Turned up at beautiful Julia's for a party. Turns out, I'm an hour early, so I stomp off to the Champion for a swift drink.
I'd forgotten how... bland... the Champion is. The average age of the clientele appears to be the same as the Tory Party. But, sat in my corner, thinking profound thoughts and reading rent boy adverts, I was distracted.
A young, fit bloke with a stylismo-goatee wandered past, heading out into the rain-soaked beer garden. He paused, "Would you like to smoke a joint?"
This was Vinnie. A smart, clever boy from Sydney - who was monged off his face, but appallingly friendly and diverting. He worked the entire pub like a smooth politician, and eventually agreed to come to Julia's party.
I'd gone from being an hour early to three hours late, and had turned up with a pissed, giggling Aussie beefcake, who proceeded to run around the party, complimenting the women, yelling with the men, and occasionally showing off his muscles.
I just sat there baffled, through a thin haze of hash and red wine. Serge was set next to me (married to the lovely Gemma). Serge always strikes me as unflappable - and was amused in a Cheshire Cat way by the obstreperous Oz boy who was rampaging through the Ferero Rocher.
Vinnie and I ended up outside - there was a queue for the loo, Vinnie needed a piss, so we went looking for the garden - and, of course, bumped into an angry guy from the flat below, who'd come to complain about the noise. Vinnie charmed him, and then we headed off for the lawns.
It took us a while to get back into the flat.
Twenty minutes later, Serge opened the door as it was being hammered down. At it was Vinnie, me, and vengeful neighbour, screaming his head off, demanding the noise was turned down, vowing to call the police, and yelling "And I want these two to leave NOW!"
While the owner of the flat went to calm down the Vengeful Neighbour, Serge turned to me, "What was all that about?"
"I think he doesn't like your taste in music," I explained. "Plus, we had sex in the lift."