Happy New Year

In an attempt to avoid being robbed blind and/or surrounded by youngsters having more fun than you could shake your fake ID at, the Messiah and I ended up in a small local pub on New Year's Eve.

There was a moment of anxiety when we got there and found a large couple perched on stools at the bar, she sporting a studded dog collar (of the canine, not holy, variety) and what can only be described as a fake fur tabard, and he in a mask. Imagine our relief when Papa Smurf appeared to serve us, and it became clear that we weren't about to be initiated into the local Kentish S&M Society, but rather were the odd ones out at a fancy dress themed evening. (Having said that, I've always thought Papa Smurf had something of the pervert about him - very tight trousers.)

There then followed several hours of fun during which the Messiah and I sniggered at the regulars and he worried about Scooby Doo (for it was he that the furry drunk woman was supposed to represent) who periodically gave him the once over. Or maybe she was just trying to focus between her inter-drink naps at the bar. Either way, he had the same skittish look in his eye which I fondly remember from our post-Thundergate days. Petrified.

There was a moment of relief when a jovial Deputy Dog appeared and greeted Scooby Doo with the immortal line: "Aaah, Chewbacca!", which earned him a filthy look from her and a large guffaw from us. However, shortly after 11, the Messiah turned to me and said:

"Shall we go? I'm worried about who I'm going to have to kiss if we're here at midnight."

I raised an eyebrow.

"No, no, not you: Chewbacca" (glancing nervously over his shoulder).

So, off home we went, whereupon we drank more beer, watched a bit of telly, and I buggered off to bed at 1ish leaving the Messiah with strict instructions not to let Dog up onto the sofa with him. So far, so sedate.

Unfortunately, at about 4 am, unbeknown to me, the Messiah began the first of many trips to the bathroom. I finally got wise to this when I emerged from the bathroom myself to hear what I can only describe as tortured groaning coming from the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" I called down, helpfully.

"No", came the reply. Or, rather, "No..ooo..oooo...oo..o." (Men, I ask you.)

Yes, the Messiah welcomed in the New Year with a bout of the winter vomiting bug. My own participation in his bathroom-based festivities was the fetching of sick buckets, the patting of his back, the stroking of his head and fevered brow, and the holding of drinks up to his forlorn and somewhat pissed-off face. When he could speak again, he indignantly expressed his disgust thus:

"This can't be down to booze. The preparation was flawless: we ate, we stuck to beer, and we didn't even drink that much."

Indeed.

Happily, he had recovered by mid-week, and tonight we are off to the Cricket Club Christmas do, which, I predict, will involve more booze and hilarity, not least at my efforts to understand the inevitable post-mortem of the Test Match.