I'll tell you what, mind, that Liverpool is skill, isn't it?
One of the chaps has been fortunate enough to find a lass who will marry him and he chose the 'Pool as the venue for a final weekend of feckless abandon and lager-based fun.
Thirteen men good and true set off on the train from Newcastle's Central Station. Cognisant of the fact that Liverpool prides itself on it's credible fashion attire, we had been kitted out in black polo shirts with "Burkey's Porn Allstars" on the front and porn names on the back. One can only speculat about the number of busy travellers who had their day brightened by some oafish geordie wandering the aisle with a can of lager in one hand and "Rex Silverside" on his back, spouting ill-informed opinions vis a vis "lasses" and what they enjoy.
People on trains, they love all that type of thing.
Of course, when travelling by rail it is obligatory for folk to play cards. It is uncertain which was invented first, the locomotive or the playing card. Whichever, it should be noted that the restraint and urbane sophistication of our party was such that there were no "dorty cards" on display featuring ladies with comedy breasts and faces covered in Ready Brek.
We aren't animals, you know.
Besides, there was cash at stake and the important business of making one's own rules up for the various games. Maximum respect to the chap who claimed there was such a thing as "Junior Pontoon" which beats a five card trick. It is said that God loves a trier.
I mean to say, Junior Pontoon? In a chimp's cock, Sparky.
Eventually we got into Liverpool, chickedy-checked ourselves into our swanky dockside hotel and got "oot on the lash". It was shortly after this when I disgraced myself and made my name something to be hissed in a scolding, reproachful manner.
I went back to my room for a kip.
I know, you are disappointed in me and think I am a bell end. All I can do is apologise for the whole shameful episode and pray that you can forgive me.
Eventually we got out for the evening and got down to the business of drinking heavily, shouting on and annoying women in pubs. We visited the modish Babycream bar before taking in the rather more earthy delights of Matthew Street, where one of our party had a gun pulled on him. Nice place. Another curious fact about Liverpool is that every taxi journey costs four pounds, a considerable improvement on London, where the figure is an extortionate ten pounds, the robdog cockney knackers that they are.
By and large, I would heartily recommend the pubs of merseyside but with one or two caveats. Firstly, bar owners seem to think they are making things too easy on their clientele is they don't have to climb two or more flights of stairs before they can go for a slash. I'm not Chris fucking Bonningtons, you know.
Secondly, there must be an epidemic of wife-beating, slap the missus domestic violence in the area because every pub toilet is plastered with posters advising against putting some manners on your lass, intimating that the local constabulary will take a very dim view of this type of thing.
Anyhow, we had a good time yada yada yada and all that. I shall cut to the chase now as I suspect all you really want to know is "Did you find a titty bar?"
Yes. Yes we did. If you ever visit Liverpool and want to receive a particularly half-hearted, perfunctory lap dance from an uninterested, going-through-the-motions lass then pop into "Angels"
A propos nothing, take a look at that website I have kindly linked to just above. Look at the comment from one mug punter.
"Went to Angels last night, there is a babe called candy....what a girl, think shes new but boy does she do it for me, not like some of the others, she is ever the professional,polite, charming and very very sexy - don't bother trying to get her number though, she wont give it to you - think she has a fella LUCKY B*****D "
There is indeed a babe called Candy and what is more, she has masseeve knockers. However, I didn't try to "get her number" because I knew that she was working. I will freely admit that I'm no expert on what the ladies like but I am confident that they aren't overly keen on slavvery pisshead who have just paid them to take their clothes off. They probably think that type of man is weak and foolish, a jack-ass if you will.
Nonetheless, a good time was had by all and we all had a big drink. It was skill.
A final big shout out must go to the King of the Ewoks who, in order to entertain the lads, rang his girlfriend up and put her on speakerphone. He then tried to get her to "taak dorty" on the phone.
"Say "back door"" was just one example of his patter. "Work the shaft" was another. All good clean fun you will no doubt agree. He probably wasn't expecting her to come back with "Ah cannot wait to see your cock", though.
I don't know what the world record is for turning a phone off, but it was probably lowered by a couple of seconds yesterday.
We eventually got home Sunday night and the stag had to get butt nekkid and get thrown off the bus.
That's what it's aal aboot, eh?
Lively up yourself peeps, I'm outta here.