Its party time, the type of party where I cook a pizza in a deserted house, listen to records, flick through Twitter and drink a few cans of beer. Everyone is out out, except for me, poor me, a lesser substitute for the absolute legend I used to be! Says me. It’s nearly 10pm and i’m thinking of going to bed to read my book. That’s rock and roll. Mrs T is in Dublin with the girls wrecking it like mentalists, 50 something year old mentalists, young T is at his mates farm where there is a brewery armed with a 4 pack of Ribena cider, he’ll be playing darts now, they’ve got a shit trophy which may well be passed on to his son or daughter if he gets to keep it. We once played a ridiculous card game for a trophy, more often the world championships spanned the whole weekend, and those who were knocked out could always play beam ball or yard cricket, then the babies started arriving, I think that happened after we kidnapped the YTS german wine seller and drank all of his conker nonsense. I’m willing to bet some of those bottles are still in the back of cupboards in the liminal space between pure alcohol and paint stripper. Halcyon days.

Night folks