My attempts to avoid finding out the winner are doomed, aren't they?
I shall be meeting friends for dinner at Yauatcha, followed, no doubt, by some revelry in a gay bar as advised by Ash, (who knows about such places), for such is their wont. Then I will sleep, either in a gutter or shop doorway, or, if sober enough to find it, my room in the less-than glamourous Strand Palace hotel.
Tomorrow there will be groaning and dry-retching.
The Northern Irisher with the ears and Adrian Durham hair will win and piss Burney off
10 characters? Pile of cund.
I once stayed there purely because I was horrifically drunk, utterly unable to get home and needed a bed. My friend was in tow and the idea was that he would saunter in once I had told him my room number and kip on the floor. Apparently, while I snored off the drink, the night manager and he were locked in a battle of wits most of the night as he attempted to gain ingress. He was finally ejected and threatened with the police if he tried again.