WHENEVER you see a comedian playing a drunk in a TV show they always act the same way, leaning over, eyes blurry, enfolding someone in their inebriated grip and slurring their undying love for the poor recipient. They must have seen Owenov in action.
It was Owenov's leaving do last night and there was a mighty fine turnout at our favourite watering hole The Yard. Not surprising, really, as it was a fantastic evening, the sun shining, the summer dresses flowing by - in fact everything my departing colleague could have dreamed for on the day he chose early retirement. Sorry, that should read a high-flying role on the sports desk of the Western Snail, Wales' own morning newspaper.
It's been a bit of a week trying to master a new computer system that makes the Krypton Factor seem like a game of Snakes and Ladders while also trying to organise the farewell presents, design a front page for the man on the move and try to sort out some kind of holiday accommodation for the fat kid, Vinny and big boy, who are threatening a visit in a week's time.
Thankfully it all got done on time, particularly the front page of which I was particularly proud. According to another former colleague, Mutt, our Owenov has a striking resemblance to the cartoon version of Howard from the Halifax Building Society. With one striking difference, of course. Owenov isn't black.
It was great, therefore, to find a picture of the real Howard with his arm around a waxworks dummy of himself. Then it was simply a question of performing that famous old WoS trick, putting someone's head on someone else's body. Voila... Owenov and Howard arm in arm.
After the boss's speech and Owenov's riposte which turned into a bit of a character assassination of his future employers - unfortunately one of them was there to witness it and Owenov could find himself in Coventry rather than Cardiff soon - it was then time to adjourn for drinks.
Now Owenov has a bit of a fancy for a Jameson's now and then. The boss, never one to encourage such vices, stumped up for one immediately while I bought the now remorseful young man a pint of lager.
As the night continued - a gaggle of marketing girls joining in the frivolities (I think a gaggle is the right term) - Owenov began to realise what he'd be missing. "Lishun mate," he slurred to Roberts. "You're a real prufeshnul, you are... I've never met any prufishnel as profishnal as you mate... no honeshtly... I'm not just shaying this cush I've had a little drink... you are (squeezes his victim like a starving python until he is puse in the face).
At that time I knew it was time to make my excuses and leave, just like a good newspaper man should. Not to say I hadn't supped a few myself and by the time I got home it was a toss up: Pasta which would take 10 minutes or the packet of pork scratchings winking at me from the cupboard. In such circumstances, there can be only one winner.