Crap bands, shameful fiending on meph to combat a booze / methadone gouchfest, a few good songs and the best company a guy could ask for. Well, good mates at least.
The only problem with having your ex in your crew when she's been on the Martell is when she shamelessly cock-blocks when a girl you've been talking to starts to dance with you; suddenly showing some interest in dancing to a band she doesn't particularly like after four hours of virtual stillness. Cheers, you weirdo.
This was more than compensated by spending a great remainder of the night and well into the afternoon with the core of the tribe. Well, that and a wank if we're being brutally honest, but despite consecutive sexual failure number whatever and some truly shite music, it was good.
One of the bands turned out to be a bunch of laddish rugby league fan types from Leeds, who kept singing Rhinos songs and buying drinks for women were grateful for the freebies, but would usually proceed to either ignore them or give monosyllabic responses until said guys fucked off or the women left.
One of them bumped into a mate and I deliberately and I heard the word 'gay' mentioned amid drunken laughter. There was a second attempt, met by the sole of my Samba and a polite, 'watch yourself'. Which may or not have been threatening, but probably wasn't. At least physically.
Anyway, cut to the chase - the fucking idiot tries to belittle me by putting his coat on our table for me to 'look after' and making some mocking, faux-camp show of it, with added smugness. Oh dear.
Enjoy washing the fucking myriad beer, coke, house double and spit stains out of
that today, you big, overweight, ignorant sack of shite. :D
