Ahh... what a night. 

Arrive at the FOB at about quarter past eight. Stroll down to what was far too obviously the ukrm table. I'm greeted by a creature with a severe attack of face. He thrusts a gasket upon me. 'So, Meester Murray, ve meet at last.' 

Antony was hiding in a corner, with someone who I recognise by the disgusting bog-trotter accent as Darsy. Strangely, I also manage to work out that the be-quiffed creature with him is Hurtle with no other supporting evidence. 

Along to the right we have another two blokes. One is Simes - nowhere near as scary as I expected. He disappeared almost immediately, after arsing about with a digital camera, which actually belongs to the strange alien visitor (Kevin). The other geezer was, apparently, Barry. Also, looking extremely out of place, is a rather posh looking and sounding woman, also known as Dukette (Mini). You have to admire the guts of a woman who, after only a month or so, agrees to go to a bar under London Bridge with us lot.

Further along is the guest of honour, Ivan. I, personally, was disappointed by the lack of huge forehead or maniacal laughter. Do scientists have no standards any more? Next to him is 

Jonathon Coleman. No it's not, it's Nick Knowles. As I've only seen him as a rapidly receding dot in my wing mirrors, I was surprised by him. He's far too young-looking for a 'Wing rider Things progressed nicely enough - Murray bought me a drink, then, erm, someone else did, and then Nick bought a huge fuck-off jug of lager for Antony, Darsy, Hurtle and myself. 

Darsy and Hurtle then blew any hard-man paramilitary image they may have had by drinking wine. Poofs. 

MacFrame turned up, and left. After a few panicky-soundung mobile conversations, during which Antony called BB 'babe' (well that's what it sounded like to me,,,) Bear and Windy arrived. 

Windy nutted me. She claims she was trying to kiss me, but grabbing my shirt and yanking me forwards, propelling her forehead into my nose, isn't *my* idea of kissing... 

More beer is drunk, more bullshit is shouted, a good time is had. 

Then one of the staff had the temerity to call time. Windy 'dealt' with him. His therapist says he'll be fine in a few years. Nevertheless, we were ejected. There was much talk of going on somewhere, and I somehow found myself on a train with Windy and BB hurtling into darkest Watford. Nick bottled it at Monument. 

Watford is bizarre. The bit around the town centre is exactly like the docks on the IoD, then the ringroad *is* Stratford, and BB's gaff definitely seemed to be on the fringes of Epping. 

Although I pity the poor tax drones at the Inland Revenue office when they get to work on Monday... 

Coffee was made, vodka and Red Bull consumed, and BB's lodger 'Windied'. We watched some Bill Hicks, with running commentary and 'air comedy' (like air guitar but with, y'know, comedy) from Bear. 

Then we settled down to bed... Windy on the sofabed, and I on several cushions on the floor, a mere six feet away. Somehow, though, I managed to sleep. Although Bear did leave me his 'greeting stick' from behind the front door for self defence, so that probably calmed me a little. 

Come morning, Bear drove us to a greasy spoon at a considerable rate of knots. I was enjoying it, until I realised how detached I was feeling, and twigging that Bear was probably much the same... 

Then to Watford station, and home. 

But the worrying thing is... I left home with a score. I know that I didn't buy a single drink all night, but I paid mt train fare there and back, and bought myself breakfast, and when I got home I had... 19 quid. If anyone can explain that, I'd be grateful...*

[*editors note: the last "mystery" is explained by the fact that Doc is a notorious scrounging bastard]