There’s a definite thrill to be had from going to some skanketty skank pub (Big Red at Nag’s Head Corner if you must ask) and knowing without a shadow of a doubt that you’re with the baddest girl in the place, the role for which my soul mate Lisa definitely qualifies. I was just buying another round and L was putting some ROCK on the jukebox, and she just looked amazing – pencil skirt, high heels, ankle chain, tight sleeveless T, Bensons, pool cue, red red lippy, weird snaggly teeth, blue inked prison tattoos on the biceps. She will confess quite openly that if she was in Grease she wouldn’t be Good Sandy, or Bad Sandy, or even Rizzo, but one of the girls who hang out with the Scorpions.

It turned into a bit of an epic session actually. Lisa had come round the night before because she was upset / tripping her nuts off (kept telling me I looked like Jesus which is *so* unfair) and had promptly fallen asleep on me. Literally. I didn’t want to move off the sofa as was quite comfortable and didn’t want to disturb her so nodded off myself. The next thing we know it’s morning and Lisa’s head on my chest felt like Fatty Soames had been pounding in a fence post with a Hyundai 4x4 or similar. Anyway (after a spot of heart massage) we repaired to Manoli’s which is, I think, one of the finest greasy spoons any arterially challenged gastronaut could wish for and proceeded to scoff down a couple of their ‘everything pie’ options. As it was 11.30 Lisa then suggested we have a quick breakfast pint to settle the food in nicely. Well one thing led to another and before we knew it it was 3pm and we were pissed. At that point there’s nothing to be done but push on through to the other side. We left sometime after 12 but it’s all a bit hazy to say the least. All I can really remember is me and Lisa telling eachother we were eachother’s best mates *EVER* losing at pool 17-12 (so that’d be £29 on pool alone ffs) dancing like a loon to some dodgy Beatles tribute band and attempting to persuade a complete stranger that I drove articulated lorries across Africa for a living. WHY??????

A few weeks ago I woke up in a strange place – bit disorientated – had a quick look around – empty bottles, beer can ashtrays, knickers, magazines. Nothing very helpful. Looked over and - bloody hell – I was in bed with Lisa and she didn’t have any clothes on. A quick check thankfully revealed that I did. Not quite sure why as Lisa is very much my type, but somehow it’s not about that – our relationship has an implicit requirement of platonicness. Anything else would lead to immediate implosion and never speaking again. (Lisa has over 30 numbers in her phone that just say “Don’t answer this number”). So we got up staggered around a bit and crawled off to the pub somewhere in Clapham. Sank a few pints, felt better, went to another pub where I had a conversation with a bloke who’s accent was so strong I couldn’t understand one single word he was saying (didn’t seem to matter though), played a lot of dance music to liven all the stiffs up a bit, Lisa beat the locals at pool again and I tied a bandanna onto a pub dog. After that it all starts to get hazy again, though I can definitely remember being in The Blue Posts in Soho and I know for a fact that we met up with some other people and went to Joy King Lau where I impressed the company by eating an eel and a jellyfish.

This sort of thing pretty much always happens when I go out with Lisa. We egg each other on into more and more debatable antics, and let’s face it, neither of us need any encouragement in the first place. All that drinking can’t be good for either of us. I’ve never been anywhere and not had Lisa match me drink for drink all night, and as regular readers may know I’m no Sunday drinker.