Slow, stormy Sunday

The second keg of Neck Oil this month only held eight pints, but after that we went down to the late night iffy and bought a load of Special Brew and ordered a curry.

When I was writing about it last evening everything seemed quite sensible and it looked like we might just manage an early night – but then Shaun’s bro (sorry mate, can’t remember your name for the life of me) decided that drinking the neat Bacardi we resorted to wasn’t such a good idea, and that he wanted more beer.

We staggered off down the road, and as so often happens, the beer belly was shouting our for unnecessary curry to swill around in, so we got that too.

In the morning there were bodies on the floor, curry on the floor, fag butts everywhere, the cat smelled like he’d been eating curry, and the whole place stank of farts and fags. Nice. Manly. Student heaven.

But then Shaun started us off with some tunes to ease our aching heads, and despite everyone moaning, we all gradually made it to a vaguely upright position, and started the usual vying to be DJ, and naming that tune in its first couple of notes. My tastes are generally far too old for someone of my age and so unless he digs into his goth and rock back catalogue I’m usually pretty lost, but it’s fun anyway. I like the banter.

But most of all I love it when Shaun looks this messed up…

Shaun. Not at his best.

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