Quote Of The Day

"Victory goes to the player who makes the next-to-last mistake - Chessmaster Savielly Grigorievitch Tartakower (1887-1956)"

Thursday, September 05, 2002

The Tom Tom Club...
Celebrating Roger's birthday's is always a bit of a hit and miss affair. 'Hit' as in someone usually get's hit - and 'miss' as in Roger usually ends up behaving like a right camp little Miss (sorry Roger, it just had to be said!). And last night was no exception.

Six of us - Roger, Tom Kevin, Mark Marc (woof), Tim Tom (woof, woof), Justin Jake (woof, woof, woof) and myself - all crammed into a little Italian in Frith Street and munched our way through various combinations of tomato-based bruschettas and vaguely meat-based pizzas and pastas. The beer and wine flowed freely as you'd expect although perhaps a little too freely in Roger's direction. Our Roger, as anyone who even casually knows him will readily testify, doesn't hold his drink too well. And before long he was showing us his (ample) belly, burbing like a rustic, screeching like the Queen of the Harpies and rebroadcasting to the entire restaurant some gossip he'd earwigged from a woman on the next table who'd apparently had phone sex with her best friend. He had us in hysterics.

The ever generous Roger then paid for for the entire meal which was lovely of him. Sadly Tom and Jake had to leave us after the meal (something about working an early shift at CNN) but to compensate we were joined en route to Bar Code by Darren and yet another Tom (Andy's ex). At Bar Code we started the serious business of the night - getting plastered. Which in turn caused no small amount of friskiness in our group. At this point Darren and Tom both made wise exits as Marc and Roger had started playfully hitting each other - and then flicking beer at each other - and then smearing fag ash over each other's white T-shirts. Generally they were behaving like two little kids who'd got drunk on their first sip of cider - and we were pissing ourselves laughing. Kevin tried to intercede at one point but got his head covered with big wet sloppy tongue licks for his trouble. Goodness only knows what onlookers must have thought of us all but in the end - who cares!? This revelry continued for the next hour of two until we all got bored of that game and decided to call it a night. Boys were hugged, farewell's waved, tubes were caught, cabs were flagged and home's sought. A great night out - full of tomfoolery. Roll on the Big One next year eh, Rog?

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