Bloody Marys in Leith

We start the day off with the now-traditional Globe cafe breakfast goodies, and lots of tea. The Blonde, The Geordie and myself had decided that we'd spend the day exploring in Leith. Despite the fact that I live in London and they live in Edinburgh; I'd been to Leith and they hadn't. The Blonde and I were going to hold day two of Edinburgh Camera Club, but since it was raining, I left my camera back at the flat and admitted that we'd probably just spend the day in the fine drinking establishments of Leith. It happened to be Valentine's Day and I received a card from The Blonde's small Beanie Baby hippo Hannibal, with a message saying "I love you, come back soon" and a photo of the small grey creature covered in cut-out paper hearts. Bit creepy, no?

The Blonde has criteria for pubs. She won't happily go into any rough local. When someone suggests a place to go that she's not been before, she asks if it's 'Blonde-friendly'. She stated categorically that she "wouldn't be going in any interesting-looking pubs" today.

After waiting for the bus forever in the rain, (the Edinburgh buses delight me with their tartan seat upholstery - tartan!) we went down to The Shore and found a swanky-looking bar, Bond No 9. We sat ourselves in the conservatory area, ordered Bloody Marys (brilliantly spicy) and made quite a lot of noise that was clearly disturbing the Valentine's couples who were trying to have a nice romantic moment, drinking tea and sharing a chocolate tart. Grumpy Scot came to join us, and we popped outside for a cigarette. Somehow, we began to talk about the fact that The Geordie has an addiction to sugar-free Polo mints, escalating to him being in possession of more than one pack at a time over the weekend. We suggested that merely eating them would not be enough of a minty hit, and soon enough he'd be grinding them up and 'chasing the minty dragon.'

Back in the conservatory, with The Blonde elegantly chasing her paracetamol with Bloody Mary, we discussed anti-Valentine's day tunes in light of the shockingly bad funk-love-disco the bar insisted on playing. I think The Geordie won, with his suggestion of,

"Smack My Bitch Up?"

We had to leave the poncy bar at this point because none of us could take the music any longer. We went off by Leith Water to find a 'proper pub'. And that we did. The King's Wark is a lovely old building with a cosy atmosphere, nice staff and really good crisps. We settled into a nice corner table by the fire and proceeded to chat about crap. At one point, the boys had gone off somewhere and The Blonde and I are discussing something groundbreaking like how much she 'loves clouds', when she tells me to look out of the window.

As I do, I see the nice lady who'd dropped the bracelet at the Hot Chip gig walk past the window. How bizarre. I think we have some unfinished business.

Later on, the conversation turned to Kanye West, Taylor Swift and Jay-Z. The Geordie declares he has a particular issue with Jay-Z,

"I still get alarmed by the size of his face."

What do you say to that?

We round off the weekend with a classy Chinese buffet at Jimmy Chung's, a place that The Blonde and The Geordie hold dear in their hearts; and had visited just a couple of days before. I had that thing where you're really hungry but then get full really quickly. We did however assault the desserts. I'd previously had a text from The Blonde last time they were there, saying,

"In Chinese buffet - The Geordie goes 'the puddings are pre-portioned but that's ok. I can get round that, I'll just get lots of portions.' "

Despite my declarations of being full and not wanting to eat anymore, I promptly managed to work my way through three bowls of cheap ice cream. It's rude not to at a buffet.

I passed Jimmy Chung's again the next morning as I went to the station to depart for London and felt mildly nauseous...

Camera Club & Hot Chip

I awake to find The Geordie watching his favourite programme in the lounge (America's Best Dance Crew) and muttering comments to himself,

"Oh that is so East Coast....I wonder how Diversity would fare?"

The Blonde and I sent The Geordie to the cafe on the corner for much-needed English breakfast items, this weekend we discovered how amazing it is to stick a couple of hash browns on the sandwiches too. We ate breakfast and drank tea, I had the audacity to flick through the TV channels and left it on Saturday Kitchen. The Geordie took a swig of tea from his Zac Efron High School Musical Mug and stated,

"We're not watching this. Too gay." He promptly switched it back to America's Best Dance Crew and asked,

"Want to split a can of Red Stripe?"

We said no, of course not. This became the catch-phrase of the weekend as he'd previously told me straight-faced how both him and the also funemployed Blonde had "split a can of Tennent's" before they went to run errands at the Post Office. It's definitely a good thing that he's headed back to work as of Monday.

The Blonde and I decided to take full advantage of the sunny Edinburgh day and got ready to head out of the door with our cameras.

The Geordie: "Camera Club is too gay for me. Bye, gaylord gang."

We stroll up the hill from Stockbridge to Edinburgh castle, along the way I bitch a bit as I am starting to perspire the cocktails from the night before, and we encounter unbelievable masses of tourists. The Blonde restrains herself from assaulting one of them. We take some lovely shots of the city along the way, despite The Blonde's almost-fell-over moments which totalled around six. We're both stood under a building at one point, taking a shot of a golden eagle sculpture on the side of the wall and as she's playing with her focus and angle, I announce,

"I LOVE camera club." The Blonde almost falls over again.

We mill around at the top of the hill by the castle entrance, and stop to get a drink. I get overexcited about the Jelly Belly jellybean stand and promptly spend four hangover-induced pounds on sweets. I have a weakness for the cinnamon ones. However, learn from my mistakes. One, jalapeno flavoured ones are not pleasant. Two, they're even worse if you happen to eat one as you're drinking Diet Coke.

After a nice stroll back down the Royal Mile to Holyrood and the stunning Scottish Parliament building, we fit in a Mexican snack at a cute diner then head back to the flat to get ready for Hot Chip.

HMV Picture House is a good little venue, just like the Forum in Kentish Town. After a drink in a seriously dodgy pub beforehand, we go and bag ourselves a table at the bar before Casio Kids come on. This is where The Geordie goes to the bar and The Blonde laments the fact she has to watch Alphabeat there with him next month. I asked her to keep her voice down.

I knew of some of Casio Kids stuff and really liked it, so I was expecting them to be ok but not as good as they actually were. Lovely Scandi electro beats with ethereal choruses and harmonies and interchangeable musicians and singing. Lovely.

The Blonde had gone to the loo at one point and The Geordie was holding both their pints. Suddenly he looks down at the floor as it felt like something had hit his leg. I bent down to pick it up and it became clear that this was not some arsey Scot who'd chucked their keys at Steve because of the amount of spraywax in his hair, but in fact a beautiful chunky Prada bracelet that had clearly fallen off someone.

We looked about and saw a very coolly dressed couple, I asked the girl if it was hers. The delight and relief on her face was so worth giving it back. She gushed her thanks and we of course said no worries, glad to give it back to you. Nice to get involved in some good gig karma.

Five minutes later, she came over to us with drinks for us all and smiled again. How kind! She did disappear at one point backstage and we all hoped that she was some sort of A&R bigshot and we'd get invited backstage to meet the bands. We didn't.

Despite the good gig karma, there was a distinctly weird vibe at the concert. For a start, lots of horrible teenagers with no concept of personal gig space. It was telling that none of them had beers in their hands. We drank ours smugly behind them and stopped The Blonde kicking off with them. At one point I made my way to the ladies', only to encounter in there a large gaggle of really pissed up Glaswegian girls. One said something to me that I didn't understand, then shouted "Only jokin'!!" and flung herself at me, planting a big smacker on my cheek. The smell of cheap, vanilla lipgloss that you use when you're fifteen filled my nostrils and I smiled politely and left her presence as quick as possible. Eurgh. When I asked The Blonde to help me wipe the goo off my cheek, she visibly hesitated.

So, Hot Chip. Sheer brilliance. I've seen them once before and you can't help but be moved by the deep, layered electro beats and gorgeous vocals. The crowd was absolutely loving them. Highlights for me were One Pure Thought and Over and Over. Makes you want to rave while also being a singalong. Genius.

During the set, I took myself off to smoke outside and do a bar run. I weaved my way through the packed crowd, carrying the empty stacked plastic pint pots from my previous drinks. The top cup had about half a pint left. Suddenly, some idiothole bloke who thought he was hilarious shouted "Ah thanks very much!" and slammed his empty plastic cup into my drink. I just looked at him, shocked, then from nowhere, found myself shouting,

"I was still drinking THAT!!"

As I uttered it, I flung the stack of plastic cups and the remaining beer at him. It was his turn to look shocked. In slow-motion it dawned on me that I was at a gig in Edinburgh. There was a high possibility that the man was Glaswegian. So I ran.

Luckily I didn't encounter him again during the gig, and made it out in one piece. We went home via the rough-stagdo-men-shouting "weeeeuuurrrrrrgh" Grassmarket for post-gig food, and made our way home so that The Blonde and The Geordie could bicker about what we watched on the TV.

The Bramble Beavers

Another weekend in The Burgh with Grumpy Scot, The Blonde and The Geordie. This time for long-awaited Hot Chip gig that we booked ages ago. I wasn't sure my wallet or liver could take it after last time, but since I'm always up for a challenge, I dutifully boarded the train (with a well-packed suitcase this time, instead of my usual shambolic tipsy packing) and settled down for scenic four hour ride up England.

I'm not sure if I emit some sort of oddball-beacon only recognised by those with social/learning/general mental difficulties; or whether I inadvertantly book travel tickets through a system that contains a secret filter with a hidden 'tick this box if you want to be unnerved by a freak for your journey', but I generally get sat next to mentals.

I'm sat on my seat at the table, browsing Facebook on my laptop, when we stop at Peterborough. Passengers shuffled on and off the train, I am pretty much ignoring everyone and blasting out the new Yeasayers album in my earphones. Suddenly, a woman in her late forties announces The Blonde's full name very loudly. I take out my earphones and not understanding what she means or knowing why she has just said my friend's name loudly, I ask, "....WHAT?"

She stands next to the table, packing up her cagoul and putting her rambler's rucksack in the luggage rack above our heads while her husband gets himself into the window seat opposite me at the table, and nods at my Facebook page.

"The Blonde. [She said her full real name, obviously] I'm one too, same surname."

I am baffled: "Oh. Right. Do you know The Blonde then, are you related?"

Mad Woman: "No."

Me: "....Right."

A couple of things here I need to say. Firstly, yes I might well be looking at my Facebook on public transport, but don't have a good gawp at my newsfeed page then bloody comment on it. Secondly, if you are going to comment on it, have something constructive to say. Not something bonkers and conversationally a cul-de-sac.

I knew this funny couple were going to be entertaining. During the journey I watched them have a conversation involving lots of miming because they both had their iPod earphones in. Take your earphones out. They then unpacked their little packed lunches and ate in unison. I was particularly disturbed when the starey-eyed Mad Woman maintained eye contact for longer than socially acceptable unless you're about to seduce/murder someone. I got a bit itchy and slightly concerned when her and the husband then watched each other eat Wotsits in slow synchronicity. I mentally clocked where the guard was likely to be, and weighed up again the possibilities of using a Dell laptop as a defensive weapon.

Just to up the crazy rating a little more, a middle-aged lady came and sat with us at York. She was thin and dour and part of me took a little pleasure in knowing that she was able to see my Facebook and Twitter pages, both rather sweary. She settled down, popped on her reading glasses and began to copy out passages from the Bible. Part of me toyed with the idea of starting a Dawkins-style evolutionary debate with her, or making a call on my mobile to the Grumpy Scot and telling him 'I believe in Science.' I refrained though. She then proceeded to eat from two tupperware containers, one containing plain brown rice and one containing boiled celery. I wanted to start a party for her there and then.

Finally, I reached Edinburgh without having been preached to or chopped up into little bits by the mad people. After dropping my stuff off at the flat, The Blonde and The Geordie and I went out for lunch. We discussed The Geordie's new job and how the interview went.

"Aye, it was a short interview. They basically didn't give me chance to fuck it up."

We wandered about in the city and saw that since it was Valentine's weekend, poetry was going to be projected onto the castle during the evening, and there was some sort of poem treasure hunt in a square. The Blonde and I casually said that this was rather nice and maybe we should go along. The Geordie gave his usual cultural critique.

"Sounds gay."

We ventured out for the evening a bit later on, 'just for a quiet one' since the main night was going to be busting some moves to Hot Chip on the Saturday night. We had pleasant drinks in Hectors and went on to eat at a simple, chic Italian restaurant which does great food, Amore Dogs. (Though prior to the first time we visited, I'd asked The Blonde where we were going for tea. When she'd said 'Dogs' I thought we were going to eat a pie while watching a greyhound chase a dummy rabbit.) I was naughty and had dessert, and promptly fell in love with both the sexy waiter and the white chocolate and orange semifreddo. Yum.

The Blonde was trying to persuade me to go to an 80s night, but I was tired and said no, let's just go for one more quiet drink somewhere. Quite by chance, we chose Bramble 'for a quick cocktail'. It was a cool underground bar with a nice mix of people in, and not too hot and packed as cellar bars can sometimes be. They had a DJ who was playing some brilliant old-school hiphop, Bowie, dub, Beastie Boys and electro. We decided to 'just stay for one more'. This turned into inviting Grumpy Scot and some of his friends to come and meet us and enjoy such cocktails as The Saint and some concoction involving 15 year vintage malt that The Blonde had.

The Geordie: "You look happy. Is it because you had a fifteen year old in your mouth?"

By this time we'd bagged ourselves a little vaulted room with benches and cushions and were all getting on down to such treats as Amerie's One Thing and Stay Just a Little Bit Longer from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. Not to mention the photographic evidence of The Blonde and I totally busting it to MC Hammer. Yes, we're cool. And we know it.

We'd happily hit our cocktail/vodka drinking stride, maybe too happily. Drinks were going down very quickly.

Me: "I don't know where my drink is going."

The Geordie: "I know, mine too. It's those bloody Bramble Beavers, they keep stealing our cocktails!"

Me: "Little shits!"

The Geordie: "What is weird is that they're also helping themselves to the same cash equivalent from my wallet.... Toothy twats!"

It was about this point that The Blonde slipped backwards down a small step, recovered and tried to look nonchalant like it never happened. The best part was that we all saw it. And laughed.

Our 'one drink' had turned into the bar no longer serving as it was gone 2am so we trundled back down the hill to Stockbridge for a little nightcap while watching the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics. I found it dull but The Geordie stayed up until 5am. I left the room for bed, humming the Blame Canada song from Southpark: The Movie.

The Weekend to End All Weekends Part II: "Point on the doll to where she touched you."

***Another blog you might not want to read if you're easily offended with jokes about anything PC...


I wake up with the sunshine blinking through the blinds, wondering where I am for a second. Then I realise the carnage (and the vodka) from the night before. My pain receptors wake up and smash me in the eyesockets while I try to work out if I actually did lick a sponge during the night, or whether it just felt like that. I groan a bit and stumble out of bed in search of tea.

I find everyone in the lounge. I am greeted by the sight of The Geordie, a six-foot-something bloke, wrapped up in The Blonde's baby pink slanket. He'd kindly let me share his marital bed with The Blonde while he passed out on the sofa. At first I felt this was a very kind gesture, within ten minutes I'd be thinking otherwise. I take the piss heartily out of The Geordie before The Blonde merrily announces,

"Morning love, sorry but I felt you up in the night. I thought you were The Geordie and had a little grope."

I am too hungover to process this information but I vaguely feel it's not the way to break to a person that they were accidentally molested in the night by their best friend. I open my mouth to protest, or ask what the fuck she's talking about, when she continues.

"You see, Geordie has a nice full bum and it's got a lovely curve and I always give it a rub [she demonstrates the action in case I don't fully grasp the ins and outs of my sexual assault] when I want a cuddle. But then I realised something didn't feel right and I lifted the covers and it was you."

The Geordie interjects, "Ah, was it hairy?"

Not only have I been a bit violated, but I'm also being mocked while I found out about it. I feel like I am in an episode of Jeremy Kyle. But with slankets.

The Blonde: "...I either rub his bottom or I put my hand up around his chest, so you're lucky I didn't grab a hand full of your tits."

Me: "Lucky you didn't try give him a bloody reacharound," I mumble while hunting for tea to wash away the shame and confusion.

Back in the lounge, everyone's monged out and Mr Lincoln for some reason has a towel on his lap. The Blonde is on surprisingly good form considering the night before and mocks him about having an erection. He gets grumpy and fires back,

"I've got a receding hairline too, you want to have a pop at that too?"

We piss ourselves.

None of us are capable of much except goading The Geordie to go and get us sausage baps from the cafe, but first we flick through some tv. The Hollyoaks omnibus comes on with the dude in the corner signing for the deaf audience.

The Blonde quickly yells, "Turn it over, The Geordie can't handle it! Turn it over!"

I ask what's going on and the Geordie explains that he feels physically sick when they have a signer and bizarrely can't cope with it. We then discover that Mr Lincoln can't handle the TV volume on odd numbers. The Geordie affirms that this is normal and admits he has to have it in multiples of five. I am searching around for signs that I accidentally went to sleep in a Special Hospice and woke up in the Day Room where the residents wear slankets and have comforting towels on their laps in case of accidents.

When I'm feeling delicate, I can't cope with randomness. Or stairs. Or noise. The Blonde, sitting by the window comes out with a classic Blonde line as a man jogs past.

"There's a man running! Oh, he's stopped now."

After some restorative tea and sausage bap, I drag myself to the shower to cleanse my pores of the alcohol from the evening before. As I'm getting ready in the spare room, attempting to mask the hangover with expensive makeup, I overhear The Geordie,

"I don't like contemporary individual dance but I do like a dance troupe."

Add this to the previous evidence that he's the World's Most Rubbish Gay Man. And the fact he made me a brew in a Zac Efron mug earlier.

As I try and bury the guilt of the sexual misdemeanour during the night, it seems The Blonde is hellbent on telling everyone we encounter throughout the day. This prompts The Geordie, in a cab, to say loudly,

"Point on the doll to where she touched you" and they all piss themselves again.

The Edinburgh lot are a hardcore group of Northerners, so I get dragged to the pub again 'for lunch'. What they failed to mention was the two pints of Tennants for starters. We go to the Bank bar which is where I have sat with Crayons and Slats before, crying our eyes out, after being thoroughly terrified and distressed after embarking on the Auld Reekie tour of Niddry Street vaults. I felt like I was going to faint and be sick, and there was definitely something touching the back of my legs. (That time, it wasn't The Blonde.)

We sat in a little back ante-room before the Bank Hotel reception. The dark wood panelling was pleasing to my sensitive eyes and I was still very much in my hungover state. Fittingly, Stone Roses were playing as we all have a Manchester connection and we smile at each other. Then, a guy comes out quite forcefully of the wood-pannelled door behind Mr Lincoln and catches his chair, we guffaw as he shoots the guy a look like he's actually going to kill him.

The Geordie is happily tucking into the beer again as I nurse my lager shandy, he's had about a third of his pint,

"I'm almost ready for my next pint!" he exclaims then berates me for not having the 'Red Stripe loosener' him and The Blonde had at the flat. I feel queasy.

We wander along the Royal Mile and I gulp in bracing Scottish air and take some shots in the gorgeous winter sunlight. The Geordie perpetuates his own legend by exclaiming that he once got lost in the bridal section of Jenners department store.

Just to fuck with my addled brain a bit more, the lunch venue is Deacon Brodie's tavern; a traditional Scottish restaurant with tartan carpet and steep stairs into a dark, crowded restaurant room. I almost wobble over with stimulation.

Over lunch, Grumpy Scot and I discuss how The Blonde is a sex molester and The Geordie (due to him fancying very young girl bands) is one of those people who loves kids in the wrong way. In a conversational flourish we couldn't have made up, Grumpy Scot follows on our conclusion that they're a sex crime gang with the opening gambit of,

"I'll tell you a paedophile joke."

I, unthinkingly in the middle of eating my roast and getting a bit giggly, exclaim, "Let me swallow first."

Needless to say I practically spit my beer out all over the table.

We get dragged to a Sports Bar to watch the United game, with joy of joys, really fucking twisty and steep spiral stairs. It takes all my concentration to not fall down them or vomit. As we sit down and discuss what drinks to order, Grumpy Scot tries to be clever and order some pitchers of beer. The Geordie then establishes that he's ordered four two pint pitchers between eight of us. So we may have well all ordered our own drinks.

The Geordie, "Two pint pitchers? That's just a big glass."

The bar is rammed with football revellers and we're sat by a huge screen and massive speakers. I've still not got all my faculties back and am feeling a little under par, and I keep mishearing what people are saying.

Grumpy Scot, who's from a little fishing town outside Edinburgh, mutters something and I say, "what?"

He says it again. "WHAT?"

Ironically he's trying to tell me a joke about a bus full of deaf people but I mishear.

By this time I am utterly confused, close to childish tears and feel really deaf so I simper,

"You're trying to tell me a joke about Musselburgh deaf people...?!"

The Blonde cracks up and I don't even think it's because it was that funny but all three of us were suddenly in hysterics and hooting really loudly. I cried off my eyeliner and couldn't breathe for a good ten minutes.

It develops into 'Musselburgh Deaf Society' and we decide this will be the name of our first album or the company we all run when we're older. At that point, it literally was the funniest thing we'd all ever heard and we periodically creased up, wetting ourselves all afternoon. The rest of the table didn't think it was that funny.

The giddy mood continued as we piled back to The Geordie and The Blonde's flat to get our trackies on and lounge around. The Geordie made us wonderful Orange Grey Goose & tonics and we ordered pizza. I'd already been told in no uncertain terms by him earlier that,

"Seeing as you're stopping with us, you'll do what we do tonight. Dominos and Dancing on Ice."

Fine by me, being a secret ice skating geek and lifelong Torvill & Dean fan. The Blonde and I establish that Christopher Dean, for some unfathomable reason, you would.

We comment on how Sharon Davies is so uber tall, it might have been more entertaining for the viewers if she'd been partnered with a really short male partner.

I pipe up, "Dancing with Dwarves!"

The Geordie outdoes me flawlessly, "Dwarfing on Ice."

There's a lot of discussion as to why they insist on putting Davies in what's essentially a sparkly swimming costume each week. In a quiet moment, everyone is digesting pizza and The Geordie casually says about one of the male skaters,

"He's got the hair of a rapist...."

The Weekend to End All Weekends Part I: "If you jizz on my car..."

**This may be my most potty-mouthed and inappropriate blog post yet so if you're nice and you don't swear and you don't talk about things that are guaranteed to make you go to Hell, you probably shouldn't read on.


A triple celebration. A journey almost thwarted by a sick passenger requiring paramedics; a suicide attempt off a viaduct in Durham and the disabled passenger alarm being set off. A sunny, crisp long weekend in a glorious city. It was bound to be epic.

The journey was a mastercourse in overcoming obstacles. I thought I might implode after the three incidents above, so when a guy began having the loudest conversation ever with his companion, and then decided to go through every single one of his shitty ringtones, I lost it.

Me: "Are you actually going to go through every ringtone on your handset?"

He thought for a second. ".....yes."

Shit. I hadn't seen that one coming.

Me: "Well..... could you not since there do happen to be other people in this carriage and we don't appreciate it."

He looked sheepish finally and gave in. I felt like punching the air. Woohoo, I spoke up for the people! In your face, cretin.

The weekend had been carefully, militarily planned to be a surprise for The Blonde's 30th by The Geordie. Someone had already let slip I was coming, (good one) so The Blonde was expecting me now, but not the party and all the other guests.

I arrived at St Vincent's pub in lovely Stockbridge and met The Blonde, The Geordie and their other guests Mr Lincoln and Mini Haha. We all knew each other from previous work, so I'd been sat at the table literally a matter of seconds with a V&T before the conversation turned to Basshunter's self-proclaimed self-pleasuring record of twenty five in one day. The boys compared records and what their mates had boasted to them, while I tried to stop the aural trauma by cooing over the cutest puppy ever, a Jack Russell called Bella who was chomping on a toy on her owner's lap on the next table. At this point I worried what the night would bring if it was 4pm and we'd already plumbed such depths. As it turns out, it was the most quote-filled weekend I've ever experience where there were several points that I thought might die of laughter. The dynamic of our communication is essentially hurling abuse at each other.

We trailed home from the pub to go and hang out at The Blonde and The Geordie's new flat, took the piss out of Mr Lincoln for having a little suitcase on wheels that made him look like an air steward and generally arsed about like overexcited children.

The Blonde: "Look, look at my little car, isn't she cute?!" She's very proud of her sporty little Smartcar.

Mr Lincoln: "....I'm going to piss on it."

Someone else piped up that he might in fact try and break Basshunter's record in the vicinity of The Blonde's car. At this very point we were also being directed which way to walk to get home.

Quick as flash she hit back,

"If your jizz goes anywhere near my car... turn left, dickhead." We fell about laughing as we knew that this was just the beginning of memorable, alcohol-fuelled quips to come.


Back at the flat we had a tour and cracked open the champagne to celebrate The Blonde's 30 years of being fabulous. I gave her a card thanking her for being such a good friend and she started welling up. The Blonde, whose 'tough-love' was famous at work, the woman who would tell you to sort your life out and stop crying like a little girl if you had a weepy moment. I then presented her with the photo album I'd made with pictures of us and our mutual friends over the last rollercoaster two years. She fully sobbed. I actually called our awesome friend Crayons to tell her "I'd cracked the blonde! I did it! She does have a heart!"

We drank more champagne and messed around in the flat and Mr Lincoln inexplicably set fire to his breadstick before eating it. I started taking snaps of the boys sat on the sofa. I showed them the shots,

The Geordie: "Oooh I look muscular in that one....not in a rapey way though."

Mr Lincoln: "Yeah, in a muscular dystrophy way."

The Blonde thought we were going to a posh Italian for a small civilised dinner. We got dolled up, The Geordie spent more time in the bathroom than anyone.

"Spray hair wax!.... Not just for gays!"

We examined the facts. He is obsessed with The Saturdays, Alphabeat and Little Boots and slips into worryingly rehearsed-looking song and dance routines with the Blonde, apropos of nothing. They're like Same Difference off that crappy talent show the other year. They segue into perfect harmonies and he maintains his stage-school eye contact as he sings emphatically at you. The only thing about The Geordie is that he isn't sexually attracted to men. This, we decided, makes him the Most Rubbish Gay ever.

Once we'd dragged him away from the mirror, we made our way into Edinburgh centre, to 'stop off for a quick drink' in 99 Hanover St before going to the restaurant. What The Blonde didn't know was that lots of her friends had travelled from all over the UK to gather behind a black curtain at the back of the bar. We went through 'Ooooh where shall we sit?' deception and shoved her into a room of her closest friends where she promptly burst into tears again. Yessssss, twice in one day.

Everyone had a lovely time eating and drinking, mainly drinking which was my mistake. We had lovely cupcakes and I got snapped eating one which has now got me a reputation as a podgy Florence & The Machine cupcake-eating lookalike. We then went on to Lulu's club which was a short walk around the corner. The Blonde had a few drinks in her by this point and was wearing perilously high stilettos so marched off to find a taxi the few hundred yards. We left her asking a cab driver who'd obviously questioned the distance, "Do you know who I am? It's my birthday!"

Lulu's involved blurry photos of everyone getting more and more drunk. I found myself with a vodka tonic in my hand all the time, which was rather pleasant. I don't remember that much of it except the music being loud electro house, and having to yell to have conversations with people. Or else get a little too intimately close just to make polite conversation about what you do for a living etc. I do recall being sat opposite the drunken Grumpy Scot and both of us taking it in turns to shout an In The Loop quote at each other then giggling a lot,

"I would love to give you... a long, hard, disciplinary hearing..."

I decided that wading through the crowd to get to the bar was a really good idea at gone 2am. I made my way to the front then stood there for a good fifteen minutes, being ignored by the bar man. I was kind of appalled to realise that the girl at the bar next to me was being felt up, possibly more, by the guy behind her and he was pratically involving me in this because it was so crowded. As The Geordie pointed out later on, it was an inadvertant threesome by proxy. Thanks, Edinburgh.

I started to get pissed off with waiting at the bar and began considering showering the people next to me with ice, but luckily The Blonde came and found me to go home. By this point in the evening she had what The Geordie refers to as 'the wild hair and wild eyes.' We stumbled outside and waited for The Blonde to remove her shoes to carry home. She was wearing no coat and no shoes but gamely hobbled on, avoiding glass and gravel whilst clinging on to Mr Lincoln. Halfway down the hill, she turned to The Geordie and said simply, "I need your shoes." I was actually moved as he didn't bat an eyelid, didn't question it and quietly stepped out of his shoes and put them in front of her feet. That's love that is.