It's getting to the point where I'm looking forwards to the working week so I can have a bit of a rest. Maybe it's an age thing.
Friday night found me at Hall Green Greyhound Stadium. It was brother no. 1's Not-A-Stag-Night. You will recall that I helped him move house earlier this year. And I'm sure you'll be delighted to learn that he's still not a member of the Witness Protection Programme.
Anyway. He gets married next month in Las Vegas at the Little Chapel of Something or Other. Unfortunately, much as we'd love to, this side of a lottery win we can't spring to join them there. This is by design, too. I suspect that neither he nor his fiancee want a big family wedding with all the trimmings. And as part of this, he was definitely Not Having a Stag Night on Friday. No sir.
So a whole bunch of blokes of a certain age went to the greyhound stadium, drank way too much Guinness and talked bollocks about betting on greyhounds. Apparently, there is something called an all-ways trio bet. To the initiated, it is the Holy Grail. It's like your own personal ATM. It worked for bro. no. 1 - £110 back for a £3 bet was a result. For me it was like the RSPCA - I was just giving money to sick animals all evening.
The evening ended with us all chez brother no.1, eating Chinese food, drinking whisky (actually, whiskey - it was Jamiesons, I think) talking about football and listening to suitably blokey music. I believe that the band Squeeze were put on this planet for this exact purpose.