''Dear fellow 'Boozeketeers'....

The place where Mr N* will indulge his inner Beer monster consisting
of many pints of lager/ale/guiness/sambuca/cocktails (delete NONE as they
are ALL applicable) and bawdy behaviour before succumbing to a lifetime of
dinner parties, garden centres and listening to Radio 4..Will Be Dublin!!!!

Dublin....what better place could there be?

And we have a mission.

Our mission is to not remember what happened. To be so drunk, so smashed, so
completely blotto that we will only remember the details in tiny heart
stopping flashbacks followed by the thought..''Did I really do that???''

It will be the weekend of April 4/5.

I would be grateful if those of you who are man enough to go on this valiant
an honourable quest to reply with a definite ''YES I WILL BE THERE!!'' so I
may negotiate a hotel rate and flight details.

Those who choose not to join - be prepared for a life of remorse and regret
when the tales of what happened are told by generations to come, and watched
through tears of envy when they are posted on YouTube.

I await your hearty response...''

Well, I thought it was amusing.

''..and do you remember what your mother said?''continued my mother, obviousely on a bit of a roll ''..your mother said we had to get married because she didn't want any Bastards in the family..''

She was referring to my brother being conceived out of wedlock.

Gosh, the shock and horror.

''..and I thought you already have one..'' referring to my step father.

A little harsh I must say.

But fair.

We are in Birmingham and sitting outside Pret A Manger(or Mang-a) as pronounced by my Mother.

We are with her and my stepfather after having travelled up that morning.

We all have Capuccinos save for G who has a Diet Coke.

''It'll be thirty years this year'' says my mother referring to her marriage with the stepfather.

She then chuckles.

''You know..'' she starts ''When it was the 25 years anniversary we must have had a row because I remember saying that it was 25 years of crap.''

I know she was only half joking.

This is what kills me.

I have gotten over my self consciousness when getting changed at the gym.

At school I used to dread it.

I hated sports, I hated the getting changed.

Sometimes being the fat guy sucks.

Nobody ever teased me and my dread was to a big degree self imposed but I hated it all the same.

It didn't help having a games Master who whoud throw you in a pool of mud out on the Rugby pitch if he thought you were too clean.

But now, when I get changed at the gym on my way to have a swim, I don't mind it.

Because nobody is looking at me.

They are too busy looking at themselves in the mirrors as they dress and undress.

They spend what seems like an age looking at their own bodies as they dress.

And what kills me.

Is that some of these guys will be queerbashers or generally be prejudiced against the gay community and yet they spend all their time admiring their own physic's, their own maleness.

If that's not homoerotic, I don't know what is.

And there's me, the true fag getting changed quietly in the corner.

''Are you nervous about telling your parents ?'' asks G.

He is referring to informing our respective parents about our impending nuptials.

I think for a second and then answer honestly ''No not all. I know there won't be an issue.''

''Damn'' he says laughing ''I was going to offer you a deal''

I smile. ''Whats the deal?'' I ask.

''If you tell mine I'll tell yours!''

''Your nervous about doing aren't you?'' I ask in return.

''Yes!''

Of course I don't mind.

Why would I?

''I've got it'' I say.

I'm sitting in Gordon's Wine Bar adjacent to Embankment Tube station, with CH, a friend and colleague form Manchester who also moved down to London.

She is a good looking girl, blonde and curvacious with a bright smile.

The wine bar itself is a little gem.

You would pass it without ever knowing it was there and you enter down a rickety old staircase to a dark drinking den below.

The wood panelling is a bit hit and miss in it's effort to try and cover the ancient and exposed brickwork.

Chalk boards proclaim the house wine list and people sit huddled around candles melting all over the wine bottles upon which they sit.

It's dark, the only light coming from the aforementioned candles and it has a bit of dungeon quality to it, as part of it has low vaulted ceilings and a cage at one end holding a reserve stock of wine.

It's a great place.

''It needs to say'' I continue taking a sip of the second bottle - a Riesling Piesporter that is quite ripe with fruit and honey flavours - '' Blonde 27 Seeks Single Solvent Mature Man For Good Times''

She smiles approvingly.

''Just one addition'' she says ''..it needs to finish with'Pulse Optional' ''

I agree and take another slug of the wine, feeling like we had at least accomplished something that day.

It's kinda funny how life works out.

I would never, ever have thought that I would be getting married at any point in my life, let alone later this year.

It just was never an option.

I came out as gay in the mid 80's,when 'AIDS' was the watchword and the age of consent was 21.

Not that I paid any attention to the age of consent, I was a busy lad from the age of 17.

It was a time of teachers strike's, Clause 28, Bronski Beat, Eastenders and the Smith's.

Back then marriage was reserved only for people who slept with the opposite sex.

Gay people were expected to live lonely, unfilfilled life substituting promiscuous sex for a warm loving relationship.

Even when the possibility of Civil Partnerships became real, I never thought it would ever happen to me.

Civil Partnership.

I like the sound of that.

Let the Heterosexual's have the term 'marriage' and let us claim the term Civil Partnership.

It just sounds a lot more......civil.

But the world turns and brings with it many changes and now it is an option.

And on September 13th 2008 we will be taking our vows.

It will not be a grand, frilly affair with matching suits, but rather an intimate occasion informal and fun.

A simple ceremony at the local registry office, then a party at our favourite 'gastropub' - The Gun.

The most important thing is that it is the best day of our lives and we share it with those we love.

So Valentines day tommorrow.

And we have decided to do something a little different.

INstead of going out to some upmarket restaurant and enjoying a nice meal - and paying a lot for it - for example I was quoted,at Gary Rhodes restaurant '24' , £125 ahead for each of us.

Which is, quite frankly, ridiculous.

We eat very well anyway and we eat quite healthily thanks to G's careful menu planning and great cooking.

So as a treat - and it will be a treat - we will be ordering takeaway pizza and all the trimmings and pigging out in good old style.

Looking Forward to it.

I sit on front of the BOSS, he is doing my annual appraisel.

It's been a year since I moved back to London from Manchester.

In that time we have opened the hotel successfully.

''I have to say'' he begins ''You have been an asset to me personally and to the hotel''

Cool.

''And if I had to suggest one area in which you could improve..''

UH-OH

''...you could be a little..nicer to some people''

Sure.

Whateva.

So I have the week off.

No work for me for seven days.

YAY for me.

And where do I find myself at 8am this morning, the first day of said holiday?

In bed not rising until lunchtime?

Nope.

Doing some Extreme Couching (TM) in front of the TV?

Nope

I'm in the Gym.

Carfeul Binky, you almost dropped your doughnut.

In

The

Gym.

I must be mad.