Scotland by London Welsh (or the best Saturday night i've had since I was 14 and did my first fingering)

FRIDAY
A late arrival. Due to my essex gym being on fire (seriously) I arrived, after 2hrs of sleep on the Thursday night, into "The Royal Mile" pub unsurprisingly situated on the Royal Mile. The beer flowed like wine and I was quickly "on the way".

GOD I love the Friday before international day. On to THE TRON, but which TRON did it relate to best? The upstairs was definately reminiscent of MorgaTRON - cosy, comfortable, serving food and darkness was certainly the medium. However, downstairs was the flip side, relating more to FergaTRON - loose women around, lots of beer flowing, willies coming out (just mine? sorry boys!) and there was an uncertain air about the atmosphere; you didn't really know what was gonna happen next.

After spending (in my opinion, far too) much time in the TRON, I abducted our young American Chicken (what was the name of the young american chicken in Chicken Run? This would be a good blog name) and took him off to the lively quarter of Edinburgh.
After paying a lot of entry fees to various clubs, we ended up in what was a cross between Zanzibars and Kiwis (on reflection, WHY did we not ALL end up there?!?!). ROCKY! That was the Chicken Run name! Mel Gibson, the Nazi warlord providing the voice.
Our boy ROCKY was on form with the drinks, not so much with the birds. I had my statutory kiss with a fat lummox and we called it a day - back to Radissons. A cosy, cultured cocktail with some other residents soon decended into chaos. I can't remember who exactly because I was "cunted" but I remember Morgs not having one shoe (SO FUNNY!) and our glorious leader ripping fuck into some attractive but pretentious early 30's Saxon female, it was golddust at one point - I believe something like "you know you want to fuck me really, i'm fucking lush, and you'll never do better again at your age" came out of his mouth. Sitting next to her was a male work colleague, who she was quite clearly going to bed with; he was not amused.


SATURDAY

I had one of my infamous match day sulks. I wasn't happy with waiting 5 mins for breakfast so i went to buy a shirt. Got back to the flat and there were willies everywhere, showering ready to go. Got mine out, played helicopters for Ferg cos I know how much he loves to see the magnitue of torque that is generated from the rotation. Out. Bookies. Olivers. Pints. I'll be blunt - the first tasted like Panda Piss. I'm not sure if bow with a splash of lemonade is allowed (please confirm), but I had to for the first couple.

There followed the worst five hours of the weekend. Eng v Italy. Poor show, lost money. There was another game, I refuse to comment. After that I was at a low. I needed a pick up big time. A confidence booster. Then she walked into my life...you can guess the one from Doug's pics. Those of you who can't guess clearly did not spend time with me during uni at 1:51am in Zanzibars/Cobarnas/Walkabouts in Newports. From there it was like playing the ladder game - each bird better than the last. Good times, it was indeed like being 16 again and tallying up the kissometer! It was dance dance dance - the Three Sisters was like a cattle market (size of fems & density of bodies). Where did we go then? Anyway, the boys who went know how it ended up on Sunday morning.

I now cannot wait until March 17th. I think we have a car pool from this end - Me, The Cock, The Aggressor and a potential LC from my gym. However he idolises The Papercut (sponsored by Tubigrip) so this may prove costly. Look sharp lads, the English are coming....