Brammy's got The Shining, boy! That's all I can surmise from his strange activities on a Saturday night in the office. The golden olden one keeps shivering, looking around at every slight sound, a haunted expression crossing his face. And as the light fades and he nips outside to puff on a roly he finally reveals the source of his concern.
"It's old Geoff," he says.
"Who?" Owenov and I inquire, looking at each other in confusion.
"Geoff Rich, the former editor of the South Wales Echo. He died not long ago. He stalks the corridors on a Saturday night, mark my words."
Seeing Bram spends most of his life in a metaphorical Sleepy Hollow you would think he would be used to things that go bump in the night by now. It's normally the lawnmower he keeps in his spare bedroom, falling to the floor with a thump.
Apparently this unhealthy superstition began one night when he was in the office and the phone rang. When Brammy picked it up... there was no one there. Wooooh! I wonder if he has ever heard of wrong numbers.
Still, can't say I am exactly looking forward to the day he pushes his head through the door, rather than around it, and announces: "Heeeeere's Brammy. Fancy a drink down the Old Scroat chum?"
Thursday night was wonderful. After cooking up a quick supper of sausage, bacon, mushroom and tomato butties I settled down to watch the Gas beat Smashy's team Lincoln 5-3 in the second leg of the playoff semi-final in a thrilling match described by pundit Tony Gayle as possibly the most entertaining he has seen all season. Now it's off to Wembley for the final against Shrewsbury and I am desperately plotting how to get the day off. You see, those inconsiderate Welshies have organised two mammoth sports events on the same day - a meaningless rugby union tour match in Australia and an even more meaningless friendly soccer game against New Zealand in the wilds of Wrexham. How I suffer for my art...
Nicey (or is it Smashy) met up with some like-minded fellows from his home town of Glaaaster on Friday night. It was a rugby player's stag do and they invaded the Old Scroat, immediately engaging us shivering smokers in conversation. When a local woman and her mates turned up to celebrate her 40th birthday the combustible mix always threatened to be a lethal cocktail. And so it proved. By the time the clock struck 7.45 some jovial banter had turned into fullscale face slapping, shouting and squaring up. Don't you just love Cardiff at the weekend? We didn't even make our excuses, just left.
Our after-work boozing crew is dwindling to almost nothing and Withers and I are seriously considering a recruitment drive. Well, I can hardly spend every night staring at his miserable face and no doubt he feels the same about mine. There's no Rosey and no Becks, both gone on to pastures new, no Kempy (preggers), no Fab BB (just being a bit contrary I think, or probably fed up with sitting out in the cold perishing while us smokers get our fix), no Catherine Mary and even Macca has pulled out since I insisted he bought us both a pint the other week.
Roberts, too, is rarely seen outside of captivity, ie rugby circles, these days. The Prince of Darkness? Well, he's been on holiday. The day he stops turning up is the day the Apocalypse begins.
Shutts, meanwhile, is today unveiled as a complete and utter fraud - I'll be surprised if the police don't turn up and cart him away soon.
He has signed on to one of these new-fangled, schoolkid infatuation type web thingies called Facebook. It makes people believe they have lots of friends, rather than mere acquaintainces, and is a legal way to "poke" whoever you damn fancy.
In Shutts' case he can pretend he is a boozer. Note one of the photo albums attached to his site. It's entitled "Shuttsy's hard-drinking Nights on the Tiles" and contains numerous pictures of him leering alongside anything in a skirt.
The lie, though, is there for all to see. In every picture he is holding a glass of, wait for it... Diet Coke. You can take a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.
He gives a bad name to us hardened boozers - it's time he got some proper vices of his own.