Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
F.O'B phoned to ask about our Gaston competition and Ally aksed him when he intends to come and he replied Thursday evening. Good. Now it won't be a shock and we can look prepared. Today was the day my tap room mob saw me as a human alcoholic with murderous tendencies. Yes, we went in a mini bus to the Red Lion with Taffy at the wheel. Seventeen of us. What fun. Not one driving licence between us, but we survived. It was all in aid of a pool competition, but I took little notice of it. Our man, Cliff Wise, won. I was pissed. Brandy, brandy, brandy. The hideous Elaine said she'd swap Les Gledhill for F.O'B any day. Silly cow. Back very late. Poor Ally. All alone at the Moorhouse. Samuel screamed blue murder and I hiccoughed my way in and took the poor mite in hand whilst Ally escaped to the spare bedroom, at her wits end. Alcohol took hold and I slept.
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