I tried watching baseball again, last night. A pointless exercise. I tried, I really tried to understand. Then fell asleep halfway through, and awoke to read this on the BBC website: “The visitors completed a 4-0 series sweep after Willie Harris scored on a Jermaine Dye RBI single in the eighth inning at Minute Maid Park. The Astros left three runners on base in the sixth inning, and another two in the bottom of the eighth.

I see. I think I need to read this before I try again, or maybe the Simple English version. Actually, the Simple English Wikipedia is pretty good on certain topics, like differential calculus:

“Differential calculus is a type of calculus involving differentials.”

Last night a last minute decision was made to head to Lancaster Gate, where world Devon renowned odd book collector was having a few drinks, having come on holiday with his family, to London. Now, I like London and everything – I like it so much that I chose it as the location for my divorce hearing – but for a family from the South West to come on holiday here made my head spin. “What have you been doing?” I asked Alf. “Drinking,” he said, before taking a large gulp of Badger Ale. His wife Liz, daughter Annie and Annie's friend Bryony (“I SO hate my name…”) were also in tow.

Things started getting slightly out of control when artist Tony Hayward appeared, having emerged from his flat around the corner after sinking a few bottles of wine over dinner. Alf and his good wife Liz are well acquainted with him, so he joined us for two or three, or four. It quickly became clear that he was “talking bollocks”, but by 10.30pm he had asked me to marry him, taken offence when I rolled my eyes, and then transferred his attentions to , who he described as “gorgeous” so many times you feared he'd got stuck in some kind of mind-loop. I took a picture of him, just after he'd knocked a glass of champagne on my leg.

A girl working at the bar arrived to remove some glasses, and noted loudly that Tony had been “overserved”, a word which has immediately leaped to the forefront of my lexicon. “Drunk” and “pissed” have had their day, and I, for one, welcome our new Overserved Overlords.

Listen to the ensuing debacle…

Tony: She's gorgeous. Is she spoken for?
Liz: Yes, and you are as well.
Tony: OK, can i be a reptile?
Natasha: Stop, stop..
Tony: [to Natasha] Can I help you? Shall we go for a drink? [to Liz] Let's talk to your kids now, get it over and done with, and we'll go.
[indecipherable]
Tony: F*ck me.
[sound of glass smashing]
Natasha: Oh, this man just spilt my drink.
Tony: I saw a hallucination.
Natasha: It smashed, it smashed.
Tony: It smashed, it smashed. It ching! It ching! Eee! Ooo! Aaa!
Natasha: B-b-but
Tony: That – weuroooooaagghhhh!
Natasha: Are you not going for more fun somewhere?
Tony: [to me] You f*ck.
Rhodri: I'm immortalizing this. Sounding good so far.
Natasha: You spilt my drink.
Tony: Yeah. Shit [indecipherable]. But I love you all the same.
Natasha: P!SS OFF!
Tony: Oh, f*ck you then. F*ck you, and I'll drink my f*cking drink, and you drink… you go home, and… anyway, pleased to meet you. What's happening with you. Are you about to go through a divorce?
Natasha: No, I'm not.
Tony: I wish you were.
Natasha: Save me. [to Annie] Save me, 13 year old.
Tony: I love the idea of a 13 year old divorce.

At this point, Annie became scared, and the evening was curtailed. I shared a cab halfway home with Natasha, and at St George's roundabout she slid across the seat and crashed heavily into me. “It's no good throwing yourself at me as I'm about to get out of the cab,” I noted, provoking a storm of denial and protest.

At Stockwell I became so desperate for the toilet that I got off the tube, and stumbled around in the darkness, looking for somewhere to do a wee, while carrying a bag with a £1500 G4 Powerbook in it. Now, that can't be sensible. After relieving myself, I emerged stealthily from an alleyway and in the process scared a man, possible for the first time ever. “Sorry, mate,” I said, in a friendly way. He hurried off, with fear in his eyes. I sauntered back to the tube, whistling.