Showing posts with label Parties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parties. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Preparations
This Saturday, Mrs Wife and I are hosting a barbecue.
We did the same last year, and a decent crowd turned out for what eventually amounted to 12 hours of chargrilled meat and cold beer-based fun.
Word has obviously spread, as this year's sequel looks as though it's going to attract 50 hungry punters.
So you'll have to excuse me while I go and mow the carpet, hoover the lawn, marinade the barbecue and scrub the chicken.
Or something like that anyway.
We did the same last year, and a decent crowd turned out for what eventually amounted to 12 hours of chargrilled meat and cold beer-based fun.
Word has obviously spread, as this year's sequel looks as though it's going to attract 50 hungry punters.
So you'll have to excuse me while I go and mow the carpet, hoover the lawn, marinade the barbecue and scrub the chicken.
Or something like that anyway.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Party Politics
Today has been a day of hilarity and horrors.
The aftermath of the office Xmas party, the first I've experienced since joining my current employer, was equal parts entertaining and excruciating. The whole morning in the office passed in a flurry of emails recounting Friday's festivities. The bad behaviour, drunken debates and dubious dancing were all picked over in minute detail, providing almost as much entertainment as the party itself.
No-one has been sacked yet, so I think we may be safe, for a year at least.
The aftermath of the office Xmas party, the first I've experienced since joining my current employer, was equal parts entertaining and excruciating. The whole morning in the office passed in a flurry of emails recounting Friday's festivities. The bad behaviour, drunken debates and dubious dancing were all picked over in minute detail, providing almost as much entertainment as the party itself.
No-one has been sacked yet, so I think we may be safe, for a year at least.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Soundtrack of My Life
Each month, Mojo magazine interviews three celebrities or musicians for its All Back To My Place page, asking the same questions each month. I figured I'd prepare my answers just in case they ask me for the next issue.
What music are you currently grooving to?
I don't know if it can be classed as "grooving", but I'm listening to The Enemy's debut album We'll Live and Die In These Towns a lot. It reminds me of The Jam, in a kind of vitriolic, call-to-arms, sound of the suburbs sort of way. Nowadays, I listen to music most when I'm driving to and from work, but I have a car share, so I tend not to subject her to anything too outrageous or loud. I'm also waiting for my copy of Hard Fi's Once Upon A Time In The West to be delivered.
What, if push comes to shove, is your all-time favourite album?
The Stone Roses' debut album has been my favourite album since I was about 18. I can't really put into words what it is that makes it so important: the whole package transcends the individual songs and the individual players. But the opening rumble of I Wanna Be Adored, the psychedelic punk of Made of Stone and the epic closer I Am The Resurrection are enough in themselves to make it the greatest record of all time.
What was the first record you ever bought? And where did you buy it?
It was the soundtrack to the movie Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on cassette from John Menzies in Dundee (now replaced by a Tesco Metro) in 1990 or 1991. I'm always surprised when rock stars are interviewed and asked what their first record was, and they say The Jam, or The Beatles, or The Sex Pistols. I went through a long phase of liking shite pop music, a phase I call "being a kid". Kids don't buy Sex Pistols records - they buy novelty records, movie soundtracks and pop. Anyway, the soundtrack to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles included the awesome T-U-R-T-L-E Power by Partners In Kryme, This Is What We Do by MC Hammer and 9.95 by Spunkadelic, all of which I have recently downloaded from the internet. I think I might still have the original tape hidden away in either Mither's or Faither's loft.
Which musician have you ever wanted to be?
Anyone who can play an instrument. I envy people who can pick up an acoustic guitar and rattle off five or six songs faultlessly to entertain a roomful of people. I'd love to be able to play drums like Dave Grohl, bass like Flea or guitar like John Squire.
What do you sing in the shower?
I always used to sing in the shower, but nowadays I get up at 6.15am, which means that I tend not to, for two reasons:
a) 6.15am is not a "singing in the shower" time of day
b) The bathroom at Dungroanin' is en suite, and Mrs Wife would probably not care too much for being woken up at 6.15am by me running through a medley of Super Furry Animals songs.
On the occasions when I do sing, I find that Elvis songs sound great in the shower, as the cubicle makes my voice, which is quite deep (especially when I'm tired), echo. So I'm quite partial to belting out Devil In Disguise and Suspicious Minds. I also like singing Reef's Naked, for someone reason that I haven't been able to fathom, but which may well be Freudian.
What is your favourite Saturday night record?
If it's one record that I'll put on before going out, it's The Stone Roses' debut album, cranked right up so that the bass rattles the windows. I have to listen to the whole thing, finishing with the instrumental at the end of I Am The Resurrection. However, in this age of CD burners and MP3 players, it's all too easy to make up a playlist especially for Saturday nights. When I was at university, my flatmate and I made a going out CD that included Primal Scream's Kill All Hippies, Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit, The White Room by Cream and White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane, amongst others. No-one else liked it, but we thought it was ace.
And your Sunday morning record?
I tend not to listen to music on Sunday mornings, but when I do, it can be almost anything. A bit of Motown can start the day nicely, as can The Beatles. Probably not Metallica, Motorhead or Probot though.
I know many of you can't stand memes, but if you want to play along, feel free. I'd be especially interested to hear how The Tomahawk Kid and Erica would answer.
What music are you currently grooving to?
I don't know if it can be classed as "grooving", but I'm listening to The Enemy's debut album We'll Live and Die In These Towns a lot. It reminds me of The Jam, in a kind of vitriolic, call-to-arms, sound of the suburbs sort of way. Nowadays, I listen to music most when I'm driving to and from work, but I have a car share, so I tend not to subject her to anything too outrageous or loud. I'm also waiting for my copy of Hard Fi's Once Upon A Time In The West to be delivered.
What, if push comes to shove, is your all-time favourite album?
The Stone Roses' debut album has been my favourite album since I was about 18. I can't really put into words what it is that makes it so important: the whole package transcends the individual songs and the individual players. But the opening rumble of I Wanna Be Adored, the psychedelic punk of Made of Stone and the epic closer I Am The Resurrection are enough in themselves to make it the greatest record of all time.
What was the first record you ever bought? And where did you buy it?
It was the soundtrack to the movie Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on cassette from John Menzies in Dundee (now replaced by a Tesco Metro) in 1990 or 1991. I'm always surprised when rock stars are interviewed and asked what their first record was, and they say The Jam, or The Beatles, or The Sex Pistols. I went through a long phase of liking shite pop music, a phase I call "being a kid". Kids don't buy Sex Pistols records - they buy novelty records, movie soundtracks and pop. Anyway, the soundtrack to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles included the awesome T-U-R-T-L-E Power by Partners In Kryme, This Is What We Do by MC Hammer and 9.95 by Spunkadelic, all of which I have recently downloaded from the internet. I think I might still have the original tape hidden away in either Mither's or Faither's loft.
Which musician have you ever wanted to be?
Anyone who can play an instrument. I envy people who can pick up an acoustic guitar and rattle off five or six songs faultlessly to entertain a roomful of people. I'd love to be able to play drums like Dave Grohl, bass like Flea or guitar like John Squire.
What do you sing in the shower?
I always used to sing in the shower, but nowadays I get up at 6.15am, which means that I tend not to, for two reasons:
a) 6.15am is not a "singing in the shower" time of day
b) The bathroom at Dungroanin' is en suite, and Mrs Wife would probably not care too much for being woken up at 6.15am by me running through a medley of Super Furry Animals songs.
On the occasions when I do sing, I find that Elvis songs sound great in the shower, as the cubicle makes my voice, which is quite deep (especially when I'm tired), echo. So I'm quite partial to belting out Devil In Disguise and Suspicious Minds. I also like singing Reef's Naked, for someone reason that I haven't been able to fathom, but which may well be Freudian.
What is your favourite Saturday night record?
If it's one record that I'll put on before going out, it's The Stone Roses' debut album, cranked right up so that the bass rattles the windows. I have to listen to the whole thing, finishing with the instrumental at the end of I Am The Resurrection. However, in this age of CD burners and MP3 players, it's all too easy to make up a playlist especially for Saturday nights. When I was at university, my flatmate and I made a going out CD that included Primal Scream's Kill All Hippies, Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit, The White Room by Cream and White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane, amongst others. No-one else liked it, but we thought it was ace.
And your Sunday morning record?
I tend not to listen to music on Sunday mornings, but when I do, it can be almost anything. A bit of Motown can start the day nicely, as can The Beatles. Probably not Metallica, Motorhead or Probot though.
I know many of you can't stand memes, but if you want to play along, feel free. I'd be especially interested to hear how The Tomahawk Kid and Erica would answer.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Of Bowling, BBQs and Bombs
The weekend - where to begin?
As I explained previously, on Friday the company we work for paid for all employees in its Aberdeen office to spend the afternoon playing Pirate Island Adventure Golf, spinning about the on the dodgems, eating too much, playing pool and bowling.
Four minutes on the dodgems wasn't enough to demonstrate my Lewis Hamilton-esque driving, my golf was inhibited by poor approach work (though my putting was immense) and my pool playing was a bit rusty. I did finish a creditable joint third in the bowling though, missing out on the five pound prize after a play-off decided by means of one game of pool. (I came from seven balls down to lose it on the black - so close.)
And then Mrs Wife and I rose on Saturday morning to find Montrose basking in glorious sunshine. In fact, had we started our housewarming barbecue at 9.30am, the weather would have been perfect. But by 1.30pm, clouds were scattering across the sky, and by 3pm drops of rain could be felt cooling my sunburt neck. And by 6.30pm we had a full-on Montrose monsoon. But by then most people were fed and, if not drunk, merry enough not to care that they were crammed into Dungroanin' like giant sardines in a standard-sized phone box.
It was whilst we were partying indoors that news came in of the terrorist attack at Glasgow Airport. For so long, terrorism in the UK, whether that perpetrated by the IRA or by Islamic extremists, has focussed on London. But to find out that this unholy war has moved north of the border was a shock.
I would imagine that every single person in the room when the news came through has been to Glasgow Airport at some point in their lives, whether as a passenger or there to collect a relative. To see mobile phone video footage of the burning jeep at the airport brought home the fact that this was happening just over 100 miles from my front door, almost live as we saw it.
Apparently this is the first bombing in Scotland since the Luftwaffe crossed the English Channel. Whether that's true or not, I don't know. But if we thought that those who claim to be acting in Allah's name were going to concentrate their efforts on New York, Washington and London, we were obviously wrong.
Should we be afraid? No, we should be angry. We can't live in a state of fear - for then these ideological cretins, who would kill anyone unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, would have won.
It remains the case that you're far more likely to die in a car accident or from a heart attack than as a result of a terrorist attack. And our emergency services and military are amongst the best in the world - Glasgow airport was fully functional less than a day after the failed attack.
The greatest show of strength we can put on is to continue life as normal, to show that no matter what evil these people can summon, we will always overcome.
As I explained previously, on Friday the company we work for paid for all employees in its Aberdeen office to spend the afternoon playing Pirate Island Adventure Golf, spinning about the on the dodgems, eating too much, playing pool and bowling.
Four minutes on the dodgems wasn't enough to demonstrate my Lewis Hamilton-esque driving, my golf was inhibited by poor approach work (though my putting was immense) and my pool playing was a bit rusty. I did finish a creditable joint third in the bowling though, missing out on the five pound prize after a play-off decided by means of one game of pool. (I came from seven balls down to lose it on the black - so close.)
And then Mrs Wife and I rose on Saturday morning to find Montrose basking in glorious sunshine. In fact, had we started our housewarming barbecue at 9.30am, the weather would have been perfect. But by 1.30pm, clouds were scattering across the sky, and by 3pm drops of rain could be felt cooling my sunburt neck. And by 6.30pm we had a full-on Montrose monsoon. But by then most people were fed and, if not drunk, merry enough not to care that they were crammed into Dungroanin' like giant sardines in a standard-sized phone box.
It was whilst we were partying indoors that news came in of the terrorist attack at Glasgow Airport. For so long, terrorism in the UK, whether that perpetrated by the IRA or by Islamic extremists, has focussed on London. But to find out that this unholy war has moved north of the border was a shock.
I would imagine that every single person in the room when the news came through has been to Glasgow Airport at some point in their lives, whether as a passenger or there to collect a relative. To see mobile phone video footage of the burning jeep at the airport brought home the fact that this was happening just over 100 miles from my front door, almost live as we saw it.
Apparently this is the first bombing in Scotland since the Luftwaffe crossed the English Channel. Whether that's true or not, I don't know. But if we thought that those who claim to be acting in Allah's name were going to concentrate their efforts on New York, Washington and London, we were obviously wrong.
Should we be afraid? No, we should be angry. We can't live in a state of fear - for then these ideological cretins, who would kill anyone unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, would have won.
It remains the case that you're far more likely to die in a car accident or from a heart attack than as a result of a terrorist attack. And our emergency services and military are amongst the best in the world - Glasgow airport was fully functional less than a day after the failed attack.
The greatest show of strength we can put on is to continue life as normal, to show that no matter what evil these people can summon, we will always overcome.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Socks Appeal
Dublin is a strange city. The city centre, with its Georgian townhouses and the landscaped beauty of St Stephen's Green, seems fairly affluent, albeit not in an overly ostentatious way. But the bus ride into the city from the airport takes you through suburbs as run down as any I've seen in western Europe. I suppose that all the EU money that the Republic of Ireland has pulled in over the past decade or so only stretches so far.
Mrs Wife and I were in Dublin this weekend to attend a party celebrating the marriage of a good friend of mine from my university days. Having decided to wed on a beach in Thailand, they then invited their family and friends to a low-key soiree in Dublin.
It was the third time I'd visited the Irish capital - the first was with the friend whose wedding party we were attending, way back in the days before I knew Mrs Wife and he knew his new bride. Six of us spent a week touring Ireland, a tour which involved spending more time in licensed premises than in tourist attractions.
My second visit was in 2003, when I took the then Miss Girlfriend to Dublin to see Justin Timberlake touring his debut album. At some point in the future, I may write about that trip, but for now, I will concentrate on this weekend.
Although I'd visited Dublin twice previously, this was the first time I'd flown into its airport, having arrived by train from Belfast on my previous trips. This trip was also different in that we knew that our sight-seeing time was to be limited, as we were partying on both the Saturday night and the Sunday night, the main event taking place on the Sunday.
When we were first invited to the party, I tried to book a hotel as close to the venue as possible. Mrs Wife and I have decided that, on reflection, selecting a hotel that "boasts" a nightclub which remains open until 3am was probably not a great idea. It would seem that the hotel in question makes most of its money from the nigthclub. Our room was easily the worst we have stayed in whilst travelling in Europe, and was worse than most of those we endured during three months in South East Asia.
Two enjoyable nights on the town aside, and discounting the grottiness of our room, the defining factor of our trip was my wardrobe. Deciding to exude a little Scottish class, I took my kilt across the Irish Sea. As I was awaiting our bags at the carousel in Dublin airport, it suddenly dawned on me that I had neglected to pack a shirt to go with the kilt. Whilst an inconvenience, this wasn't an insurmountable problem - I would simply buy a plain white shirt, which would be a passable replacement for the real thing.
Having found a suitable stand-in shirt, I was hanging up my outfit in the hotel and checking that I had all of the other constituent parts of the kilt. Sporran - check. Shoes - check. Bow tie - check. Socks. Socks. Socks? SOCKS?
Damn. I'd forgotten the socks. This may not sound like a big deal - socks are socks. Except when the outfit in question is a kilt. Because the kilt extends to knee length, and the shoes lace up around the calf and shin, the socks are vital to the overall look.
Mrs Wife was, of course, suitably impressed with this revelation. As Dublin's shops had closed for the evening, it meant that Sunday, the day of the party, was spent roaming the city's streets in search of socks for an outfit from a foreign country.
We tried many different outlets, including one chain that rents kilts out, but in vain - Dublin is not the best place in the world to buy kilt socks. Finally, with our hangovers reaching the "fatally dehydrated" stage, our patience wearing thin and our feet aching, we were directed to a store called House of Ireland.
They didn't stock kilt socks. But they did have thick, knee-length, woollen socks, which would stand as passable replacements for one evening. I almost baulked at the pricetag - ELEVEN POUNDS for a pair of socks (I am a man who normally buys underwear in packs of three and always for less than five pounds - eleven pounds for a pair of socks is a bit steep).
And the moral of the tale? Listen to your mother's advice - ALWAYS pack clean underwear.
(As a post script to this strangely lengthy tale of socks, most of the other guests at the party were wearing jeans and casual shirts. But hey, a man in a kilt in a roomful of Irish people wearing jeans is ALWAYS going to stand out.)
Mrs Wife and I were in Dublin this weekend to attend a party celebrating the marriage of a good friend of mine from my university days. Having decided to wed on a beach in Thailand, they then invited their family and friends to a low-key soiree in Dublin.
It was the third time I'd visited the Irish capital - the first was with the friend whose wedding party we were attending, way back in the days before I knew Mrs Wife and he knew his new bride. Six of us spent a week touring Ireland, a tour which involved spending more time in licensed premises than in tourist attractions.
My second visit was in 2003, when I took the then Miss Girlfriend to Dublin to see Justin Timberlake touring his debut album. At some point in the future, I may write about that trip, but for now, I will concentrate on this weekend.
Although I'd visited Dublin twice previously, this was the first time I'd flown into its airport, having arrived by train from Belfast on my previous trips. This trip was also different in that we knew that our sight-seeing time was to be limited, as we were partying on both the Saturday night and the Sunday night, the main event taking place on the Sunday.
When we were first invited to the party, I tried to book a hotel as close to the venue as possible. Mrs Wife and I have decided that, on reflection, selecting a hotel that "boasts" a nightclub which remains open until 3am was probably not a great idea. It would seem that the hotel in question makes most of its money from the nigthclub. Our room was easily the worst we have stayed in whilst travelling in Europe, and was worse than most of those we endured during three months in South East Asia.
Two enjoyable nights on the town aside, and discounting the grottiness of our room, the defining factor of our trip was my wardrobe. Deciding to exude a little Scottish class, I took my kilt across the Irish Sea. As I was awaiting our bags at the carousel in Dublin airport, it suddenly dawned on me that I had neglected to pack a shirt to go with the kilt. Whilst an inconvenience, this wasn't an insurmountable problem - I would simply buy a plain white shirt, which would be a passable replacement for the real thing.
Having found a suitable stand-in shirt, I was hanging up my outfit in the hotel and checking that I had all of the other constituent parts of the kilt. Sporran - check. Shoes - check. Bow tie - check. Socks. Socks. Socks? SOCKS?
Damn. I'd forgotten the socks. This may not sound like a big deal - socks are socks. Except when the outfit in question is a kilt. Because the kilt extends to knee length, and the shoes lace up around the calf and shin, the socks are vital to the overall look.
Mrs Wife was, of course, suitably impressed with this revelation. As Dublin's shops had closed for the evening, it meant that Sunday, the day of the party, was spent roaming the city's streets in search of socks for an outfit from a foreign country.
We tried many different outlets, including one chain that rents kilts out, but in vain - Dublin is not the best place in the world to buy kilt socks. Finally, with our hangovers reaching the "fatally dehydrated" stage, our patience wearing thin and our feet aching, we were directed to a store called House of Ireland.
They didn't stock kilt socks. But they did have thick, knee-length, woollen socks, which would stand as passable replacements for one evening. I almost baulked at the pricetag - ELEVEN POUNDS for a pair of socks (I am a man who normally buys underwear in packs of three and always for less than five pounds - eleven pounds for a pair of socks is a bit steep).
And the moral of the tale? Listen to your mother's advice - ALWAYS pack clean underwear.
(As a post script to this strangely lengthy tale of socks, most of the other guests at the party were wearing jeans and casual shirts. But hey, a man in a kilt in a roomful of Irish people wearing jeans is ALWAYS going to stand out.)
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Picture This
Just to prove that the words that appear on this humble blog aren't the overworkings of a head full of nonsense, here is the photographic evidence that I attended the primary school reunion last weekend.Thank you to Sho, who risked the sack to send me the photograph instead of having me pay for it. For those of you who want to play "Where's Wally/Waldo?", I am NOT wearing a fluorescent shell suit in this picture. Which I'm sure will come as a great disappointment to many of you.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Back To School
Until very recently, I believed that I was still too young to be invited to a school reunion. After all, it's only been nine years since I left secondary school, and only five since I graduated from university.
But despite still being a metaphorical spring chicken, I was recently invited to attend a reunion of all those fortunate past pupils of Tarfside Primary School who are still alive.
So, despite both suffering from chronic hangovers, Baby Brother and I headed back to the school for the first time in many years on Saturday.
Actually, that's a lie. Mither dropped us off at the school on Saturday. Which is pretty lame - a combined age of 50 and we're still getting driven to school by our mum.
It was an unusual gathering. Though many had travelled considerable distances to attend the event, many hadn't made it for one reason or another. So we were left with a strange spectrum of ages, ranging from the school's current pupils, all aged between five and twelve years, up to a handful of alumni now within grasping distance of their 80th birthdays.
(What is the correct collective name for a group of elderly folk? A wrinkle? A moan? A zimmer?)
The present, but soon to be retired, teacher at the school has retained self-made yearbooks for each of her years at the helm of the school, and it was equally intriguing and mortifying to flick through the pages chronicling my brief period as a pupil.
Parents in the early 1990s must have cruel, colourblind or both. Amongst the natty costumes I was sporting in the photos were a faded Rangers shellsuit, the jacket bleached a pastel shade closer to lilac than to the more proper Royal Blue; a Rangers strip (notice a trend here?) which I wore in its entirety, the shorts hiked up to somewhere around my armpits; and a pair of Bermuda-patterned Speedo swimming trunks, which at least provided some distraction from my lurid white pigeon chest.
Thankfully, this catalogue of what not to wear was shared equally amongst those of us who attended school around the same time, so the burden of shame wasn't mine to bear alone.
Even more toe-curling were the videos of school plays showing on a constant loop in a back room, showcasing to full effect the incendiary thespian skills of Scottish primary school children, starring yours truly affecting some god-awful English accent for recurring roles as a butler.
All in all, it was a great weekend, offering the opportunity to catch up with old friends who have been strangers for too long, drink to excess in the unique surroundings of Tarfside Masonic Hall and spend Sunday eating freshly barbecued hamburgers whilst playing football on the school playing field for the first time in nigh-on 15 years.
Needless to say, I had lost none of the magic.....
But despite still being a metaphorical spring chicken, I was recently invited to attend a reunion of all those fortunate past pupils of Tarfside Primary School who are still alive.
So, despite both suffering from chronic hangovers, Baby Brother and I headed back to the school for the first time in many years on Saturday.
Actually, that's a lie. Mither dropped us off at the school on Saturday. Which is pretty lame - a combined age of 50 and we're still getting driven to school by our mum.
It was an unusual gathering. Though many had travelled considerable distances to attend the event, many hadn't made it for one reason or another. So we were left with a strange spectrum of ages, ranging from the school's current pupils, all aged between five and twelve years, up to a handful of alumni now within grasping distance of their 80th birthdays.
(What is the correct collective name for a group of elderly folk? A wrinkle? A moan? A zimmer?)
The present, but soon to be retired, teacher at the school has retained self-made yearbooks for each of her years at the helm of the school, and it was equally intriguing and mortifying to flick through the pages chronicling my brief period as a pupil.
Parents in the early 1990s must have cruel, colourblind or both. Amongst the natty costumes I was sporting in the photos were a faded Rangers shellsuit, the jacket bleached a pastel shade closer to lilac than to the more proper Royal Blue; a Rangers strip (notice a trend here?) which I wore in its entirety, the shorts hiked up to somewhere around my armpits; and a pair of Bermuda-patterned Speedo swimming trunks, which at least provided some distraction from my lurid white pigeon chest.
Thankfully, this catalogue of what not to wear was shared equally amongst those of us who attended school around the same time, so the burden of shame wasn't mine to bear alone.
Even more toe-curling were the videos of school plays showing on a constant loop in a back room, showcasing to full effect the incendiary thespian skills of Scottish primary school children, starring yours truly affecting some god-awful English accent for recurring roles as a butler.
All in all, it was a great weekend, offering the opportunity to catch up with old friends who have been strangers for too long, drink to excess in the unique surroundings of Tarfside Masonic Hall and spend Sunday eating freshly barbecued hamburgers whilst playing football on the school playing field for the first time in nigh-on 15 years.
Needless to say, I had lost none of the magic.....
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