We are too old for that shit, Knutsford. 11 hours of drinking isn't a good idea. Yet you did it to us. Our heads blame. You.
It started innocently enough, with a walk down to a pub called The Builders Arms to fill out the postcards we purchased. The sight of two obviously-not-locals with stacks of postcards spread out on a put table tends to draw attention, and we were soon explaining -- to almost everyone who walked through the door -- what we were up to. They were all lovely people, and were quite happy to be a part of the video we took to commemorate the experience.
Some of those locals, Matthew-the-southern-fairy, Matthew-the-northern-monkey, and Nikki-who-tolerated-them, offered to take us to The Folly for some food and then to The Lord Eldon to hear some local music. But the kitchen at The Folly closes early if no one's eating, and we just missed it. So no food, but drinking. Again.
Things went downhill quickly at the Eldon. The music was surprisingly good, and the locals beyond friendly. I swapped insults with a couple of Mancunians (all in good fun, as they were bigger than me), Sheila made fast friends with Sally, and the musicians David and Adam took a shine to us. So much that, after closing the Eldon, they whisked us off to the Amber Lounge, which was sure to be rocking. At 1.00 in the morning. On what was just a Thursday night. No, it was not hopping.
But it was open, and that was excuse enough for David-the-musician and Chris-the-I-don't-recall-what-Chris-does to buy us a few rounds -- which caused me to reciprocate -- before they kicked us out at 2.00.
Two o'clock in the morning. Uncountable pints. Eleven hours later. Hungover? Yes. Very.
But it was a grand time. I believe plans were made to do something with someone this weekend. Or maybe the next. Come to think of it, do I have my credit card? Yeah, one of those nights. Luckily, I've nothing to do but log hours upon hours of audio today. And walk the dogs. And nap. Oy.