My Dad had two holiday destinations when we were growing up - we grew up the seventies - flares were our uniform and Adam and the Ants/The Clash/T-Rex were our soundtrack.

Towyn and Weymouth.

They were poles apart in every respect, heck, they may as well had been at each pole they were so different.

My overwhleming memory of Towyn is of rain.

And Wind.

And dead sheep.

Holidays were spent in kagool's,not shorts.

Nights were spent playing games of monopoly in the caravan as the wind battered the side, the aluminium popping every now and again in the wind.

One day as we were walking along hte beach after a particularly voilent storm we stumbled across the carcass of a dead sheep.

A dead frickin' sheep.

Just what you need when your seven years old.

We came to two conclusions: one, it had tried desperately to to swim to Ireland to escape the soggy hell that is Towyn, or it had simply lost the will to live any longer and had just laid down to die.

The town of Weymouth sits in a sandy bay, the beach is expecially good with lots of golden sand.

Portland Bill sits adjacent snd is linked to the mainland by Chesel Beach.

The legend of Chesel Beach is a quaint one: that the beach was created by a whale, that it threw the beach up one stormy night off it's back.

I suspect it didn't quite happen that way.

Crabbing off the harbour wall is a strong memory as is the appearance and smell of fish heads that were used as bait. In retrospect it was a pointless activity as the crabs would be caught, they would sit in a bucket and then be turned out to scuttle down the boat ramp back to the sea.

It was pointless but it had a macabre quality to it that kids enjoy.

One week in the blazing hot summer of '76 was spent on the beach or splashing around in a rubber dinghy in the sea, I remember going out quite a way and then panicking to get back closer to the shore...

And the place seemed so big!! The beach seemed to go on for miles, The Prom felt at least 10 miles long and full of all different kinds of delights...sweets, rides...

So When G and I returned this weekend for a little break, I couldn't get over how small it seemed.

The idyll that had existed in my minds eye was replaced by a grown up reality of the place.

But, I still like the place.

It's clean and well maintained and feels very civilised for want of a better word.

We had a lovely weekend, wandering around the streets, along the Old Harbour and over to Portland.

And G liked it too.

And that was the best thing about the whole weekend.

Barry Allen....the Flash...The Fasted Man Alive...?

Don't know him?

Sheesh, deduct 50 geek points.

When one of the greatest DC Superhero's returned from 20 years of death I was standing in a crowded tube carriage on my way home after my weekly pilgramage to 'Forbidden Planet' to stock up on comic goodness.

An equally valid question would be, where were you when Barry Allen died?

I was sitting on the top deck of the X31 bus that ran from Birmingham city centre to Cannock.

I was still at school and I made this journey every day, we had moved from Birmingham to Cannock but I had been allowed to continue to go to the same school.

The time between the end of school and catching the bus was (mis?)spent in the geeky embrace of 'Nostalgia and Comics', browsing or buying .

My comic habit was at all time high, I couldn't get enough of them.

I followed lots of titles - Alpha Flight, Uncanny X-men,Justice League, Justice Society, The Shadow,All Star Squadron,Swamp Thing,Booster Gold, Ambusg Bug, 'Mazing Man,Captain Atom,Blue Beetle....to name a few.

And I would not only read them, but reread them, keep nice and protected in plastic bags..

I had been following a series called 'Crisis On Infinite Earth's' - it was 12 part epic tale that involved every DC character and would realign the continuity form a multitude of parallet earths into one cohesive universe for the hero's to exist in.

It was written by Marv Wolfman and drawn by George Perez - the team that had done excellent work on the monthly 'Teen Titans' series - and even know I think that George Perez is one of the best comic artist's around.

I will buy a comic on the basis that he is drawing it, in fact I recently did with the new 'Brave and Bold' series. The story isn't up to much, but his pencils are kick ass.

(If you want to check out some really good perez work, go find his run on the early Wonder Woman series...very ,very good).

'Hero's will live and hero's will die' was the tag line of 'Crisis', and they weren't kidding.

In issue seven the whole DC universe mourned the loss of Supergirl as she bravely gave her life fighting the Anti Monitor who was destroying all the multiverse.

And then in issue eight Barry Allen dies, literally running himself to death.

I remember being shocked.

I used to collect the Flash every month, I never quite liked the Carmine Infantino art but I liked the character a lot.

He seemed a bit more vulnerable than the likes of Superman and not as dark as Batman.

When I read those final panels as his body began to lose all physical cohesion I was shocked.

And the cover! The Flash holding the unconcious body of the Psycho Pirate, who had been fucking with his emotions for months, looking up at the Anti Monitor, flames raging behind him and the whole cover soaked in blood red.

Shit, I must have read that issue a gazillion times.

Since his demise, his nephew Wally West had carried the mantle of Flash in his honour.

So when I read issue two of 'Final Crisis' and how comes back at the end, I was shocked again as DC had stated, twenty years ago that the changes to the DC Universe were permanent.

Apparently not.

And I'm kinda glad.

One of my heroes is back and I am intrigued to read how this is going to play out.

I wonder where I'll be when-or indeed if- Barry Allen dies again?

So I'm having a stag night.

I don't see why I shouldn't.

I know the mariage is not a conventional one....wait,.... two people who love each other are being legally recognised in the eyes of law....I take that back, it IS a conventional marriage and we reserve the right to pick and choose the conventions of the ceremony itself that we want to adopt and disregard any others.

So, get over it.

I thought long and hard about this.

The stag I mean.

Getting hitched was a no brainer.

I orgainsed a great stag - no two great stags, one in Dublin and one in London - for my pal Martin earlier in the year before we all jetted off to Serbia to see him tie the knot to Daniella.

I attended my brother Jason's stag back in July the week befor he got hitched, so it ain't gonna be any differnt for me.

I intially thought about going to Amsterdan and wallowing in all that entails, but then I got thinking who I would want to be there with me and the price tag may have precluded some of them.

So I have settled on a weekend in Manchester, including a day trip to Howarth.

Two of my favourite places.

Manchester because I sent three years there working and living and Howarth, well because it is so beutiful.

We have two bottles of vintage Dom Perignon in the booze cupboard - vintage 96' and I intend to take one with me to crack open and get all the guys who are sharing the stag with me to either sign the box or the bottle, as a little momento.

Sentimental fool that I am.

I still harbour this silly little dream to live their some day in the Yorkshire Dales.

Ah well...

''I'm at the end of my fucking patience with you'' I said to the guy as he came through the access door from the roof.

He looked sheepish.

''Now get in there'' I gestured to the elavator '' I'm taking you to the lobby where you will sit and not move, and not talk to anybody !!''.

After I had deposited him in the lobby under the careful watch of the Duty Manager I went to the sixth floor and knocked on the door of his wife.

''What's he done now...?'' she said, standing before me in a towel.

''Well, he was on the roof of the hotel ready to jump'' I said.

She rolled her eyes.

It was going to be a longer night than I thought.

It's been a while, so I'll bullet point, so to speak.

*Brothers stag in Birmingham was a whole heap o'fun - clay pigeon/off road driving and quad biking in the morning - I was pretty good at the first two, an absolute heap of shit at the Quad biking. I thought I was doing quite well and going around the circuit quite fast until my brother managed to run beside me, filming it.

He's a big guy like me, for your reference.

Then lot's of beers, cigars and an Indian curry in the evening.

*Brothers wedding a week later was great, really great and quite moving. The setting was perfect, a country church with a little pub close by so we could down a beer before the main event. I did a reading for them which went well. Then - and this bought a lump to my throat I have to say - when they were taking their vow's the Bride broke down and cried as she spoke.

The party afterwards was interesting, the beer flowed and all had a good time.

If I had to make one negative - and I shouldn't really - I was a bit disapointed when my brother made his speech, he made little reference to his own family which as I say did disapoint as we have shown him a lot of support over the last year...

Anyway....

We celebrated our second anniversary last weekend.

And we celebrated in style.

Sunday morning we went to the BBC proms to watch the Doctor WHo concert which was a complete geekfest.

Lots of great music and even an appearance by the Daleks, Cybermen and Davros!

That wasn't the 'style' part...

In the afternoon we dined at the Ritz for afternoon tea.

Now that was cool.

A beutiful setting to celebrate two wonderful years...

Everybody else is in bed, I'm the only up and I'm alone.

I'm casually surfing Itunes and I stumble across "Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence" and I get a pang of emotion that has it's roots in my childhood and my mother,of watching the movie on VHS with her at one of the various clubs she managed along with my Stepfather.

They were turbulent times.

I then stumble across the theme from the 'Dambusters' and I think about Sunday afternoons watching war movies with my dad and them I feel a tinge of sadness for a whole load of other reasons.

So I walk into the hotel this morning.

And something is different.

It takes me a moment to nail it.

The music.

All around me the theme tune to 'Fawlty Towers' is blaring out.

Frickin' 'Fawlty Towers'!!

I smile.

So perfectly, brilliantly ironic.

So we're lying bed after the usual long day.

It's semi dark, the street light creeps in through the big windows and over the top of blinds.

We're doing our usual - a cuddle before sleep.

''Do you love me?'' he asks.

''Of course'' I reply truthfully.

''Do you love me all the time?''

''of course'' I say again, before adding ''But to varying degree's throughout the day..''

A sharp intake of breath in the dark.

''I'm just joking'' I say.

And I am.

The humble burger is the greatest invention ever invented, it is the pinacle of human achievement.

Forget Leonardo DaVinci painting the Mona Lisa, forget the Wright brothers inventing the aeroplane, forget Neil Armstrong taking one small step for man and one giant leap for mankind....if you want an indication of true genius then look to the guy who decided to mince a lump of beef, bind it with an egg yolk and flavour with herbs.

Creating a culinary experience that can be likened to an audiance with the almighty himself.

Did you know that four different people have tried to claim that they were touched by the hand of God and were inspired to create the modern hamburger?

No, I didn't know it either, thank god for Wikipedia.

I know a good burger.

For me, a restaurant can succeed or fail on the strength of the burger.

I don't give a fuck how clever the chef is with a piece of Dover Sole or what a work of art the food is when it is presented on the plate.

It doesn't matter.

If he or she does not posess the ancient alchemist arts that turn lumps of meat into an orgasm for the taste buds, then they have failed.

And not just in their chosen profession but in their lives as well.

I have selflessly tasted many burgers, I have pushed the envelope in the consumption of the all meat patty in a quest to find the perfect fusion of meat and herbs.

And I have yet to find it, I hope I never do, 'cause it's all about the journey and not the destination.

But I can tell you where to find the BEST burger in London so you may indulge and rejoice and where to find WORST, so you may avoid like the plague.

We'll start with the negative.

There is a small restaurant down on the South Bank called The Riviera.

It's between the South Bank centre and the Oxo tower, it faces the Thames and looks out toward St Paul.

We dined there last year when friends travelled down from Manchester, it was a good weekend apart from the visit to this shithole of an eatery.

We ended up there by a kind of accident, as one of the party had walked enough that day and declared that she did not want walk another step, she WANTED GODDAMN FOOD RIGHT GODDAMN now.

We entered and were shown to a table on the upper level and ordered some drinks. The rest of the party ordered some kind of fish dish and I chose the burger.

'natch.

I don't eat fish, I can't stand it.

Can't stand the smell, the texture, the flavour...any of it.

How people can eat Sushi is beyond me.

But that night, I should have ordered a piece of heavily decayed Cod that had been pulled out of the Thames, 'cause it would have tasted waaaaay better than the pice of crap that was served up to me, under the libelous label of 'burger'.

When I order a burger in a food joint I anticipate what it will be like, how toasted the bun will be, the delicate flavours of the meat patty and tanginess of the relish.

And the fries!! If they are slightly overcooked then they have been done to perfection.

When the waiter placed my dinner plate in front of me my heart sank.

On the plate was the smallest portion of fries and they were undercooked. There was some attempt at a salad garnish, ie, some lettuce,tomato and onion and then we had the burger itself.

Fuck me, it was bad.

Two pieces of bun and a meat patty.

That was it.

No mayo or relish, no tomato or salad, no cheese or anything.

Two pieces of frickin' bread and a pice of old leather that was suipposed to be a meat patty.

I have shit better meals than what I was served that night.

Please take my advice and avoid at all costs.

Now for the best burger, and it's not from Smollensky's, though it does come a close second.

Just around the corner from Canary Whaf is Coldharbour. In Coldharbour is a small riverside pub called The Gun.

It's a cool little place, quite old and bursting with character.

It has bar and good restaurant at teh ron, a couple of bars at the back and a nice riverside terrace, where you can sit and enjoy a pint while watching teh sun set over the Thames.

Okay, it's not exactly the frickin' Riviera, but you have to work with what you got.

On two occasions now I have had the burger, and the first time was outstanding, the second was better than that.

I mean, it was the fucking business.

On the menu it has a simple discription, ''The Gun shin burger with fat chips'' and is not cheap at £12.50, but worth every penny.

The last time we ordered the burger we were citting outside on the terrace, it was a friday night and quite mild.

The bar was buzzing, a boat had moored alongside the terrace and the crew were enjoying a few beers with the locals.

We ordered and while we waited we chowed down on some bread and butter, which in itself was quite delicous.

The burger arrived and we were again faced with neatly piled chips, like minature logs of potato. The burger itself had been drizzled with melted cheese and beef tomato. On the side was a bit of green and a small pot of a homemade relish.

The patty itself crumlbled when cut with the knife, steam escaped and smelt divine, herby with a hint of garlic.

Smothering the small piece of burger with a smidge of the relish, I took a bite and it was - well it was amazing.

Everything about this burger just works, it was a delight to eat.

The chips were cooked to perfection, a nice gold brown on the outside and fluffy white potato on the inside.

Man, I am still thinking about that burger.

If you over this way, and I mean in the east end of London, I highly suggest you take my recommendation and check The Gun out.

The burger will delight.

''So why does he love you?'' Asks Daniella, blowing cigarrette smoke into the warm London air.

We are standing outside the busy bar, the 30th Birthday party we are all attending is in full swing inside.

I look at her.

''Erm..'' I begin, quite unspectacularly, clinging to my Mojito for dear life.

''Well I think it's because..'' I stop.

Why does he love me??

''What we want'' she says, PROFOUND MODE ON ''Is that we are mortal and we want somebody to love us as a God.''

I liked Budpest.

G had lived there for eight years, back in that dark and dismal time that was BM (before me!) so I had a handy and handsome tour guide at all times.

And an interpreter, as Hungarian is quite impenatreble as a language.

With French, Spanish and German you can kind decipher what is being said or written, even if it is only word and get by, Hungarian is completely different.

We checked into the hotel on the Sunday night after the mammoth journey Across The Border, and feeling a little bit buzzed at being in a new city we went out for dinner to a little place called.......I don't know.

Yes I do, 'Bagolyvar'.

Which incidentally means 'Owl's Castle'

Impressed with that Binky?

Don't be, I just had to ask 'G'

But it was great, very traditional. It had an all female staff who were very polite to the dumb englishman.

Lovely pancakses stuffed with chicken and flavoured with a paprika sauce.

Yum!

Over the week we enjoyed some fabulous grub...the menu amused in a place called 'Nancsi Neni', which was somewhere in the hills on the Buda side and to the west.

Yup, had to ask him again.

While the food was excellent, I enjoyed the menu that had either been written -or translated with- a great sense of irony - for example it listed the ''Cocktail Titanic - Iced Water''!!! - the whole menu was littered with these amusing comments.

We visited the Gellert Baths and joined many old people as the braved the freezing cold but elegantly decorated indoor pool before moving next door to the thermal baths.

The thermal baths were great, they are single sex and the water is either maintained at 36 degrees or 38 degreees.

Very nice to have a little swim in.

The only downside is that anybody who is visiting the thermal baths only and not going into the bigger and much, much colder pool didn't have to wear any kind of swimming costume, but they were given a small 'apron' to save any embarressment from the front, but you did end up with being forced to look at several saggy asses belong to crusty Hungarian men.

The House of Terror was also very , very interesting.

It is a museum in a building that used to be the home of the Hungarian equivalent of the KGB.

It's a tall, grey building with a huge metal canopy with the word 'TERROR' cut out of it and when the sun is shining it cast's the word 'TERROR' onto the side of the building.

Quite effective.

On the outside of the building there was also lots of small plaques with an image of many Hungarians who opposed Communism and were subsequently put to death.

As you walked around the museum that was small, but the space was used very effectively you began to feel a sense of oppresion that must have been awful for those that lived through it.

You started at the top of the museum and worked downwards, finsihing in the basement where the cells were also the gallows, where many Hungarians were murdered.

Very interesting and worth a visit.

That night we dined in 'Belcanto', just next to the Opera house.

This was great, great food and a small band of classical musicians and Opera singers to entertain you when while you chow down.

'The New York Cafe' is also the list to revisit when we go back to Budpest.

I know what your thinking, Binkster, I can see it written all over your face.

'Did we just eat our way through Budapest?'

Well no.

Almost.

We also did a heckuva lot of walking, we walked everywhere!

Easily four or five hours a day.

On the Thursday afternoon we climbed aboard the Train to Vienna and I wasn't to sad to leave as I knew I would be back there.

It was a great, great week, part two of a three part holiday.

Vienna had a lot to live up to.

It took three hours to get through the border from Serbia to Hungary.

Three

Fucking

Hours.

We left the hotel at 1pm and drove north in the direction of Budapest.

We had a taxi and luckily for us we had a fixed price to drive us all the way to Budapest.

Don't ask me about the journey, I was catching some much needed ZZzz's as I had been the last of the wedding party to retire, at 3am.

I awoke as we entered the gridlock just outside the border and for the next three and a half hours we crawled forward, slowly and agonizingly.

We could have took the train and on any other day it would have the poorer option, as the journey is a good six hours.

We just lucked out, is all.

I tried to sleep more but could not, thankfully I was able to fall into the world of Deckard as he chased down the escaped Nexus Six replicants via the Ipod Itouch.

When we finally emerged into Hungary the rest of the trip was quite easy.

Arriving in Budapest was an exciting experience.

The city feels like a capital city, the roads are wide and the building old and palatial, even if there is a tad too much graffiti.

We checked in and went out to dinner, the first of many fantastic Hungarian meals....

We checked out of the hotel and met Martin's parents in the lobby.

His mother kissed me on the cheek.

''Thank you for looking after Martin so well..'' she said.

I like his mom, she is a true lady, very feminine and petite. Her youthful beauty still shines through.

''Oh, all I did was get him drunk...that was the easy part!!!'' I laughed

She smiled ''Even I could do that!!''

She had a point.

As a respite from the proceedings that were unfolding around us, after Martin had his first dance with Daniella and the first course had been served, Martin and I stepped out of the hotel for a cigarette.

I don't really smoke as a rule, but I had bought a packet of ten more for him than for me, but as he lit up I did so also.

The tobacco was dragged down into my lungs giving me a momentary high.

''I need to ask you a favour'' I said to him.

''Anything at all'' he replied, blowing smoke into the early evening sky.

'' I would like to ask you to be my witness for the CP in September..''

He looked at me.

''I would be honoured'' he said and placed his hand on my shoulder in an affectionate manner.

Later we are sitting enjoying the soup course of the wedding breakfast – there are four in total. I am seated on the top table, but next to the two nieces of Daniella.

They are both four years old.

Ollie, Martin's brother comes over to me and gestures to the two young girls.

''I know you can't discuss the intricacies of Star Wars or The Matrix, so if you get lonely come and pull up a chair next to us...''

I gesture to my glass of wine.

Serbian wine as it happens.

When I took my first glass I thought it was a little harsh, by the end of the night I would be enjoying it.

Either it gets better the more you drink or the more you drink the lower your standards.

Either theory works.

''Thanks mate'' I say ''But I have all the company I need right here in this glass''

Later still.

I lean into the table where Ollie and Lee are sitting.

Lee is a friend of Martin's, his wife one of the bridesmaids.

''Gentlemen'' I say, pulling out a packet of cigars from the inner pocket of my suit.

''Would you care to retire to the drawing room and partake?''

Both of their eyes light up.

We leave the party behind and head outside to the patio and take our seats under the clear night sky.

One after another we lit up and enjoy the moment.

None of us spoke, we just enjoyed silence.

For the briefest of times we had been comrades in the honour of our mutual friend and brother Martin and his now wife Daniella.

Best man speech aside, it was a very good day.

Heck, it was a beautiful day.

It was the hardest thing I have ever done.

No, really.

And I have had a few challenges.

To give a little context, I am quite a shy person.

Sure, when I am ina group or a one to one I can be life and soul, but tell I have to stand in front of a crowd and I go cold with fear.

I can't do it.

I hate it I loathe it.

When Martin asked me to be his best man, I was over the moon and then the realisation dawned on me that I would have to make a speech.

I mean - I managed to organise not one, but TWO stag nights for him, one in Dublin and one in London and they were both great fun.

I soon discovered that that was the easy part...

The ceremony itself was very good, a little diferent but good.

The hotel lobby had been a temporary aisle with an arch.

As the local band began to play a selection of local tunes, I met Martin as the lobby began to fill with guests.

We both looked quite dapper in our suits, I thought.

It is a local custom apparently to buy a little bit of Rosemary (this money is then given to the newlyweds) and this task was assigned to one of the English contingent, and she did rather well, rather like mugging but with herbs.

At the appointed time Martin and I walked along the aisle - and then waited for the bride at the arch.

As we waited the aisle began to fill with dry ice and....bubbles.

Dry ice from below, bubbles from above.

Riiiiiight.

And then the bride appeared.

She looked quite simply stunning.

An understated white dress with a white corset, her dark hair tied up in Audrey Hepburn style, she glided along, her father the proudest man in the world next to her.

A small cheer when Martin confirmed with a 'Da!!' that he would indeed marry her.

After the signing of the register that was pretty much it.

And inside my stomach began to churn, I began to sweat.

The speeches were to go first - in Serbia they do not have them but Martin had insisted, a little english tradition amongst so many Serbian, and I was to go first.

As we all sat at the top table, I wanted to die.

I wanted to bail, to scream, 'fuck this I am out of here' and just leave.

But I didn't.

Martin is my friend, my buddy and drinking partner, I would never , ever let him down.

I sat there rubbing my hands until I heard the music stop.

And I tried.

I tried to make it as good as I wanted it to be, to be as spontaneous and funny as every other Best man speech is, except mine.

And I know I didn't do a great job of it.

I rushed it and went dry in two places, it was an ordeal, it was painful and afterwards I wanted to cry.

I felt I had let him down, let myself down.

A few people said they had enjoyed it but I didn't believe them, I thought they were just being kind.

I just can't do that kind if thing.

But if Martin asked me again.

I would do it again.

'Cause he's my friend.

Maybe John Inman did the interior decor.

This was my thought when we entered our room at the Park Hotel, Novi Sad.

We had landed earlier that morning in Belgrade, then driven for an hour north through some nice but uninteresting countryside.

Just flat, green fields.

I mean, yawnarama.

As we went through Novi Sad it appeared to be your average eastern European town - lots of concrete, graffiti and many, many different and varied shops and eateries begging for your attention.

We turned into the parking lot of the hotel and it seemed nice enough, save for a two headed mutant horse type sculpture..that was all silver with red eyes..very Terminatoresque, as if Skynet hadn't got it quite right at first and had to rethink there means to infiltrate the surviving humans...

The lobby was grand and opulent, all marble and leather sofas.

We met the bride who was chugging back on a cigarrette, one of many thst day as she put the finishing touches to the ceremony.

We hugged and kissed and I have to say I genuinely like Daniella.

I had worked with her a few years before when she met Martin, and played a small role in them getting together.

Later when Martin and I were sharing a flat she would join us every weekend for cocktails and lasagne.

She makes a darn good lasagne, it has to be said.

She is a very strong minded woman, she knows herself and is nobody's fool.

I like that.

We checked in and went to the room, and this is when we were reminded that we were not in Kansas anymore.

The room was decorated either in a 1970's theme or they had no sense of irony.

I'm guessing the latter.

The bed was red.

Red velvet headboard,red velvet base, red beadspread with red cushions with gold bows.

It was an assualt on the visua senses that we did not need after being up at 4am to travel over.

We consoled ourselves with a club sandwich from room sevice.

It helped.

T minus 8 days and counting.

8 days until go off on our European Adventure.

Starting in Novi Sad in Serbia next weekend for the wedding of Martin and Daniella - at which I am the best man.

Yeah, like I'm not shitting a brick at that one.

I'm shitting a whole fucking house.

I'm made up to be chosen but the thought of making a speech in Serbian,German and English is terrifying me.

But I'll deal.

Then after Serbia it's off to Budapest for a few days and then a couple of days in Vienna.

Will be nice.

Apart from the speech.

''Where the fuck is the monopoly board??'' I blurted out.

We were stood in a takeaway bar in Dublin.

Martin was smashed, as were the other two guys.

I was annoyed.

It had been nearly 11 hours since we started our quest and up to this point we had done spectacularly well.

The Irish Edition of the Monopoly Board.

The point was to visit every square on the Dublin monopoly board.

That's right Binky, every square.

That's 27 bars in total.

And we had more or less done it.

We had started in 'The Wicked Wolf' in Blackrock (not actually on the board but a tactical substitution for Shrewsbury Road) that morning and he proceeded at speed around the city.

'Dawson's Lounge (or lunge as the natives call it is the smallest bar in Dublin and where we sunk our first shot of Sambuca.

'The Horseshoe Bar' at the Shelbourne Hotel another.

'The Porterhouse' another.

'The Temple Bar' yet another.

You get the picture.

Towards the end of the day we took a cab out to 'Colmans' in Ranelagh....and it was then that I noticed that the board itself was missing.

The board that had been signed by everybody who had swerved us a beverage.

The board that contained the details of all liquids drunk that day and where.

Somebody had misplaced it.

And I was a tad emotional about it.

Because I desperately wanted to present it to Martin as a memento of this great weekend we had had together, like we used to, back in old days.

Days when we would spend Friday nights getting trashed with friends and colleagues.

Do pub crawls around London, invite people along only to see them be destroyed and puking in a shop doorway.

We found eight ways to consume Sambuca and yes, that kind of discovery is not in the same league as discovering America or going to the moon, but it meant a lot us.

I wanted to frame it and present it to him, so he would be able to hang it in pride of place in his flat.

Just like I do.

Who knows when we would ever get the chance to do a weekend like this again?

He gets married in three weeks and me in September, he will be father maybe next year or the year after and his family will of course, be his priority.

And all that is cool, it's great that both our lives are moving onto the next chapter and I'm not complaining, but I just wanted to give him something small, something that said that we did this meaningless, pointless thing...

And it was great.

And we lost the fucking board.

Nine of us sat down for dinner in Dublin on the Friday night.

Martin - the 'stag'(although after the weekend 'Bambi' would be a more apt description), two of his colleagues from the hotel in which he works, The Gills from Dublin, Judith, Colm and his current boyfriend Jason.

Judith, the Gills (Paul and Helen), Colm and I had been friends back when I was in Dublin.

Paul Gill is an Optician, Judith an administrator at the College of Surgeons.

Colm a Doctor.

Dublin was seven years ago.

A lifetime.

The meal itself was stunning, but you should not take my word for it as my memory of the evening has a lot of holes in it.

It's like a lump of Swiss cheese soaked in alcohol.

By the time we got to the Indian restaurant we had each slugged back;

3 Mojito's
3 Jagermeisters
Champagne
4 beers
2 vodka lemonade

And I know I out away 2 bottles of wine during the meal as I was the only person on white..

Halfway through the meal I turned to Colm;

''Why have you never told me to fuck off ?''

In the seven years we had foregone the passion of a doomed affair and forged quite a deep friendship.

He slugged back his glass of red wine before answering.

''Well,why have you never told me to fuck off?''

Point taken.

Scott Capurro was good.

He was playing at the Soho theatre which I don't think is the greatest venue in the world.

Located on Dean street and seats about 200 people.

It's small, there is no reserve seating so you kinda shuffle along a bench until there are fourteen on each.

It's reminiscent of a lecture theatre.

After a brief introduction in the form of a rapid slideshow of images of naked guys, Heather Mills, George Bush, Obama,Hilary Clinton,Madeline Mccan.

And it set the tone for the evening.

The jokes were aplenty , not just about all of the above but directed at members of the audience as well - most notable a quartet of queen's who had firmly encamped themselves in the front row, not even when other patrons tried to seat also on the front row, so it was good to see a pack of bitches get it from a smarter, quicker bitch than themselves.

And this guy, Scott Capurro is a clever guy.

When he makes sexist and racist jokes, when he unleashes a tirade about how 'white' Obama is, about how inept Bush is, about Heather Mills not being able to run after Mccartney.....what he is really doing is holding up a mirror to the audience and asking them to confront their rascist tendencies, their own homophobia and their own fears about a world that is intent on bombing Iraq so Iraqi guys will be free to be who they want to be.

If I had one criticism, the dialogue didn't quite gel, it was quite tangential, but it was still the funniest 90 minutes...like, ever.

On the way out I noticed a poster advertising a gig for Janey Godley - who blogs on here.

Put the doughnut down and go check out her blog.

The company I work for don't give us much in the way of benefits.

I mean really, compared to other companies we are a little hard done by.

I hear ya...boo hoo me right?

But it's all relative.

Anyway one of the few benefits we do get is two free nights a year so G and I are using them this weekend and staying in The Mayfair in.....Mayfair.

Well duh!

We were recommended to go see the Vanity Fair exhibition at The National Portrait Gallery.

And it was stunning.

It displays some of the finest pictures used in the mag since it's inception in 1913.

There is the famous Demi Moore pic where she is naked and very pregnant, a portrait of Clint Eastwood in black and white with life etched into his craggy handsome features and Liza Minnelli in tight corset with cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

There are also some amazing group portraits, most notably one the RSC featuring Sir Ian Mckellen and Patrick Stewart.

What really stood out for me was the works of Annie Lebiwitz.

I had always known of her but she was on the periphery of my conciousness.

But to see all her amazing pieces of photographic art has totally blown me away.

They all have a depth of emotion, the composition of the setting enhances the subject to the extent that it is an extension of the subject.

And there is a sly wryness to them.

I am now eager to find more of her work.

But in terms of the exhibtiom...

Press the pause button and go check them out.

I swim now at least three times a week.

And I love it.

I used to dread anything like that, but it wasn't the physical activity I didn't like, it was the changing room.

I hated getting changed in front of other people, I hated being the fat guy in a room full of..well slim people.

It was the only time I was ever conciouse of my size.

But not anymore.

The place we go to is quite quiet, and frankly the guys that go there are too busy admiring their own physiques to bother with mine.

I spend about thirty minutes in the pool, swimming up and down, arms pulling me through the water, legs pushing and all the time feeling the muscle tense and tone.

But the effect of the pool is not just a physical one, for me it also has a meditative quality.

It's just a few minutes to myself where I can run things through my mind, ponder this and ponder that.

I'm not saying that draw any deep conclusions about life, but it just gives me a few minutes to look at things from different perspective.

Works for the body and mind.

''What ese shiipping?'' asks Arecelli, the new reservation girl. She replaces the telephone receiver after taking a reservation call.

She's Spanish.

We have christened her Alfie instead of Arecelli.

She doesn't seem to mind.

''It's boats and stuff'' I reply, a little suprise at the question ''you know, import and export''

''Ah!'' she says ''I thought it was 'sheeping', like baaa baaa!!''

She realises what she has said and bursts into laughter.

And so do we.

On the whole I liked the movie I am Legend.

I had read the book a few years ago on a holiday in Florida, and my mind was able to easily create Richard Nevilles nightmare world of Vampires, a world where is he is the last man alive.

Hell, my mind had been fed a diet of Horror movies since I was eight or nine years old as my mother loved them. The first one I saw was 'Alien' on a Sunday afternoon at my Uncle Terry's.

This was in the days before DVD's and a movie on video cost about £70.00.

He was a bit flash so he had a stack.

Anyhoo...

So I intially approached last years movie with a mixture of trepidation, until I saw the trailers and I started to get excited about what I was seeing.

New York looked amazing in post apocalyptic kinda way.

The urban decay, the weeds breaking through the asphalt, heck you can almost smell the staench of decayed flesh.

Will Smith looked the part as the tortured Neville, his only companion his dog.

I remembered the 'Omega Man' with Charlton Heston from the seventies, a definite product of it's time.

I bought the 'Last Man On Earth' with Vincent Price- and the first adaption of Richard Matheson's novel and was quite impressed.

It has a morbid, doomed quality that stems from Vincent Prices voice over and the eery wailing of the Vampires outside Nevilles house at night.

Of the three adaptions it is perhaps the closest to the source material.

When we went to see 'I am Legend' at the movies I was not disappointed.

As I say I liked the look of New York that has been neglected for a few years, overgrown and overrun with wild animals.

You feel his fear when he enters a darkened warehouse after his dog and stumbles upon a hive of the mutated New Yorkers.

You kinda understand the daily routine he has created fo rhimself in an attempt to stay sane.

You feel his pain when he has to destroy his only companion for three years after she become infected with the virus that has turned the human race into nocturnal cannibals.

At the end of the movie Neville gives his life so the two other survivors he has found may escape New York with a serum for the infected.

This is total departure form the novel, as the novel raises the question of morality and how morality is always aligned with the majority. In this case the majority being the Vampires and therefore Neville is the monster, who stakes them in their sleep during the day, their only answer is to kill him, publicly and he is therefore the last human being to walk the earth - a legend.

My only gripe with the movie would be that the 'Darkseekers' look too CGI, they don't really convince in a way make up and prosthetics may have.

I was pleasently suprised when I logged onto www.aintitcoolnews.com and they had posted an alternative ending to the movie, one that I think would have worked a lot better.

Go check it out