Villa 4 life

Trip Start May 27, 2010
Trip End Aug 31, 2011

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What I did

Flag of United Kingdom  , England,
Monday, April 16, 2012

Nat had some business to sort out in London (or so she thought!) so we'd organised to catch up over the weekend.  Philo and I got the mid morning train to London and dropped our bags at the hotel in Southwark, freshened up and headed out for some food.  Nat and Mike had crossed paths in the meantime, checking into the hotel and heading off to see Singing in the Rain.  We grabbed some food in a pub that Phil insisted we went to the night we first went out together, but I had no recollection of it, strangely enough!  In the pub was a rowdy hen do, and we were pretty happy when they left and peace and quiet was restored. 

We got the tube over to London Bridge and then walked to Tower Hill.  I'd pre-purchased tickets online so we could have a look around the Tower of London.  I'd been a few years earlier on my first ever trip to London, but was keen to get another look around, as was Phil.  So we spent a couple of hours there checking out all the medieval bits and pieces and the crown jewels, and then, much to my dismay, had to walk back over to London Bridge to get back to the hotel.  Yet again I had worn inappropriate footwear.  What?  I'm trying to wear in my new shoes!  I got cranky and wound up and by the time I got back to the hotel I just wanted to curl up and cry.  But alas, beer was waiting, and I had to pull my shit together and get ready to hit the town.  We had a quick drink in the hotel bar while we waited for our very expensive taxi (I offered to pay for a taxi so as to avoid any more walking!) and met Nat and Mike at the Bavarian Beerhouse. 

Walking down the stairs we saw Nat and Mike sitting patiently waiting for us, but were greeted more noisily by a stag do that were standing, clapping and cheering us as we walked down the stairs.  We were subsequently told that whenever we stood up or moved we could expect a standing ovation from their crew. 

We had a few pints and sausages before Phil gave the beer wench some feedback, saying that his German curry sausage wasn't curry-y enough.  I reminded him we weren't in an Indian beerhouse.  We left shortly after that and met Bec and Andy, and found another couple of pubs in which to while away the hours.  The first was a bit sedate, the second however, more lively, perhaps owing to the numerous pints we'd had by that stage. 

Someone walked past and approached one of the boys.  Oblivious to what he had said (he had simply asked where the toilets were), I took offence and vowed that when he returned I would punch this guy in the neck.  And so I did punch the guy in the neck when he came back past.  It then became a funny habit, spurred on by the boys, and whenever someone walked past I punched them in the neck.  Most were quite sporting about it, one wanted to punch me back, and Phil stood by hoping that things didn't kick off.  Then I got chatting to some dude (aka Marcus Collins) and asked him to sign my body, and saying I would never wash that body part again.  He wrote "E.F.C." on my arm.  When I worked out what it stood for, I wrote "Villa 4 Life" on his neck.  He left shortly after that. 

Either the pub closed or we'd had enough, so we got a black cab back to Southwark and had another drink in the hotel bar.  We got chatting to some Welsh guys (at least I think they were Welsh - Nat might prove me wrong when she reads this!), slugged back some more beer and then went up to bed. 

Overnight mine and Phil's phones had died.  Neither of us had thought to bring a charger with us, and so we were phone-less for the rest of the day.  We slept almost until checkout time, by which time Nat and Mike had tried to get in touch with us to no avail.  So we headed back to Euston to wait for our train ride home.  Nandos was good, until I was sick.  And when we finally got on the train, I was ill again, having to push my way past the ticket inspector to get to the stinky toilet in time. 

I didn't come good until about 8pm that night, after managing to whip together some spaghetti bolognese, hangover cure of champions. 

Yet again I could be heard mumbling those famous last words: "I will never drink again". 
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