Okay, Sunday afternoon to be exact. But I'm writing about Saturday, a line of something conspicuously illegal laid out on my desk, so that sorta counts.
I have just returned from Russell's Bachelor Bonkette in South London, in a place that rhymes with Wrecksley Grief. Russ picked me up at the O2 centre, whereupon I decided to start drinking like a mature and sensible grown up. Russell then took me to his mate's house, meaning I was sat in this chap's lounge with his wife and kid, a complete stranger drinking a can of beer and stating by way of apology that I read the Guardian.
Some time later and we were getting ready for the night. I was now on more beer, drugs, brandy, and some Polish cherry vodka I'd brought back from my travels (tasted like sweet nectar in bohemian Krakow bars and, for some reason, Benylin by the time I'd brought it back to the UK.)
I became slightly concerned when Russ insisted that I'd need ID. 'I'm 34,' I said, rather happy that I might need to prove I was over 18 after all these years.
'It's not for age,' he replied earnestly. 'It's so they know who you are if you end up in a fight.'
I grimaced slightly. When we got to our first bar, a large room that was 80% shaven-headed men in shirts, I grimaced some more. I was the only one in a coat for one thing, and Russell had given me his chequered black and white scarf to wear, rending me a heavily-layered dandy fop amid a sea of Ben Sherman.
It was only a matter of time, I thought, before someone reproached me for wearing a coat in December but the abuse never came. We chatted to a few of Russell's mates, and I tried to look sexy and smouldery for the orange blondes who walked past practising their indifferent looks.
We spent the rest of the night in a second bar. More of Russell's friends turned up, some ladies who I chose to greet with what I thought was a graceful continental peck on both cheeks, but which ended up looking like a sleazebag trying to get into their knickers with a kiss one cheek, get one free intro. It probably would've helped if I actually talked to them after pretending to be French, but they all fucked off in Kentish disgust immediately afterwards.
Much to my chagrin, I can find it hard talking to women unless they are sarcastic spunky types; regrettably I have no such problem with men, as I am fluent in Bloke. Solicitors, High court judges, football hooligans, drug dealers, none faze me in the slightest, and I feel I'm not doing my best if I don't get at least one 'Har har har' within a couple of minutes.
Women however tend to judge me harshly, but then that's my fault as I'm about as funny and charming as Peter Sutcliffe - and that neatly proves my point; I'll make jokes about ladykillers to ladies, and they tend to find that offensive. They assume that I'm a boorish unreconstructed knuckledragger when I'm actually quite the feminist who's less of a sexual threat than the Pope. Ho hum.
Russ, on the other hand, has no such problems. He can chat to women and make them feel all glowy and radiant. He listens, he laughs, he charms them out of the trees. Unfortunately for him, I was there to fuck with his night and ensure he came home alone. I'm like a sexual vortex; any carnal possibilities are sucked into my black hole of despair, never to reapppear again. Errol Flynn would doubtless tell me to piss off and leave him alone when it became apparent that I was fucking with his stats.
By the time we left the club and waited for a cab, Russ got cold. Mind you, that's hardly surprising when it's midwinter and about 1 degree out, and you're only wearing a thin fucking shirt. Nonetheless, I was rather impressed with the lady stood nearby. She was in a strapless green number, and she didn't even rub her naked arms or complain. Truth be told, she scared me a little.
This morning, feeling one moment slightly drunk and chipper, then the next absolutely fucking awful, I got the train back home and wanked into a sock.
I really need a girlfriend.
(This post will self-destruct when Russ reads it and tells me to take it down.)