"I like his cool headgear."

SATURDAY

We gather in the kitchen, feeling mostly alright except The Blonde. The Geordie opens the traditional can of breakfast Tennent's and flicks through telly on his iPad.

"Ooh Puffin, this sounds like your sort of programme - 'Ashley Banjo's Secret Street Crew'." (Geordie loves street dance programmes. He's 39 and straight.)

We all piss ourselves at the show's title.

"Imagine that's your name! 'Pleased to meet you, I'm Billy Trumpet.'"

The Blonde potters about the kitchen, laughing at The Punk's amazing facial expression as he needed to sneeze and burp at the same time, so looked out of the window at some light to try and make either happen. She oversees Geordie watching the cricket. She likes to comment on sports from time to time.

"Is Monty Panesar playing?"

"Yes."

" I love Monty. I love his cool headgear."

".....his cool headgear?"

She looks pleased with herself. "Yeah, his cool headgear that he wears?"

Geordie looks incredulous. "You can't refer to it as cool headgear, he's a fucking Sikh."

"Oh." Her face falls.

We go over last night's events, including the time The Blonde barked at the Punk,

"Where's my handbag? WHERE'S MY HANDBAG?"

"It's on your fucking arm."

"Oh."

The Blonde looks thoughtful.

"You're very patient with me, Punk."

Geordie looks up from cricket coverage. "That's because he's JUST fucking met you."

So as not to waste the day of drinking opportunities that stretches out before us, we decide to get ready to go into town. Geordie frets over the fact there's a little hole in the bathroom door.

"But people will want to check out my junk." We don't. He's safe.

Our first port of call was a pub imaginatively called Tiles, because it was covered in tiles. We had a pint and the Blonde launched into a story, slagging someone off, her favourite topic.

"...her boyfriend's a right dickhead - he told me he wanted to take me down the passage by Paperchase, and you know...." She made a gesture with her hand.

Geordie looked alarmed. "Finger you?!"

The Blonde looked confused. "No, I was picking the skin off my finger."

Geordie told us about a glorious moment that we missed the night before as we slept, where The Blonde sat on the toilet, hammered, and blew her nose. She's currently obsessed with Danish dramas and inexplicably felt the need to explain to the Geordie what exactly it was all about.

"SO - Borgen. Borgen is..... congestion. Borgen is congestion, right. BUT - Borgen can also be anything you want."

"And then she sicked herself to sleep," he explained.



Soon enough it was time for The Blonde's birthday dinner, a civilised gathering at a cosy French restaurant in town. Blonde introduces her work friend.

"Have you met Sunni? She's 6ft, from Iceland, 24 and beautiful. Dickhead."

Down our end of the table, between eating frog's legs and snails, we discussed some of the horrific photos of me that had been taken during the previous evening and that day.

"I look really special in pictures."

The Grumpyscot agrees. "Basically, you're Joey Deacon with a red bob."

We move on to a rowdy bar full of dressed-up Edinburghers dancing to RnB. As we sit outside and smoke, The Blonde accosts random strangers for photos.

"Do you know who I am? It's my birthday! Did you know it was my birthday?" There's a brilliant photo of one poor stranger bloke in the middle of The Blonde and Mrs Yang, looking basically frightened for his life. During the evening, we get accidental triple measure drinks, Blonde falls over at least three times, and I see a poor girl sat in the corner at 2am by herself, crying into her pink martini. On the way home, police patrol the streets, herding drunk people. The Blonde gets inexplicably worried that we'll get arrested by them simply for talking a bit loudly.

She then proceeds to abuse Geordie for no reason on the way home.

"You RUINED my birthday, you dick!" He just laughed.