Including a guest appearance by the lovely locale known as "Marple, as in Miss".
Folks, I've never been to Manchester before this. I've been through it, got off and sat at Machester Piccadilly before, in first year I even had a pretty good meeting with someone looking for a writer at a hotel just next to the station, but they don't really count, do they? So it was with a little trepidation (and the hope that the weather held) that I ventured back up north after the summer to attend the birthday drunkenness of my dear friend Mr A Taylor. A man of wordiness and wit far beyond mine, who also shares a love of whiskeys, and who was turning 23.
When I got on the train at Euston the announcer may as well have just said this-
"You've boarded the weekend service to drunken fun. Calling at- Chez Taylor, Joshua Brooks, The Factory and returning to Chez Taylor, where this service terminates."
Because that's pretty much what happened. The journey up was pretty good,with Virgin Trains once again proving they're better than any other service I've been on in the UK, and sharing a four-seat table with two chatty and pretty pretty girls. One of who tried to dupe the ticket inspector into thinking she'd got the right ticket by batting her eyelids. He resisted, which was an achievement. Marple, by the way, is a bit in the back of beyond, with a tin box on wheels for a train service, but it's nice.
It all started off well with beer pong, arrogance (basically higher or lower, but with drinking) and ring of fire. I had a nerdy rant about Batman films at the other Chris. (NB- at any given party or place if you are called Chris, there will be another one. It is a rule of nature. Someone should go back in time to the late 80s and tell everyone that Chris is not a name to call your children). Drink flowed. One of the rules that was made up involved the lads all wearing socks for gloves, which was lovely after a day of travelling in the heat. Then we piled into the taxi and shot off.
The pub/ bar of Joshua Brooks, the bit we went into because you had to pay to get into the downstairs club area, was pretty roomy, a bit dull and dim in terms of lighting, but it more than made up for it by serving pints in traditional dimpled beer jugs. I felt like swilling ale and singing Chas and Dave.
It was also in Joshua Brooks that we were caught up with by a great friend who'd been out with colleagues from Waterstone's (all the best people work there at some point, it's elite), who looked as stunning as ever and made any attempts at dancing later on easier to deal with by just dicking about.
After Joshua Brooks we made the incredibly arduous and extensive journey across the road to The Factory. And my word. It's an interesting place. Firstly, there was Motown!. An entire floor dedicated to it. Which also made the "dancing" I committed a bit more bearable. Secondly, I think there are secret passages, as looking for the loo turned into somehow being on the top floor even though we'd just gone in on the ground floor and down some stairs. Thirdly, the drinks were mid-price to expensive, and fourthly, the loos were appalling.
Then, y'know, took a taxi home, sat out in the garden with whisky and a smoke, went to bed and were awoken by Mr Taylor's step-dad running a hedge-trimmer loudly outside the window the next morning. Brilliant stuff. A fried breakfast, bit of F1 watching and then it was time for the train home, feeling a bit stunned after such a heavy weekend. I'd gone a little bit yellow, to be honest, after the combination of The Factory and the Friday night pintage I'd indulged in. But it was worth it, and I found myself facing a Monday 6:00am start and hoping I got to do something more interesting in the next few days before heading to another drinking event.
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