The following is what happens when The Great God of Free Drinks shines down on you:
"We were going to mention the fact that we're sharing a bed"
"And that I don't have my pyjamas"
"He'd have been interested; after all it was him who asked if we had pillow fights in our knickers"
And that's without going into the great playground debacle ["Now it's our turn to have a play"], my wrath, and the whole issue of who we heart:
"We heart Cat Towers"
"Bob Fischer hearts Val"
"The barman hearts Gayle"
"We heart Griffin 4eva"
Needless to say there is much, much more to divulge about the 24 hours that took in: Middlesbrough, Whitby, one gig, several pubs, a hotel bar, the fanciest kebab shop in the world, more riccardi and coke than you can shake a stick at, girl bands, bouncing and being a rock chick. There is also the slight fact that in The Cause of The Bounce (DA is going to start an international campaign) I have knackered the ankle that formerly was The Beach Ball. And as the painkillers impair judgement (see everything in this blog) you're going to have to wait for the details.
Fucking great night though.