ONE of my wayward cohorts - I can't reveal who other than to say he has a strong link with the legions of the undead - spent an interesting night out last night. Having been "roped into" a freebie at Cardiff club the Soda Bar with a buddy, he met up with a young lady who invited the two of them back to her place to carry on the party.
Wowie Wowie, thought the nameless one, grabbing two bottles of red wine and heading off into the night with young lady and pal. Next thing they know they are in a large flat in the city centre. Nice decor. Comfortable surrounding. Lots of space.
Well, there would have been lots of space if the pole hadn't been there. Yeh, the pole dancer's pole. Which the said young lady practices on, naked, before going to her job at one of the local sleaze emporiums.
Maybe you can guess the rest, but I'm gonna tell you anyway. Said young lady disappears to "slip into something more comfortable". The something in question happens to be, well, nothing. Apart from flesh coloured, see-through panties. And then, to the music of Marilyn Manson, she proceeds to give an impromptu 10-minute show for our two dumbstruck heroes.
But it doesn't end there. "I've done a show for you," she says, "now it's your turn".
So our reluctant hero, having sunk his usual gallon of alcohol during the evening, then has to fling himself around the pole. He tells us he was fully clothed, but my mind can't help thinking of Alan Partridge and his appearance in a gold-coloured codpiece and high heeled white boots gyrating in front of an imaginery audience.
The Boss was thrilled with the story as the unnamed one repeated it the following day. "So, did ye do all the twisting, turning and goin' upside doon?" he asked.
"I tried, mate, but I kept falling off. I'm surprised I didn't crack my skull," replied the hero of our story.
Anyway, at 3am in the morning the two ne-er-do-wells were sent packing into the night. The story, though, will live forever in the pantheon of journalistic legend.
Meanwhile Smashy, never one to back down in an argument, was locking horns with a work experience lad in the new old O'Neill's. The subject was rugby and whether the Lions and Welsh rugby international games should be played on the same day.
It was a bit like David v Goliath (Goliath being Smashy) or the heavyweight champion of Meeja Wales (again Smashy) against a mere lightweight. But the young 'un was giving as good as he got, standing toe to toe and arguing his case.
And then came the bitter moment that shocked the fascinated audience. It was like the moment that Lloyd Honeyghan knocked down Don "Cobra" Curry. Completed unexpected. A gigantic upset.
For, in just a few words, we knew Smashy was beaten. "Me: 20 years experience in rugby journalism. You: Four days!"
Yep, Smashy. That's the white towel thrown in, right there.