The English Larry David
Recent bachelorhood following a bad long-term relationship that ended apocalyptically has afforded me the opportunity and inclination - following the first few months of emotional numbness - to go out and do what the hell I like, when I like.

Two recent off-the-leash events have caused me to experience severe Larry David moments. Both involved work colleagues and copious amounts of booze.

The first started with a bottle plus of wine, followed by several two-quid cocktails. I came back from the bog in one bar to find that my coat had vanished and - thinking all my work colleagues had gone to the club next door before I went to the lav -- I assumed it had been stolen. Incoherent and inaudible investigatory questions to my fellow inebriated workmates on the dancefloor of the club next door yielded no results. I posted a facebook message at 3:30 a.m. "to the complete BASTARD who stole my coat", inviting them to "enjoy the gloves, the smints and the Neutrogena hand cream", and finishing off in style with a capitalised "CUNT".

Following messages of support, I added to the inventory of the coat pockets, mentioning the "packet of three" that I'd secreted in the inside pocket, in case I got lucky and congratulating the thief on being fully prepared for some hot action, should he pull.

The next day, also via facebook, it became terribly apparent that a kind, thoughtful colleague had in fact taken the coat for safekeeping, doubtless having noticed the state I was in. Bless her! Of course, I printed a retraction and an effusive note of thanks -- but Monday morning was still full of piss-taking. The coat was returned, with the hand cream, mints and johnnies in their rightful place.

The second incident occurred as a result of a conversational, self-referential expression, the appropriate use of which I greatly misjudged. It was a Friday evening, just after work, and was happy hour in the bar around the corner. I got chatting to a woman from another department and made a joke, to which she said something along the lines of an Emery-esque "ooh, you are awful!" My reply was a Duncan Thickett-like: "Yeah, I'm a right cunt, me!"

She gasped. Her eyes bulged. She said, "That's the worst word you can say!"

Most sensible people would, at this point, have apologised and tried to salvage the situation. Not me -- certainly not after five pints on an empty stomach.

"Worst word you can say? Bollocks it is. There's far worse! It's not a racial epithet, is it? Well, then!"

She hasn't spoken to me since.

I've decided that I'm not going to go on work nights out any more. If I were to go out on another one, well, who knows? I might end up standing on a bar stool, hanging my arse over the pumps, shitting on the drip tray and waving my cock at all and sundry.
(Dinting Arches, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 21:27, 1 reply)

Quite right
(Nigella Pussycat picking baked-in hair from creme brulee, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 0:08, closed)