It's a Saturday night and I'm sitting here with a nice cup of tea and three rich tea's and typing this. It's not because I have something to say, mind. It's because I have no friends.
We had our xmas 'do' on Wednesday night. It was at an Indian restaurant in Benfleet called the Tandoori Parlour - because, you know, what says Christmas more than an authentic Indian curry? Heh. Anyway, it wasn't too bad at all... the food was alright and we had a good laugh towards the end when there were just a few of us left at the table watching this large guy/chef/waiter/karaoke master/sexmonger/dj demonstrate just how to go about clearing a dancefloor. He wasn't happy until he'd removed every last one of 'em. Earlier, after the meal, I'd had a strange moment when I returned from a visit to the toilets to find that a dancefloor had appeared right in the centre of the room, with the lights embedded in the tiles and everything. It was quite surreal, when I'd gone upstairs a couple of minutes earlier all the buffet carts were there... and then I came down to find what I can only describe as a disco going on. Things got a little stranger when the large guy/chef/waiter/karaoke master/sexmonger/dj appeared in the centre of the floor -with mic in hand - and launched into a blistering version of Peter Andre's Mysterious Girl. He returned later on, after he'd cleared the floor for the first time, to sing a duet with some girl. It was one of the creepiest things I've ever seen. I felt really sorry for her. It's things like this that make you realise what horrible little maggots we are.