WELL the jolly boys are all getting ready for the event of the year - our outing to Brighton for the big stag weekend. It should be an interesting mixture, all the usual suspects from work plus a couple of Barmy Army comrades (the kitchen designer and Watford Pete), old pals from London like the fab BB and Becks, the little bowling ball and all.
Paps has already been warming his camera up for the occasion although some may be praying he forgets to bring it with him.
As for my theme of a Quadrophenia-style Mod weekend, I am not sure how many have taken me seriously. The Wonderful Withers of WoS has positively frowned on the idea, shrieking in his high-pitched voice of dissent: "I bet they've never seen anyone dressed up as Mods in Brighton on a stag weekend!" But he's a miserable old whinger at the best of times.
Paps, Gawd bless him, and I have taken the whole thing in the spirit it is intended. I have bought an ice blue harrington jacket, two pork pie hats and both of us have bought Who target T-shirts.
We are staying in a shady looking establishment on Hove seafront called the Blue Lagoon. To give us an idea of its quaint character it announces proudly: "We welcome hen and stag weekends." It will be six to a room as well - I haven't done that since way back in the 80s.
Plans include a trip to the boot fest that is Brighton v Tranmere and a possible visit to see a Who tribute band. Fab.
Meanwhile, Paps was in a bit of a mood yesterday. He looked downcast as he announced to me: "I've got another bloody meeting."
Then, 10 minutes later, he emerges with a tour party of PR girls, or flossies as he likes to call them. And he seemed in pretty jovial mood as he showed them around the Meeja Wales newsroom.
Most of us, when we get a call from a Pippa or Jemima, give the response "Yes we've had the e-mail" and swiftly cut off the call. Not Paps. He will have a 20-minute conversation about how he enjoys the Archers, or what he cooked for tea the previous night or how a certain Flossie is wearing her hair these days, before finally signing off with a sigh. "God, these bloody PR people," he will then announce to the world, having accepted their invitation to dinner/a movie/a leaving do/a party (delete as appropriate).
Methinks he doth protest too much.