Dodgy dinner

I would like to think the Prince of Darkness and I have a bit of respect among the chattering classes for our hard work, dedication and bon vivre attitude. Which is why I was a bit alarmed the other day when one of our head editorial honchos turned up at our place of work to see how Meeja Wales was progressing.
The Prince and I were busy, head down, when the Daily Snail Editor turned up and introduced us thus: "Here are the miserable twosome. They are like those two Muppets on the Balcony." Well, how dare he! Never had our flabber been so gasted, particularly as we view ourselves more in terms of a great double act like Torville and Dean, Cannon and Ball or Herman and hermit (he's the Hermit).

Meanwhile, the Fugitive has turned up with his hair completely shorn, like he's about to head off to Iraq to fight the insurgents. The Wonderful One has a theory that the angry Fugitive got so angry with himself while looking in the mirror that he started hacking away at himself with a pair of scissors, shouting: "Bloody Abbo!"
I prefer to think he looks like the deposed English cricket captain Kevin Pietersen who, in a quite moment, probably acted the same way after throwing away the chance to lead his adopted country.
The Fugitive admits he has had plenty of comments about his new looks, like "Brad Pitt gone wrong". I think I'll just change his nickname on the blog yet again. "Jarhead" will do nicely.

I'd like to talk to you about Monday night but it brings back painful memories. The night had started quite eventfully in the new old O'Neill's. The boozer itself, having burnt to a crisp not that long ago (hence why I call it new), developed a pretty monumental leak while Withers and I were sitting there, sipping at our ales. In fact we were in pretty serious danger of drowning as a pipe overhead burst and splashed dripped down inches away from our table.
Eventually we had no option than to move, and somehow got drawn into the pub quiz, to be joined soon afterwards by the Prince.
Myself, the Wonderful One and the Prince actually did pretty well, thanks to a bit of help from a ringer called Nia who was desperately searching for a team to join and proved a . The barmaid, too, having set the questions, was pretty keen that we beat a group of quiz big heads on the table nearest us so kept accidentally correcting our answers. And, shock of shocks, we won.
By the time the result was announced I was heading for home and some tea. It was only at three the next morning that I decided I might have made a big mistake, running full length to the sanctuary of the toilet.
I spent the next day under the duvet, feeling rather unwell.