Out. Nine hour days.
I’m in, out and shaking it all about.
Ha hey. Bletch and Flyd are out to play.
Did I go to the Palace game, Flyd?
Shouldn’t have let me have that wine gum beforehand.
Papster are you going to be there?
Doubt I’ll make it, will be in London til I don’t know when so will be touch and go. Always seem to miss the ones Bletch attends, pure coincidence honest
Can’t make drinks for this one.
Quick one after the game?
OK so. I’ll be meeting Bletch at the Rockstone at 6:30pm or thereabouts. Bletch informs me that he may well already be semi-comatose by the time I get there. What he’s failed to tell me is how I will know.
Depending on the way the wind is blowing he could well be paralytic on the beer fumes before he even walks through the door.
Yeah, None taken. Twats.
Pre drink pre footy drinks in Eastleigh at the mo.
You about tonight Big Bad Bob?
The South Western?
Then you can spoon* me onto the train.
*spoon here is not a sexual position.
Shit result. Good drinkees.