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Saturday night was the long-awaited Lads Night Out. Nick, Jac and I gathered at Michelle’s house, and packed the respective girlfriends off to a bar. After Jac had displayed his finest photos from his recent holiday, and sufficiently shown off his tan, we ventured down the The Stoke, a newly revamped bar on the way to the town centre. I immediately decided to start with a bang, and asked the tiny barmaid for a pint and a chaser each. “A what?” asked Jac, clearly out of touch with drinking terms. “A chaser,” I repeated, as a pint of Fosters and a shot of sambuca appeared in front of him.
We sat down for an hour or so, chin-wagging about past events, and highlighting the amusing recent revelation that Nick calls his trouser truncheon “Mr Whippy”. Nick, tired of out ice-cream based genital gags, tried to ignore the subject and offered ideas for our forthcoming trip to Dublin. Now, as the trip is essentially an excuse to get drunk for my birthday, I’ve been a little worried about conspiracies and pranks. These were only confirmed during my next trip to the bar, when upon my return the coded discussion was based around “Plan B”. The crafty rascals.
After a few more pints, and a discussion about “Old Molenose”, we took in the sights of RSVP bar, and wandered down to the bars of Lower Guildford. We smashed pint glasses in Edwards, stole a jacket in Bar Med, and entered The Drink nightclub to find our girlfriends, sozzled in a corner. A few cocktails later, and the night closed in, swirling away in an alcoholic mist…
The hangover was admirable. Jac’s pictures of the night equally so – here they all are.