You Can Call Me Al

The Rugby Correspondant called friday night, his boys from Cardiff had come up for the weekend and they were about in in the city tasting its delights. I met up with them on the docks and they were well into their eveing. Could have something to do with the fact that I fell asleep after i got back from work and only met them at 21:30. What? It had been a long week.

Anyway, these guys were big guys. I am not short or skinny but these guys were big guys.
I showed them all the prime sights in Liverpool. We hung out in Modo and Alma De Cuba before heading off to my favourite, 3345.

They were stuck for things to do on the saturday and the two things that came to mind were paintballing and clay pigeon shooting. It is worring that the only suggestions for man activities were gun related but it gave me a chance to show off some of my skill. Such was my accuracy on saturdays paintballing trip one of the lads said to me "If you'll be my bodyguard I can be your long lost pal". This guy intrigued me. In a group of laddish lads surrounded by all that testosterone he came across as a male Mae Rose Cottage. I liked him.

However, now he keeps calling me Betty. There have been some late nights this weekend.

And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.
You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing.
Only your eyes are unclosed, to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep.