DINNER, DINNER FLOGMAN

Met my old buddies Hayman and Crapman at the weekend, a crime fighting threesome in the least sexual sense of the word. We arranged to meet at the Market Bar (tm) off George's Street (Hayman wanted the George, this seemed a happy go-between) in order to establish our own super-hero-style justice league, knowing that the bar itself was actually the underground lair of one of our arch-nemeses. At least judging by the decor, I was expecting either to be leapt upon by a degenerate, some cross-eyed morlock type of whom society has entirely washed its hands, or to be sold a pair of shoes.

The whole plan fell apart anyway, when we quickly recalled we weren't super-heroes at all and we didn't actually have any arch-nemeses. Hayman had some hiberno-virgins in tow, two exquisite yanks who had scarcely ever dipped their toes in the international sea. Not that I'm surpised, when you come from the States the international sea is freezing and full of jellyfish. Steve and Nadia you brave souls! (especially Nadia) Hopefully our paths will cross again soon in this crazy world.

Crapman, Steve, Nadia and I did try to ditch Hayman a couple of times, though the opposite side of the Bar was not a very imaginative hiding place. The success of our cover relied too heavily on our victim's inabilty to turn his head more than 100 degrees. Nevertheless, our clandestine sub-gathering seemed very promising at first, but our sense of victory was short lived when we realised that Hayman didn't really give a bollocks where we were.

We joined forces again for some piggy-back wars - Crapman was my horse and Steve was Nadia's. Hayman was atop some blonde girl coming out of Hogan's, but I really don't think she was playing. Anyway, flush with recent successes in Afghanisatn and Iraq, The Americans won again, and I was knocked from my horse, quickly protesting vehemently that I didn't have any WMD in the first place. Then I let rip and that blew my cover.
And my pants.

To compensate for our dejected sense of defeat, we forced the Americans to eat Iranian food, and we sat there eating our meal while reading aloud passages from the Koran. Zaytoon pumped us full of enough mysterious tastes to last us the Nite-link home; which was Portmarnock via the outskirts of Galway (or so it felt) . I went to bed that night with heavy eyes and a heavier bowel. Needless to say I awoke the next morning with my arsehole in tatters, realising with a start that we did have an arch-nemesis, and he cooked food in Zaytoon.