On the Level
To the Freemason's Hall on Friday night to celebrate a friend's birthday.
Plied with alcohol, we were "entertained" by a man with an accordian playing the hits of The Wurzels and other crimes against the musician's art.
At the given signal, drunken harlots, none of whom were my wife, nor a day under fifty, flashing cavernous cleavages and rotating flunges dragged the male guests to the dance floor. Accompanied by a never-ending medley of country and western hits, they spun and gyrated in front of us in the most wanton fashion imaginable. There was a buffet, too.
I'm not 100 per cent certain, but I think this means that I'm now in the masons, and it's all been a terrible, terrible mistake.
Luckily, I've got my own apron - I gather that the type with comedy breasts goes down a storm with the brethren down the lodge.
Anyone need a brickie?