My Mate Dave

My mate Dave, I reckon, is one of only three people to read this blog. The other two, I think, are my Dad and my girlfriend. I know nobody reads it because there is a company which emails me every day telling me how many hits I get, which is basically none.

This post though, is for Dave.

Dave and I have done loads together. 'The Brazilian Excursion,' (see January) is a fairly accurate illustration of the breath-taking speed and inevitability with which our escapades go awry.

With friends, we've drunk together, travelled together, run away from ugly women together, fiddled expense accounts together and sworn each other to secrecy every glorious step of the way. We are, like they say in the movies, buddies, and for all those reasons, I've let Dave kip in the spare room, on and off, for the past month or so.

That was until his most recent departure to 'visit his grandparents,' when it fell upon me to freshen up the spare room in preparation for future visits from guests/landladies/flatmates etc. I only intended to air the bed and open the windows but imagine my heartfelt dismay, nae HORROR, when I uncovered a collection of empty beer cans stashed under the window sill.

This must mean, 'buddy', that all those times you said you had no beer left, you actually did. Not only that, but you must have sat in your bedroom ALONE, and drank them without me. AND, as if none of this was bad enough, you were only too happy to help yourself to my beer which I ALWAYS leave in the fridge for public use.

Did our escapades mean nothing? The roadblock we built on Byres Road? The high-speed chase through Sao Paulo? The Elvis fans? The flight to Belfast? Nothing?

I'm sorry Dave but in light of the beer can discovery I feel compelled, though it pains me, to make the following announcements:

I) From now on, all my beer will live under my bed, in a padlocked box.

II) Although Dave said he was leaving Glasgow to visit his grandparents, he actually went to Amsterdam to get laid.