Mike turns an elderly 24 (I think) on Thursday, so the lardheads gathered in Middlesbrough to have a few beers and some sparkling conversation - sorry, get smashed off their twats and sing Boro songs.
I'm not going to list all of the pubs, I think the Wallet has moved on since those days, but we started in the Southfield road area and finished somewhere entirely different. Or me, Joe, jodie and Gary did anyway.
Pubs were visited, and drinks were downed. Especially by Mike. Sambuccas were sunk by the bucket load, as were blue aftershocks (so I learned today) amongst the usual pints and coronas. He was steaming. He found himself at one point stood on the raised parts of the street near Debenhams doing his Brent dance, and calling a passing student (and I quote) a "cunt".
I ended up in the Bongo however, leaving a ratted Mike in Walkabout. He had started doing that dance he does where he jumps on your back, and a drunk, heavy, bulky Mike is not wat you want on your back.
The Bongo has sold out. It was once the bottom of the pile, but also slightly mysterious due to it's impenetrable reggae and marijuana atmosphere. Now it smells of cheap fags and cheaper perfume. The music has gone from "what the fuck?" to "why the fuck?" - UB40 and Bob Marley, for Christ's sake.
The last bastion of grimy nightclubs has finally fallen off the radar. A sad, sad day all round. But a good night out.