The Prince of Darkness had that lean and hungry look in the new old O'Neill's the other night and this must have been noticed by the barmaid.
As he stood at the bar, smacking his lips together and talking about some liver and a nice chianti she realised she had to do something too or her neck might be on the chopping block.
Half way through her dinner she turned to the Prince and said, "Would you like to finish off my potato wedges." Never one to look a gift horse, or double vodka for that matter, in the mouth he grasped the plate and proceeded to polish off the remaining morsels, much to the shock of partner-in-crime the Wonderful Withers of WoS.
Sunday afternoon was the final day of the Premier League season and we managed to rustle up a chorum for the event, meeting in the Varsity Bar in Greyfriars Road, Cardiff. Danny Boy (the Poipes, the Poipes), always one on the look out for a bargain, had managed to get hold of some kind of membership card that entitled the owner to a beer discount. Then, realising that a jug of Carling was a mere £7.99, the Poipes, Smashy, Paps and I proceeded to have two of them as we witnessed the demise of Newcastle United, the over-rated shambolic outfit who failed to raise more than a murmur in protest as they sank into the Championship under the watchful gaze of acting manager, and charisma-full former striker, Alan Shearer. Looking at Shearer's fizzog it was of little surprise that his team performed like a wet weekend in January.
Moving on, we enjoyed a couple of drinks with the Fab BB, Mad Liz, the Prince and Withers at Bar Ha Ha! before I wandered home to meet the Mrs, who had spent the afternoon toiling away at her work station in Bristol.
On Monday I was fully aware that the cheap Varsity Beer was having an unsettling effect on my stomach. Putting this behind me we drove out to Hay-on-Wye for the world famous book festival. Mrs R was very excited and proceeded to buy 10 new books. At the rate she reads I expect her to finish them sometime in the year 2020. I invested in five books myself and was impressed with the bargains that could be had in this wonderful little corner on the Welsh border.
On Tuesday night after a horrendous day working on the South Wales Egg Cup, Mrs R and I were accompanied to the cinema by the Prince and Jarhead to see State of Play, the Russell Crowe political thriller based on a three-part BBC series from some years back. Very enjoyable, though I must say I envied the leniency of the deadlines. Crowe hardly wrote a thing during his time chasing up sources. Still, I could see Jarhead was particularly impressed, particularly with the way that Crowe was quick to rubbish the puff-pastry world of internet journalism. Well worth the watch. Smashy (not Nicey) was a little bit surprised, though, when I sent out an invite to all my Meeja Wales colleagues. "Don't think you've got this marriage lark sorted yet, Rippers," he said. "What does Mrs R think of you inviting all your mates out on a cosy night to the cinema?"
Paps, meanwhile, has had his finest hour. He has put together a disc of the pictures he took during the evening's frivolities at our wedding. Above is a rare shot of the Prince of Darkness in dark conversation with the three Witches of Eastwick. I am surprised he didn't turn to dust when the flash went off.
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