Hi mate, cracking night last night wasn't it.
Yeah, 8 pints, a couple of scotches and a Ruby Murray on the way home. Most excellent.
But you don't look too happy. Is it just a hangover or summat I said or what.
No mate, nothing to do with you. It is just that I had this awful dream last night which put a damper on the whole evening and I can't get it out of my head.
You don't usually dream mate. What was it about. Was it worse than the time you pulled that gorgeous bird, can't remember her name, and your mate Ken projectile vomited brown ale all over you, her and your Lambretta.
Her name was Christine and that really happened whereas this was a nightmare which, in some ways, made it worse.
She never went out with you again did she. But tell me what this awful dream was all about mate.
No, she never did. Not really surprising is it as she was covered from head to foot in brown ale.
I was standing in what looked like a boozer car park. In the sticks it was.
In this same car park were a really way out collection of what I can only describe as weirdos.
What were they like then mate. Pray tell.
Well, there was a bunch in red dresses. A couple of these were decent sorts although I ain't sure whether the one with the off the shoulder dress, I think she was called Anthea, was actually a woman.
Then there was the rest of the red dress brigade. A couple of big lumpy ones, I seem to remember a stubbly one with the name Andyna, and another called Alexis who clearly didn't know anything about Immac or those No No gadgets.
Right hairythen. Sounds pretty gross mate. Any others were there.
Oooh yes. There was another bunch dressed as vicars. Downright androgynous they were and there was one called Ken, although this bunch kept calling him Kenathon, who had a dog collar which I swear was made out of masking tape.
Then there was another bunch dressed in multi coloured swap shop gear and again it was difficult to make out the genders. One had a lurid green feather boa on which, on top of the booze, made me feel a bit queasy, even though I was asleep.
I move on to another few dressed as French maids. More facial hair, more confusion over whether some were men dressed as women on purpose and, if so, what the hell was it all about.
Blimey mate, sounds like a trannies night out to me. Was that it then.
No mate, there were another bunch in an array of purple coloured gear who seemed to be led by a geezer with a face like a Ribena advert wearing what sorta looked like a uni gown and mortar board made out of cardboard by some bodge artist.
Another few were dressed in mustardy yellow. They all had monocles, I swear that one was a woman with a luxuriant moustache, and they looked a right bunch of stuck ups – you know the sort of thing, hacking jackets, walking cane, plummy voices etc.
Oh, and did I mention the chef?
What, there was someone there doing grub.
No, there was another cove there dressed up like Gordon Ramsay.
Did he have a frying pan mate or packets of sausages or beans.
Unfortunately not. All he had was the outfit but not the grub or means to make it.
Oh, and last but not least, there were two coppers there waving their truncheons about. Right hard looking pair they were and they seemed to be sort of in charge of the mad proceedings.
So, did you all just stand there or did anything actually occur.
It certainly did mate. There was a strangled cry – something like OnOn and the whole bunch, me included, set off along the road and then down a track which led through woods and then out onto a soggy field which we all legged it across to a lane.
We went down this and then there was some spiel from one of the coppers about there being a clue in the next field. Oh, and there was an altercation with a farmer about the bonkers bunch tramping all over his field but the best looking of the red dress brigade told him a pack of porkies to shut him up .
Someone found the clue, a bit of paper, and we all moved on across another soggy field and then up a vicious flight of steps, which a couple of the coves kept insisting were 117 in number, to a point where we all stopped.
I would mention that a couple of the mustard yellow toffs kept shouting about shooting all manner of people and things. Pretty disconcerting it was.
So what happened at the stop then mate.
Well, a pair of well used knickers was passed round and one of the mustardy crew, who was carrying a bag, stuck them in it. There was some blub from one of the rossers and a lot of shouting from the assembled nightmare masses and then we all seemed to move on up the never ending hill.
What the heck was it all about then mate.
Search me. We then went on into mud strewn woods, had another "clue stop" where this lot ran around like demented rabbits until someone found the clue – another bit of paper, then we moved on through more muddy woods.
More woods, more mud, more dire threats from the mustard yellows, a lane and then we all somehow turned up back at the boozer car park.
Gordon Bennett mate. Was there anything good about this horrible dream.
Well, the last bit was OK. We all found ourselves in the pub where some right tasty chippings were handed round. The beer was most acceptable and there were even some jelly babies although I never got my chops round any.
One of the rossers banged on a bit but, all in all, that bit was bonza.
Well mate, I can see why you look a bit peaky today. What a nightmare eh.
Yup.................. Hang on, look at my boots. They are covered in mud. So it wasn't a dream after all!!
I wonder where that crazy bunch are next week???
A cracking night. Thanks to Nickey and Matt for all their efforts in arranging what was definitely one of the strangest but most enjoyable nights with HWH3.