I’M considering renaming this blog ‘My descent into alcoholism’ because I was out again spending my hard earned wages on nonsense. We took advantage of the long weekend and went into town on Sunday night.

It was arranged during the week to take it easy and have some pre drinks in T’s back garden. It was splendid; we had brilliant craic bitching away unhindered in the evening sunshine.

I’m hesitant to name everyone because they have good jobs and reputations to protect. So we’ll call them D, T and S.

We moved on to The Empire where the Ken Haddock Band was playing. They’re a five piece blues outfit. We were then joined by D, S and S who had been drinking £10 bottles of Prosecco in The Davitt’s all day.

The place was packed but we found a ledge to stand at and sway gently to the soft melodic vocals of Ken. His daughter Grace came on for one song, she sang ‘Ain’t Nobody’ and had more people up singing and dancing than her Da’s band. She’s super talented and one to keep an eye out for.  Here she is here.

So after Grace’s performance, it started to go a bit downhill. Me and Louise thought it would be a good idea to drink choc pops with every round.

There was chatter among our crowd about going up to The Beehive. A notion I thought was absurd. We haven’t been in there in about twelve years. We’re too good for that place, we’ve moved on with our lives and no longer associate with anybody that drinks there. Ah fuck it, after withdrawing more coinage from the hole in the wall we got a taxi from the Fona Cab depot.  It was here I was described as ‘that woman’ by a squad of wee girls waiting on their mini bus to Thompson’s. Thanks kids, that woman indeed.

So after paying a fiver in, it was straight to the bar where we practically stepped back in time. The bar and toilets are in the same place but the room itself has had a minimalized makeover. Everything is grey and white.

Within walking in the door, we were dancing. Not normal person side step boring technique dancing like we normally do – this was Caffreys dancing. There were hands in the air, ass shaking and thrusting combined with fancy jumping and sliding around like drunken high heel wearing ninjas. We surprised ourselves, we still had the moves and looked like complete dicks but we were enjoying it and left when the ugly lights came on.

So that’s how we ended up being jumped on by a big black dog called Orwell and invited into a party by some random neighbour holding a roll of tinfoil.  I doubt he was making a chicken.  Woke Louise’s son by nearly falling off an armchair, went home with curry, makeup and beer all over my top and  dropped my phone getting into the taxi and had to climb under the running vehicle to retrieve it like a misplaced football.

For some reason the taxi man didn’t want to chat and preferred listening to some shite on Radio Ulster about bathroom tiles.

The Monday shame was unbearable. That’s me off it but thanks to Michael McQuillan for sending me this mix for our Benidorm sound track.