Sunday, 16 March 2008

Par. Tay.

My friend Mike - star of stage, screen and IT helpdesk - is now 34. This is worth celebrating. Seriously, it is. I knew him back in the day when his driving style owed quite a bit to Mario Andretti crossed with Ray Charles. Now he's mellowed, we look back on those "let's-get-eight-people-into-a-Ford-Escort" days with a mixture of affection and horror.

It would seem to be the easiest thing in the world to gather up a whole bunch of people to join in these celebrations, get them plied with booze and see what happens. So that, essentially, is what we did, via Jongleurs Comedy Club in Birmingham.

So what do the events of last night have to tell us?

We could have eaten at the club. However, Jongleurs is to fine dining what Hogarths is to comedy, so we instead met up at the Figure of Eight pub on Broad Street. Right in the middle of the critical Wales v France rugby Six Nations Championship decider.

Apparently there are quite a few Welsh people in Birmingham. That must be the city's famed Lace Embroidered Hat Quarter, then.

Suitably replete, we walked the rainy streets to the club:

Live comedy is always a thrill for me. And in smaller venues like this, it's even more fun. Maybe it's the knife-edge nature of the comedy. Perhaps it's down to the intimacy of the proceedings. Or is it just the concern that the comic will pick on those of you at the front of the audience.

Guess where we were sitting?

Anyway. It's fair to say that this featured quite heavily in the evening's proceedings:

And so it goes.

There's always one pillock who'll do the whole "look at me, pretending I'm drinking straight from the pitcher" routine, isn't there?

It is a tradition. The Catalogue Pose shall be struck.

Oh God. The carnage. Don't you just know that at some point, someone's going to say "I lurve you, you're my besht pal..."

And here, gentle reader, we get to see the three stages of inebriation on display. From left to right; hysteria, middle-distance staring, barely-waking coma.

Today, it's fair to say, has been one of quiet reflection.


Anonymous said...

Lol! See I was the one in my living room openly weeping as the rugby ended and I wasn't even drinking from a pitcher!

It looks like your night out was full to the brim of hwyl and completely arbendegedig!


Rebecca said...

Are you or the missus in any one of these photos?

Comet Girl said...

I thought Brits were supposed to have bad teeth. Everyone has such lover-ly smiles. Damn the Austin Powers propaganda!

fatboyfat said...

Laquet: I'm just stunned that after a set of parlous performances, England finished as high as second. We'll never get rid of Ashton at this rate...

rebecca: Yes we are somewhere in these pics. I do try to be shy and secretive, then post pics of my face all over the place. I'm just a fool to myself.

comet girl: Those of us who haven't been killed by mad cow disease or football hooliganism tend to have rather smashing teeth. It's a payoff, I think.

City Girl said...

I'm guessing you're the pillock in question?

Bad teeth are to Brits as bad manners are to Americans: The result of a few unfortunate but determined strands of DNA and a lot of bad publicity.

City Girl said...

So wait a minute....

Why does Jeremy Clarkson continue to make fun of Hammond for having his teeth whitened?


PS - Not a single man in those photos looks as though he should be calling himself Fat Boy Fat! *bangs fist on desk for emphasis*

fatboyfat said...

city girl: could be :-)

And bless you. Vertical stripes are clearly the way to go.


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