Liver damage

Semi successful little trip into Glasgow yesterday for the S&UN Christmas Dinner, hosted by Óran Mór. Started off well with a few pints along Great Western Road with Gareth and his mate Gav, meeting a hairdresser named Joe along the way, another of Gareth's best mates who it turns out is cousin to Claire, of Claire and Martin fame. This fact I realised when faced with Joe the hairdresser's receptionist - Claire's Auntie Maureen. All very confusing but another one of these weird 'it's a small world' instances which we encounter so often in our fleeting little lives. Anyway after that, window shopping at the book shops and considering the purchase of a rather skinny looking Santa outfit in the local Shelter shop we met up with the rest of the S&UN crew and enjoyed our dinner. For starter I tried the pigeon. Something I've never eaten before, and probably something I'll never eat again but an interesting (only as it was 'different') menu choice all the same. Some diners perhaps inspired by the final of the dreadful 'I'm a Celebrity' tv programme the night before. Pointing out that pigeons are not quite the same as camel testicles I quickly shut up in case I put someone off their dinner. Creamy Chicken John spent some time wondering where they got their pigeons. Maybe the restaurant hired a tall, thin cackling man with twirling black moustache and a complaining mutt to snatch them in stupidly small aeroplanes from in and around George Square. Matters did not improve when people started comparing it to eating liver. Never eaten liver. Quite frankly, liver has always been as appealing to me as camel testicles. However, I have had a nice chianti before... ssssisisisissssss.
Talking of eating flesh, for main I had a lovely sirloin steak, cooked to perfection. No chianti with it though. As always with these company outings/meals some of us ended up paying more than what was originally planned. This was partly due to some pregnant women complaining about how they never drank anything, wanting special treatment when it came to tally up time discounting the fact some of us were paying over the odds for the two course option. Flamin' pregnant women. It was their own choice to get pregnant and stay sober not the rest of us. Why should we have to overcomplicate the bill payment just because they've got one in the oven? In the end they got a fiver back each. Whoopee! Don't spend it all at once girls! How long will that feed y'er screaming wean for eh?
Afterwards we retired to the general bar area and had too much to drink over various conversations including baby name calling, David Bowie's pianist (not penis Anna), how George Lucas should not be allowed to make movies himself, kilts, tartans, the Red Hot Chilli Pipers and Latvian Wonder women amongst other things which I probably have absolutely no hope in remembering until Wednesday, at the earliest. Even now, late on Sunday evening, after having regained my full senses after the damage and trauma from the alcohol abuse the night before, I cannot fully remember what the hell I was jabbering to folk about all night. I do, quite definately remember the bus journey home though, as the No.20 took the longest time ever to crawl up to Calderwood. Moving slower than walking pace at times and at others playing whacky races with the taxis. Gawd, how I wish I could afford the taxis! Maybe I should have went to George Square to see if any of those small aeroplanes were buzzing about.