The Grosshandler

Another Sunday, another hangover, another black hole in the bank account. It is comforting to know that some things are for certain.

Given last week's Russian adventure my mind was set on a very quiet weekend to recover a little. Frenty was out of town so good odds for making it.

Well, not surprisingly it did not work out. Frenty's trip was the coming week and on top of that he got a visitor from home plus that we had a company party on Friday. Change of plans.

After work Friday I rushed to Piccadilly Circus to meet up with Frenty and his friend, let's call him Art (The man works with import/export of drugs, just like Art Vandelay in the Seinfeld episode). I arrived on extra time of the Sweden-England game to see our side lose on penalties. Great game though. We proceeded to the party, did our thing, crashed on to Firehouse, ditched it and rumbled on to Rafflers, a cool place full of mirrors. I got lost on the way to the bar, not cool.

Throughout the night we exclusively drank 'Grosshandlers', that Art introduced. Cognac, limonade and lime. Excellent drink. Art managed to tip 33 Pounds for a drink order of 30, not reading the instructions right on the card machine. Hilarious. We also met a Hugh Hefner wannabee who was the pimp of fallen empire China White night clubs.

We tried our best to expense the entire night on our respective companies. Fingers crossed

Crashed home around 04. Not so bad had it not been for the fact that I was due at the office at 09.30 for an online info session. Tiptoed in with a bad whisky breath and a coffee at 09.25 to find a worried colleague waiting for me plus the sales boss and the president in the online chat room. Crap. Somehow I managed to type decently and not to vomit during the session. Work must be so easy for people who are not drunks.

I delegated the rest of Saturday's tasks to my lovely, underpaid assistant and met up with the boys at Builder's arms. Lunch with the boys means pints and food, in that order. Rough start the first couple of pints, but where there is will there is a way. We sat in the shade at Builders for five hours, laughing hysterically and being typically British loud afternoon drinkers. Travel adventures, Clown porn and commenting bypassing sets of tits kept us occupied for most of the afternoon before we picked up the biggest bill so far at Builders. The happy owner was kind enough to invite us to the pub's 10 year anniversary party next week.

Quick pitstop for food before we moved to Fulham to pass out a bit before the night was to start properly. A walking-by girl mooned us in the living room window.

We brought Frenty's flatmates to Firehouse, including the best looking legs since Russia, drank Grosshandlers until we could not hold any more liquor, took a limousine back to the flat and started the afterparty. Successful emptying of all the bottles took until late morning.

Stumbling home around 11 after sleeping in a chair I ran into a colleague at the bus stop. He was thrilled to see me in my prime and to get a stinking hug. I don't remember the actual bus trip.

Today Frenty and I have agreed that the coming weekend needs to be really quiet. Both Unibet and Ladbrokes have already stopped accepting bets on that we will fail.

P