Kevin likes to celebrate Bristmas

Bristmas report:

Bristol's grey when we arrive. Bristol's grey when the sun's out but today it's cloudy and miserable. It's drinking weather, but not the good kind. It's lets-shut-ourselves-in-a-smoky-room-and-watch-the-football drinking weather. So we do, and have half a dozen warm-up beers before the meal. We -- Gilly, shameful and myself -- are joined by one of our hosts, Duffy. In another pub, just across from the flat, a local at an adjacent table interjects herself into, and then hijacks, our conversation (music careers, money, and dating older men). Duffy tells us this is common in Bristol. Seems to be a weekend for such talkative strangers, as the night before we had experienced a similar conversation (fishing, working for the RAF, pub loyalty) with an old man back in the Distant Past.

Cuisine of the night is Mexican. This means sangria and nachos, tortilla wraps and christmas crackers that seem oddly out of place. Being unadventurous me, I choose steak for my main course. It is a good choice in the end, and my neighbours are envious of my dinner (especially the guy to my left when he sees the bones and fish-head he has just been served).

One girl refers to me as 'The guy I see on the stairs', which is . . . strange. I wonder, briefly, whether I'm the kind of person who blends into the background at work. I've never considered myself as such. Sure, I'm not particularly charming or good-looking, but tall people stand out in a crowd, and irritating people who think they're funny tend to stick in the memory, right? I've seen this girl plenty of times in the three or so months she's been here, yet the couple of times I've passed her on the stairs are the ones that stick in her memory. As I said: strange. I wonder if this is a good thing. I suppose it's better to be unmemorable than to be 'guy who stares at my arse in the canteen'.

During the meal I sit next to an Australian girl. Somehow I completely forget to mention the rugby to her and manage to pass the meal without really taking the piss once. Surprising, but even more so for the fact that I'm not directly trying to pull her. Nice girl, and I do have this thing for foreign women, but I get the impression that she doesn't like me that much. I blame my lack of piss-taking on the beer. Normally I would have destroyed any notion she might have had about there being any nice men in England by the time the starters had been brought out.

Shameful lives up to his moniker.

Groove Armada are at the Bristol Academy, so at about 0030hrs Killer gets the idea to go over there. I'm not a big fan of this sort of music (or this sort of event), but I have to admit that it's actually quite good. They get the dancefloor moving, and at that time of night (and a dozen pints down the line) that's all that really matters. I refuse to call it live music, however. You can describe it how you like, but at the end of the day it's still just guys playing records.

At one point towards the end of the night, one guy taps me on the shoulder and says 'those girls are fucking great.' I look up, and sure enough there are now two women behind the decks. They don't appear to be doing anything. They could be hot, but at this distance and with the smoke in the air it's kind of hard to tell. Yeah, I say, trying to sound as if I completely agree with him. He carries on dancing.

Back at the flat, Gilly insists on watching our host's Bo Selecta DVD. I'm not a fan of Bo Selecta -- in fact I think it's fairly fucking moronic, with only the occassional funny line -- but with nowhere else to go I watch it. I finally get to turn in at 0530hrs (it's winter so it's not quite daylight outside yet), but only four hours later I'm awoken by Shameful and company returning. Two hours later I'm back on the motorway, and the car journey pushes me dangerously close to ending the weekend by being sick. I somehow manage to save face.

Kevin likes to watch BBC News 24

Getting back from Bristol, I discover that American forces have captured Father Christmas after an eight month search. Bastards :)

Kevin likes to test

I've got to stop following the links on Tempest's page . . .

What Famous Leader Are You?

Later . . .