit and a large habit of telling my fiancée that I was with my imaginary girlfriend. I must have been out more often with Sarah than I had with all my previous imaginary girlfriends put together. We had done everything I’d ever wanted to and more. I was even thinking of asking her to marry me - but I remembered the mess I got into the last time marriage was mentioned.

            But the honeymoon period had to end someday. It was a Tuesday night. Sarah and I had had a massive argument the night before but we had made up today and she had joined me in the pub. She wasn’t drinking though (I assume that’s because she doesn’t really exist). In reality I was sitting in the pub reading George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London and sipping on a pint of extra cold Guinness. I don’t like extra cold Guinness as much as the ordinary stuff but there was a new barmaid and she never even asked me which I’d prefer. I’d just returned my half-full pint glass to the beer mat (which I was planning on pilfering just as soon as the new barmaid looked the other way) when my mobile phone rang.

            Now, if I remember rightly, it was my mobile phone that got me into this whole mess. If I hadn’t had it on that drunken night out, if I hadn’t answered it the next morning then I would still be quite happy having regular sex with a woman I didn’t like. As it stands that wee bastard of a phone, in it’s infinite pocket-sized, vibrating convenience has caused me to invent a girlfriend just to avoid actually facing up to my responsibilities and acting like a grown man. Psychiatrists say it’s bad when you start blaming other people for all the problems in your life - what would they say about rightfully blaming inanimate objects.

            The ceaseless electronic beeping tore me away from these thoughts. The flashing green and black display showed that it was my fiancée calling. Right, I had to sound like I was out having fun and being seduced by Sarah.

            “What?” I answered my phone in a friendly yet masculine manner.

            “Hiya, honey. I was just wondering what you’re up to tonight.” My fiancée also said in a friendly yet masculine manner.

            “Just out with Sarah for a couple of quiet pints. We might end up going to see that new Johnny Depp film later” Excellent - how could she not realise that I was now in love with Sarah and didn’t want to marry her.

            “Oh right, so how come you’re sitting on your own with that book you’ve been reading for years?” Shit! I looked around realising that she must be able to see me. There she was waving to me from the bar. My stomach wretched at the sight of her - not, incidentally, for the first time!

            I had to think fast. She was walking over to me with an alco-pop. It was a sickly luminous blue colour and looked about as healthy as I felt. With every step she took towards me my whole world shook. The embarrassment of making up a girlfriend and getting caught by my very real fiancée was too much to bear. Oh wait, it was the floor that was shaking under her weight. She sat down and said

“I think we need to have a chat, don’t we?”

*          *          *

            “So then she suggested that we try and find someone to have a threesome with. She called it enhancing our sex life. What a stupid way of putting it!”

            I was filling Slightly Daft John in on the little chat I’d had with my fiancée the night before.

            “Aye” He said. “Enhancing your sex life with other people. You can stop right there, mate. I’m not going anywhere near her when she’s naked! You, I could just about cope with but that rhinoceros, no chance!” John had just paid me the biggest compliment I’d ever heard him utter.

            “It’s cool - she wants another bird to join in.” I told him.

            “She thought I was making Sarah up because I wanted to liven up my sex life by having a fantasy. So now she thinks she has to take it upon herself to make me sexually happy. I’m pissed off because I only got to shag Sarah twice. It was the best sex I’ve ever had”.

            “I think I’ve heard enough, I’m off home. Same time tomorrow?” said John.

            I arranged to meet him for a small beverage the next afternoon and bade him farewell. Then I started thinking about how I could get rid of the bitch. What sort of unbalanced individual stays with a man who makes up girlfriends? She must be completely deluded. We never did have that threesome, although she often planned it. I don’t think she could ever find anyone else willing to see her naked.

FOUR

            “You look knackered.” John said as he walked in the door of the pub to see me looking unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed.

            “Cheers, mate. Get us a pint, eh?”

Around two minutes later John arrived at the table with a pint of Guinness for me and a glass of gin for himself (I presumed). I took approximately 47 seconds to drain the glass and stood up to get another one. Another two minutes of settling time passed. I thought I’d better take more time over this pint. I drank it in about a minute and ordered another one. My stomach was now churning. This time I took the pint and sat down with Mentally Challenged John.

            “So, what’s the story?” John asked in his usual Oh-Christ-what-kind-of-mess-is-he-in-this-time voice.

            “Aw, mate. You wouldn’t believe it! She’s moved in!”

            “What do you mean, ‘she’s moved in?’, I thought even you would have had the guts to tell her she couldn’t move into your flat.”

            Flattered by his high opinion of me I carried on explaining.

            “Well, she didn’t fuckin’ well ask did she?”

            “’Course she didn’t. Birds never do - but you’ve got to keep an eye on the wardrobes and drawers for their stuff and when there appears to be too much you have a nice little chat which ends up with you confessing your fear of commitment and them not moving in.” John’s comments enlightened me. I had never realised that there was so much work involved in making sure that people you dislike don’t surreptitiously move into your flat.

            “You could have bloody told me that earlier! Now what am I going to do? My bloody fiancée has moved into my fuckin’ flat!”

            “Some people would say that was the sensible route for your relationship to take. You two are engaged after all.”

            I thought about this for a second. John’s logic was infallible as usual.

            “Aye, but some people probably don’t realise that I don’t like my fiancée and I am trying desperately hard to make her want to be my ex fiancée.”

            John stroked his gin. This is almost always a sure sign that he is an alcoholic. However, he is an alcoholic who I am willing to take relationship advice from.

            “Why don’t you turn it to your advantage?” He said.

            “How do you mean?” He was now rubbing the little glass quite vigorously. It was beginning to frighten me.

            “Show her how horrible it is to live with someone like you.”

            “John, my friend, you may well be the most intelligent person I’ve ever met. That’s what I’ll do. That’ll be piss easy. I can become the housemate from hell. If you weren’t masturbating that glass I might be tempted to kiss you!”

            So here was the best plan yet. I would convince my fiancée that I was terrible to live with and she would eventually move out after falling out of love with me and learning to despise me. I began preparations straight away.

            From my student days, I remembered that the most annoying thing my flatmates ever did was to come in from a night out steaming at around 5 in the morning. Invariably they would slam the door, shout in the hall, play loud music, drop everything possible in the kitchen and set the fire alarms off - which was when I would wake up. I decided to enlist Mentally Diminished John’s help.

            “Fancy a club tonight, John?” I enquired innocently enough.

            “Naw, I’m skint and knackered. I’ll hang around here till last orders and then hit the trail.” Great he was letting me down in my hour of need. I let him know this in no uncertain terms by not telling him.

            So Guinness and gin came and went and came and went again and again, until about midnight when the barman quoted songs to get us out.

            “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here” he cried.

            I drained my pint and stood up to wait on Certifiable John coming back from the toilet. In due course he did and I left along side my best friend in the world ever. I think it was just as I told him that I loved him for the fourth time that he told me to fuck off and started getting into a taxi. This sobered me up immeasurably. I staggered, stumbled and fell against the wall. But nobody saw, I was still cool. I straightened myself up and made my way to a late night drinking den I had frequented when I used to drink a lot.

            I call it a drinking den mainly because it sounds cool. In all reality, it is simply a very civilised pool hall which has a licensed bar until 3am or, as I would have it renamed, Heaven. It’s up a spiral flight of stairs (to weed out the excessively drunk or unbalanced individuals) and through an unmarked door. The décor leaves a little to be desired - think cheap tacky Formica tables and the like - but that sort of thing doesn’t bother your hardened drinker.

            I went to the bar and ordered a pint of Guinness (they only had Extra Cold, but at that time of night any Guinness is good Guinness). I sat at a table on my own like a few other people and watched a couple of games of pool. I was not feeling my best; I may have had too many pints or something. The Artex covered ceiling was spinning, but not too fast so I knew it was time for another pint. The bar maid pointed out that most people wait until they have finished the first one before buying the second. I tried to tell her about the fear of loneliness that pints of Guinness had but I think she thought I was pissed. So did I.

            After a while (it could have been mere minutes or two hours I have no recollection), the place began to fill up and people sat next to me. I got talking and I think they mentioned something about going back to their flat for a beer. This idea appealed to me and, although they never actually invited me, I tagged along when they left.

            The flat was just round the corner from my own so I was getting closer to home. I’d had my phone on silent all night so as we walked I checked it. Forty-six missed calls and fourteen voicemails. I took a guess at who they’d all be from and ignored them. The beer flowed until around about 5am, when I thought it was appropriate to go and make as much noise as possible in my own flat.

            I picked up a microwave meal in the 24-hour shop on my way home. I stuck my key in the door and pushed it open. And slammed it shut. Yes! That felt good. I kicked over a table in the hall and bounced my way to the kitchen. I turned on the lights as I went. I slammed the kitchen door closed behind me and turned on the radio and started singing along to “Town Called Malice”. I took the baking trays carefully out of the oven and dropped them on the floor whilst singing. I opened the microwave door and put my meal in and slammed it shut. I also turned on the grill to make the fat in the filthy grill pan burn. Then I thought better of that and decided that the fire alarms didn’t need to go off. I started dancing with a mop in a comedy fashion.

            It was at about that point when my fiancée entered the room. She looked at the mess I had made of the kitchen and quite possibly myself and burst out laughing. She told me that she’d see me in bed and left. I ate my Chicken Korma with Fried Rice in silence and made my way to the bedroom. I climbed into the tiny sliver of bed that she had left for me. She turned round and kissed me and asked if I had a good night. We chatted for a while and it transpired that she too had been out. She’d got in about an hour before me and had been calling me to see if I wanted to meet her and her pals in a club somewhere. Goddamn it! I couldn’t even wake her up effectively!!!

FIVE

            I had to come up with a different plan. It was eight minutes past eleven and I was sharing all my problems with a pint of Guinness in the bar. It seemed to be listening intently but you never can tell with pints of Guinness. Maybe I should just have sat down with my “fiancée” and told her exactly how I felt about our relationship. Or maybe I should have more respect for the safety of my testicles. I was beginning to think that the only way out of this kebab-induced mess that I had found myself in was to go through with the whole thing. I mean, loads of guys get married to women and realise that they can’t stand them. I was just missing out on the honeymoon period - and where my “fiancée” is involved missing the honeymoon may be no great loss. I must have been looking just about as depressed as Leonard Cohen when I heard a voice say my name.

            “Suzanne!” I replied - surprised at seeing one of my oldest ex-girlfriends in the pub at this time of day.

            She offered me some oranges that came all the way from China, but I turned them down. I did, however, accept a pint of Guinness from my previous love. She knew I was a sensible man of simple tastes and she knew how to make me happy. Or at least she once did. Suzanne and I parted on good terms. We remained slightly firm friends who never saw one another from one year to the next (in fact I think it may have been getting on for a decade). I still had a love letter that she wrote me. It listed my good points. She always did collect books of matches. I think the reason I liked her so much was because her name was in songs. My fiancée’s name, Julie, was only in one song - The Ballad Of Julie Finkle by Ray Davies (and even he admits in the lyric that Julie is a pseudonym to protect the true identity of the woman). I think all the women I have truly cared for have names in songs. There was Jane, Caroline, Johanna, Marie and Lola. There were others but I have neither time nor inclination enough to list all of them here (honest - that’s not just a shit excuse for my lack of previous girlfriends).

            Suzanne asked me what was new. I wondered where to begin. So I told it from the start - all the way from the kebab shop on St. Patrick’s night to the present moment. I told her of all the hair-brained schemes that John the Madman and I had come up with. She couldn’t help but laugh. She claimed that this was just like me. I tried to remember other times in my life when I had got engaged by accident and tried to get out of it - but I couldn’t think of any.

            “So what’s your advice to me then?” I asked her.

            “It’s blatantly obvious, isn’t it?” she said.

            I suggested to her that I didn’t think so and asked her if she could explain more thoroughly.

            “What the fuck are you talkin’ about? Obvious!” may have been the exact phrase I used.

            “Well, the only way out of every situation is death. Just kill yourself.” She started laughing again. Come to think of it I seem to remember that she was a distant relation of Hairy-Palmed John’s.

            I was touched by the affection she obviously still held for me. She left shortly afterwards leaving me alone with my thoughts and a fresh pint of Guinness. The thoughts that were doing the Lambada across my mind did not all involve alcohol for a change. I was planning to fake my own death. I had thought about it before but now it seemed the only option left open (other than never-the-best-policy honesty).

            Later that same day, King George the Third’s illegitimate great-great-great grandson John walked into the pub. I asked him to help me fake my death. He pointed out the flaws in my already weak plan - mainly the fact that I will have to stay alive to make it work properly. After ironing out a few wrinkles, though, he said he was on the ironing board and would help.

            Days of planning were required for this feat of twisted cunning and lies so I set up a rendezvous with John in the pub. We sat over a few thousand pints and a few thousand more shattered dreams and decided to implement the plan in a few days. It would involve meticulous organisation so I was beginning to think that Howl-at-the-moon John and myself might not be the ideal people to carry it out. Especially since I was currently watching John attempting to get fags out the cigarette machine by forcing matches, one by one, into the coin slot. Maybe it was time for him to go home. I couldn’t leave until I had completed making a tower out of all the empty glasses and rubbish that was left on the table. Sometimes things seem more important than usual late at night.

SIX

            “You don’t even like fishing!” said my “fiancée”.

            “That’s right - I don’t. But it’s John’s birthday and he gets to decide what we do for it. He’s always liked fishing and he said it would really just be a piss up so I’m going along. Ok?”

            “And why can’t I come on this trip?” she asked for the fourteenth time.

            “It’s a big piss up. You wouldn’t like it. A boat full of drunk men shouting and leering and drinking and falling in and stuff.”

            “I would like it.”

            Jesus Christ did she never know when she wasn’t wanted!

            “Right” I said “The real reason you can’t come is because John doesn’t like you. He can’t stand you. You really annoy him. OK.”

            I felt this may have been a bit harsh but it wasn’t entirely untrue. I thought that I’d better tell John before the next time they met, though. Which, with any luck, would be at my funeral.

            She was in tears by now so I left her to it and headed down the pub. The fishing trip/tragic incident was scheduled to depart the next morning. I had to get some dutch courage inside me - I mean I was facing death. We had hired a boat and were going out to fish in the deep, deep sea all day. Too much beer would be drunk. Lifejackets would be taken off. Those circumstances are very conducive to death. So Cuckoo John and I had planned anyway.

            At closing time I bade my final farewells to the bar-maids. They just thought I was being drunk and emotional when I said that I would miss them. To be fair, I probably was but that isn’t really the point is it? I walked towards the kebab shop, and then thought better of that idea. Instead I urinated against a Ford Escort and went home.