I'll never drink another rum again.

On Saturday night, after wasting the entire day playing on the PS2, I dragged myself along to the Outhouse with Josh. Jeff and Jez were already there and unfortunately, there was a Bacardi promotion that rewarded stupid drinking with t-shirts and pin badges. Jez was already wearing two of each.

A couple of hours later, joined by Dev, we're all wearing t-shirts and badges. We look like a Bacardi promotional team gone native. The question is raised: "Can we stop drinking this fucking rum now?"

Yes we could, and we did. We trooped off to Rick's, removing the evidence of the rum drinking spree as we went. Astonishingly, we waltzed in and found a table straight away.

Rick's is jaw dropping. It's people watching taken to a sublime level. The clientele is composed half of the effortlessly rich, dressed up to the nines and paying £5 for a pint of Peroni, and half of footballers' wives, dressed up to the nines and paying God knows how much for eye-searing cocktails.

The conversation went from bad to worse (Josh: "You'd do Trinny but you'd be thinking of Susannah"); Jeff went from mortal to sober when a pint of beer was spilled onto his crotch (twice) and Devon went from sober to mortal pretty much when the clock struck 1.

We took a shortcut/trespass home through Queen Street Gardens. Excellent night.