"Yo' manager is a paedo, blud!"

We had possibly the last ever journo piss up last night, which was a bit gutting. It made everything seem so very final and it kind of hit home that I’m done with university life. Bugger. The night itself was good.

It started in the Ivy at 7 (although since I’m always fashionably late me and Goodacre strolled in at half past) for a few swift jars before heading on to Marcello’s. There was 14 of us which means the poor sods at Marcello’s probably had to knock a few walls through to fit us all in. As you can gather it’s not the largest place in the world so trying to fit in over a dozen slightly rowdy students was one hell of a struggle.

The food there was alright, nothing to write home about really. I got the Penne Arrabiata since on the menu it promised to be spicy. It wasn’t. It did look like something you could buy in Asda and hoy in the microwave for a few minutes and it tasted similar too but it filled a hole. The meal was somewhat soured by Hal trying to shiv me in the side with a butter knife as well as the headache I moaned about in yesterdays rant creeping back. The bill was £210 so, being students, we only gave them a tip of about £3.50. I still feel embarrassed about that now, especially considering we had to drag out the waiter to take our ‘team photo’ which I will post below.

The session then commenced. Straight into Varsity for drinks, shits and giggles. It was dead but that didn’t mean we got served any quicker at the bar since the one or two people serving were fucking atrocious. You’d have thought they were actually brewing the piss weak Fosters themselves rather than just pulling it. We found a table, sat down, slagged off people who weren’t there and the general state of our former course. Naughty words were said very loudly and we feigned interest in the replay of the Lions match which was on the screens near the bar.

The gaggle of preening fuckwits a few tables along started to sing Stand By Me so we upped and left of our own accord, which is a result for me as the last time I was in I was ejected for drawing on the walls (long story). By this time most people were making their excuses and leaving so only five or six of us were left out. We then moved on to Ttonic, mainly due to Chappers moaning he wanted to go somewhere where he could get mortal on the cheap. It was canny busy so we found what we thought was a quiet corner, unaware of the Bose speaker above our heads churning out shite dance. More general nattering occurred, including accusing Jamie of being a racist as he’s from Burnley. Bonkers came on and we all sat bobbing our heads going “It’s a choon this!” before the music reverted to type.

I saw a fairly interesting confrontation in the toilets between a lad having a piss and the bog attendant. Said pissy lad was turning around and berating the attendant about the team he supported, by shouting “Your manager is a paedophile!” at the top of his voice. It later emerged he meant Arsene Wenger, which I thought was hilarious in my slightly drunken state, mainly because I didn’t know the basis for his accusation. Was it simply because Wenger bought young talent or had he touched up the lad in question? Wish I’d asked now.

We finally decided to go clubbing and ended up in Blu Bambu due to the shocking selection of clubs on a Wednesday evening (Diva was shut. Gutting). It was quite prominently advertising the fact Neil from the Inbetweeners was appearing so we took up positions in the room upstairs overlooking the dance floor and stage. Neil wasn’t there but it seems that a lookalike was who was so unconvincing that the first time he got up on stage for a bit of a dance the bouncers actually tried to kick him off thinking he was some regular punter. That old break dancing bugger from Britain’s Got Talent was there too, standing on his head and generally being patronisingly cheered by all the gurning tarts on the dance floor.

Upstairs was a different kettle of fish. The DJ looked like he’d be more at home in some trendy Indie dive and his music selection confirmed as much (despite the fact he put on an awful remix of D.A.N.C.E. when I asked him to whack some Justice on). Highlight of the night had to be the Limp Bizkit/Papa Roach combo which made me feel like an angst ridden 13 year old again for all of six or seven minutes. Of all the things I expected shite nu-metal played in Bambu was very close to the bottom of the list.

Because we were fairly fucked by this time we had taken to sloshing or drinks about and spilling a fair amount. I almost went my length a couple of times on the ridiculously slippy floor, once when I was taking the piss out of Hal for nearly going arse over tit on the same spot. Eventually tedium set in and I made a swift exit.

Pizza from Chilinos and a taxi ride with the most blinkered Sunderland fan I have ever met ensued. The poor sod was dying to say they were going to qualify for the Champions League next year and spewed forth clichéd “It’s our time” sound bites. He dropped me off, I gave him my cash, I made some self depreciating comment about Newcastle playing Gateshead in a few seasons time and I struggled with my front door key. Happy days.

As promised here’s the group photo as well as some other stuff…

Top (L-R): Carter, Timlin, Hal, Goodacre, Chappers (Leaning down, calling me a wanker), Jamie, Raisbeck
Bottom (L-R): Angry Dave, Monica, Jen, Grainger, Myself, Bramble, Steve

Hal and I, after the knife fight

Steve having a cry

Big nose, bum chin

More photos will be put up later if I can be arsed.

P.S. - I feel I need to at least mention the ten minutes of near constant Lavelle impression, which were as always fantastic. It felt like everyone chipped in with one and they managed to be unique but at the same time exactly the same.