Monday was a classic UK Bank Holiday. Cloudy, windy, cool enough to feel cold in the wind, a hint of misty rain. Meh.

I had a bit of a lie in, bought a paper, went for brekkie in my local greasy spoon. I like the cholesterol rush when the weather is crap.

As I left, I was surprised to see that one of my watering holes was open. I assumed that a 12:00 opening time was on the cards, but no. 11:40, up and running.

It seemed ill mannered to not go in.

Then it all went wrong.

I encountered a friend. Somebody I had not seen in a good while, but with whom I get on well. We enjoy each other’s company.

OK, two friends who haven’t met for a while, in licensed premises.

Recipe for disaster.

It wasn’t quite the carcrash that could have happened. We’re both a bit sensible. But we surely both had a bit more to drink than we should have. Not enough to be incapacitated, enough to be relaxed.

And enough to be happy talking bollocks for a couple of hours. As you know, if you’ve been paying attention, I regard talking bollocks as a high art form. We were up there with Rembrandt and Vermeer.

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