When glamourous, leggy women in figure-hugging clothes are being wooed with statistics about the European Central Bank and it works; when people are toasting the imminent demise of the House of Saud; when the urgent intensity of gin-soaked geo-politics is interrupted only by the furious munching of habanero-flavoured nachos; when the sound of polite laughter at a really good joke about Tony Blair fills the air; when a man lurches up to you and says something that sounds like:
“Aarg ftmch nt’elly ‘ckin gbment shh blettin narg like fuff, cos ee dregs ding tchil oil vusso (burp) shlyinng gug nuvern else”
…and expects you to answer him, you know you’ve probably been invited to a British Blogger Bash. One could scarcely believe that these bold, shining, fearless Warriors of the Great Western Way could be transformed into a semi-amorphous mass of gibbering, leering primates merely by the application of sufficient quantities of alcohol but that is the stark truth of the matter.
But the truth, as well as setting you free, can also be a lot of fun.
Apologies to whomever I probably owe apologies to.
In my wisdom I came back to the party a second time, after going for a drink elsewhere. I came on a scooter. On the way home later I fell off scooter.
No injuries, but I am already out on bail for drink driving….
Fun, fun…
(Orla says the photo of me proves I have been assimilated into the Blogger Borg.)