Amazing how one doesn't feel the need to rant about things when one is getting laid, isn't it? Don't worry, this isn't going to signal the beginning of the end, just the beginning of the getting the end away, in the parlance of our times.

And of course I have been stupidly busy between seeing my new lass, having driving lessons, meeting mortgage lenders, discussing housing spandooglies with my potential tenants, skirmishing, climbing, and working 6 days a week and socialising as well. One truth I have certainly learned about life recently is this: There Is Never Enough Time To Read

Christ on a bike (much like snakes on a plane, but even less likely) this hangover is a touch more pervasive than I was expecting. Then again, I was a touch more spannered last night than I was anticipating. Good night out though;

The City of Portsmouth: famed across the south of England for its delightful ambience, rich maritime history, and friendly, jocular street customs where thoughtful young men will relieve almost anyone of many burdensome inconveniences entirely free of charge; at the drop of a hat such cluttersome and confusing things as one's wallet, watch, car and consciousness can be swiftly taken away from you should you wish by simply walking through the streets on your own (it is a marvellously efficient system), or sometimes even this will not dissuade the affectionate attentions of more convivial groups of `Pompey` boys, with their smart white sports shoes, respectable hooded sports tops, delightful baseball caps worn in thoroughly affable fashion, and their fulgent, keen bladed weaponry kept in readiness at all times.

So basically its a total f***ing s***-hole full of absolute c**** who'd cheerfully sell their Granny for glue

Well its not that bad I suppose, I went to see DJ Yoda (Yoda..yoda...yoda....) 2 weeks ago after all, and only got started on** twice, and very half-heartedly so too

(**colloquial slang meaning: to be threatened; to have someone attempt to start a fight with you; to `start` on someone is to attempt to instigate a fight, usually with a total stranger)

Thats twice more than I have EVER been started on in Southampton. I've lived near/ hung out in Southampton for 10 years.

I went to Portsmouth for less than 7 hours. Twice, I tell you!!. Go figure.

So the city kinda deserves its reputation in some ways and last night was exceedingly violent, but actually in a far more acceptable (unless you are the folks who prompted this article) way - it was the night of the charity boxing gig at their Guildhall, and all the faces were there (some of them last seen on police station walls ) to watch the young lads from Titchfield amateurs take on the Royal Navy youth team. Titchfield aren't really amateurs, you see. Hell, there were 13 year olds from there that I wouldn't ever want to go up against, you can hardly believe the speed of the little devils!!

We go every year (although this might have been the last one) as a group from work. Tickets are hard to get hold of (very hard) and its pretty much entirely an old-boys network event where, besides the 10-15 bouts of boxing and a delicious 4-course meal seated at 80-odd tables arranged around the boxing ring erected in the centre of the floor, various articles of boxing paraphenalia are auctioned off (signed shorts worn by Sugar Ray Leonard were the highlight last night, went for £8,000 I seem to recall), lotteries are run, and ticket prices are jacked right up there in the name of charity and almost certainly in the name of someone behind the scenes lining their pockets at the same time Its all a little bit gangster, really. Pretty cool night out!

So, much fun was had by all; the chance to go out on the p*** with my brother and my best mate - something not done in years - was too good to miss, and the grandeur of the occasion was too good an opportunity to not blag a load of the boss's rather expensive cigars, and drink an absolute bucket-load of virtually-free booze (well, not really free at all, I suppose, but I personally didn't pay a shilling compared to what I consumed: I somehow managed to sup whisky, wine and lager throughout the whole night on just the £20 I chucked in the kitty, which can't have hardly even covered the first couple of bottles of wine!).

And going back through the streets of Portsmouth with a minibus-full of drunken colleagues (which will no doubt prove embarassing to at least some of us come Monday morning ) who probably sang one too many stupid songs, and almost certainly said too many snideful things to their colleagues far too loudly while under the impression that they were whispering under their breath (I'm looking at the driver, here. Silly f***er only came out with some racist comment about a Sikh guy standing next to him while we were clustered in the doorway out of the rain waiting to leave. *beep*.).

We managed to make it out alive however, even the sight of me; sharp suit, smart shoes, amiable smile and a veritable medusa's-head writhing with untamed dreadlocks sprouting out at all angles ; didn't scare too many of the waitresses or irritate any of the `businessmen` that were in attendance, and the whole damned affair was really quite entertaining, as evenings in the company of 600 people who look like penguins (black tie affair, most of 'em in dinner jackets or tuxedos) usually are. This is of course mostly because you can guarantee good entertainment, opulent decor, and food likely to cause immense satisfaction (and gout, 20 years down the line ) when in the company people rich enough to be able to justify wearing tuxedos.