Hey Rhys!

We did pub golf for Phil and Vicki’s joint stag-hen do. Pub golf is exactly like normal golf only without the course and clubs, and with a slightly greater emphasis on achieving drunkenness. I first flouted the rules in the Terriss Bar (sic), where I used the toilet in spite of the fact that it was a designated ‘water hazard’. I didn’t feel too bad. My bladder has always had its own agenda, and I respect it for that.

For the stag do proper, it’s ‘urban golf’ in Soho. This sounds like a euphemism for going round London clubbing homeless people with a five-iron (or whatever suits). But it’s an indoor driving range apparently.

I ended the pre-curry section of the pub golf night with a pissed actuary (is there really any need to name names?) trying to persuade me to buy the branch of Ottakar’s in which I work and sell it on to Sussex Stationers (or whoever). Even though it is one of a chain of 167 shops, he seemed quite confident that I would be able to ‘do a deal’, and I almost began to believe him.

Approaching forty now, I have myself been toying with the crazy idea of becoming an accountant (suggesting that I might be going through the dullest mid-life crisis ever). When I broached the subject with my friend Lindsey recently, she was very encouraging. ‘But do you think I’m petty and small-minded enough?’, I fretted. ‘Oh yes’, she reassured me.

By the way, Rhys thought I was dissing the Kaiser Chiefs a couple of entries back. I wasn’t. He also wanted me to mention him in this. I have.