Friday Night

Aah. I used to love going out straight from work on a Friday night and then discovering that it was Saturday afternoon all of a sudden. Associated side effects were usually some form of headache, vague memories of thinking how splendidly witty I thought I was at the time (usually bringing on waves of dire anxiety and embarrassment), the elusive feeling that I'd found someone frightfully attractive but not feeling entirely sure if I'd acted upon those urges (quick check under bedclothes to ascertain success or lack thereof) - all rolled up with a devilish hankering for bacon.

Nowadays, I still like to pop out for a frisky shandy or two but prefer to be home and in my jarmies by midnight. Of course, having the other half for the past 9 years has meant that the Saturday morning score chart has been neatly filed away for posterity but the rest has just faded away with age.

It's Friday night now and I've had some wine (a fair bit actually, but sipped slowly over a whole evening rather than binged in a couple of hours followed by spirits - both high and alcoholic - and some impressive cocktails which make better hats than drinks!). I'm feeling mellow and content.

Saturday nights however, still don't seem to have changed. I still love to go out on the lash! Tomorrow night we're off to a stag do. Entertainingly, there are two stags as there is to be a 'big gay wedding' next week. It's all very Madonna really - big castle, stacks of people - and I'm quite looking forward to it.
Back to the stag party tho - not sure how that's gonna pan out. Stag/hen parties usually, in the UK at least, involve going out with your mates for a final fling as a single, possibly also involve snogging as many people as you can and generally getting off your face without your intended being there to look on disapprovingly. Gay stag parties are only in their infancy, so this is all going to be a bit of an adventure.

I shall, of course, behave as a paragon of decorum, sampling only a small variety of alcoholic tipples, until I feel that it is time to withdraw politely to return home before the witching hour. Bollocks! I'll be trashed by 11pm, won't remember swinging my pants outrageously on the dancefloor of some club choc full with chunky chaps without shirts, before being thrown into the back of a taxi to arrive in a heap at my doorstep by the crack of noon the next day.

Dontcha just love the weekend?!

(pic is of me at my most virtuous....)