Saturday evening:

we're sitting around the kitchen table. On it are bottles of:

• Jim Beam
  
• Talisker
  
• Jose Cuervo Clasico
  
• Smirnoff Black
  
• stagnant Cinzano Bianco
  

Ye party has verily started. Rob Roys and Manhattans have been bravely drunk by all, Tequila Sunrises have nauseated Josh by their mere proximity and Vodka Sours have been gamely sunk. Ally and Sam have arrived, wearing the mandated suits. It always seems to happen that whenever we attempt to go out, the only way to guarantee that the shit will be unquestionably good is to dress up. Seriously; witness Hat Night. Witness the legendary Hat/Comedy Facial Hair Party. Witness Vegas.

I think you begin to understand now.

Josh and Jeff are wearing the regulation black; I'm wearing a somewhat ridiculous blue pinstripe suit that I bought in a charity shop (for an 80s party), worth all of £20. In fact, the trousers I loan Jeff cost more than my entire outfit. Nice.

We go out. This is roughly where my concrete memory of the event starts to crumble. The plan had been to hit George Street and laugh heartily and knowingly at all of the people that wear suits as a matter of course to go out on a Saturday night. Instead, we hit George Street and uninentionally enjoy ourselves in a wholly un-ironic way.

I bump into Jacqui (ex-Gladiator of Crimbo Riverdance fame/shame); much shouty conversation ensues. Jeff leaves sometime between 9 and 11 pm to meet Devon, Annabel and Annabel's parents, Ally and Sam call it a night sometime later and Josh and I end up being towed along in the wake of what he assures me was an entire female hockey team.

Around 2 am, blasted out of my mind and in danger of losing my shit completely in a stupidly busy George Street yah den, we get the hell out and stagger home. Happy Gilmore is on the telly and complements a chow mein Pot Noodle admirably. Mission accomplished.