We worked pretty hard by day, but at night we drank like absolute maniacs – until 3 in the morning (or in the case of Old Friend at Work; Planner With the Aura of Jesus, The Smallest Media Planner in the World, and Alison Steadman Playing a P.A P.A, through the night in a couple of cases) on most nights, even though we were to start a nine hour day again, at 9 (in a defiantly non-Madrid manner). On one of these occasions, Old Friend at Work got her purse nicked from the hotel bar (only to be met with the response from Reception of “At least they didn’t get your passport, that’s what they’re REALLY after”, which isn’t exactly a masterclass in Customer Service). On another, Planner With the Aura of Jesus and Alison Steadman Playing a P.A. P.A. sat up all night drinking in the hotel bar, then moved to her room (entirely innocently, my new situation prompts me to add, unnecessarily…) and finished off the mini-bar.

But it was on the third night that things got, as the phrase goes, “messy”. I didn’t particularly embarrass myself, I can say with some relief: yes, there was the usual over-enthusiasm about stuff (most notably, Shakespeare – but also some vague shit about strategic approaches, which had me suddenly behaving like St. Paul on the road to Damascus, and celebrating by bellowing “Yes! Yes! God! That’s BRILLIANT! YOU’RE BRILLIANT!” at some poor fucker), and probably a little bit too much swaying around and smiling broadly – but that was as bad as it got. So, when it came time for me to leave (a respectable 3.30am), I said a few goodbyes and made my move, only to be “confronted” (if I can use this word of a man of his Micky Rooney like stature) by The Smallest Media Planner in the World.

“Stay and have another drink!”

“I can’t, SMPITW, I’m already pissed and I’m knackered, so I’m going.”

“Stay. Have a drink with me.”

“I can’t. Really. Tomorrow.”

“Have a drink with me. As a friend of mine.”

“No, I’m going.”

What he said next rather diminished his most recent pronouncement of our friendship, for it was:

“Then fuck off, you cunt. Fuck off.”

Well, off I fucked and went back to my simply enormous room (enormous not because of some ludicrous status, but because I had been allocated a room for someone in a wheelchair – which I’m not – and as a result, the dimensions of the room had to allow for the turning circle of same), had a shower, put on my iPod speakers and fell asleep listening to “The Gathering”, as read by Miss Shaw.

It turns out the The Smallest Media Planner In The World hadn’t turned against me, but against humanity: for he had told a round score of people to fuck off later on that night, and had christened about half of them “cunts” as well. Turns out that when he gets sauced (and again, his stature is such that one might have thought a couple of bottles of beers could be dangerous), he becomes that famed, but rare animal The Bad Drunk. He had stuck with the gang long enough to move on with them at 4am to a Piano Bar, where he doled out the bulk of his insults, before having a quick nap and getting back to the hotel at 6am. I wouldn’t be such a turd as to remind him of his bad behaviour the next morning – I dread to imagine what people put up with from me when I have got myself absolutely twisted – so I met him cordially at the beginning of the final day’s session and asked him what time he had got in. He had (or feigned to have) no memory of having parted brass rags the previous night, and his answer to me was as one amazed:

“I don’t know. Late. But I feel fucking awful this morning. I woke up surrounded by Pringles, and with the towels all soaking wet in the shower.”

It was a dark, Winter night – and OFAW and I were rounding off an evening out (by which I mean: “an evening of drinking”) with a final bottle of Jadot at Oriel: the bar next to The Royal Court Theatre in South Kensington. In the grand tradition of our nights out. OFAW was utterly, utterly incapable of putting one foot in front of another as we finished the evening, and we emerged onto Sloane Square, clutching each other like a pair of pensioners on Blackpool sea-front in a gale. Walking in a straight line required the sort of concentration that is more readily associated with the final stages of brain surgery than the finale of a night out talking about everything under the sun and (inevitably with us two) shouting bits of Shakespeare at each other, and then crying. I staggered into the road to flag down a cab (pleasingly simple) and after a lot of hugging, cheek kissing and hanging onto me, amidst voluble protests of love, dispatched OFAW onto the floor (sadly – but she insisted) of the cab. 

As I turned from my task, I saw, recently emerged from The Royal Court Theatre (having been treated to that exuberant, drunken display) the Chief Executive of my Agency at the time: she nodded at me, and slipped into her waiting car…

The next morning, I was in work early: not feeling brilliant, but I know what needed to be done. The thing was, Wife worked at the same Agency as I did – and one of the few things that people knew about us (and that the Chief Executive was bound to know) was that two senior members of the Agency were married to each other – and I didn’t want the Chief Exec – who had never met Wife – to mistake the cackling, drunken and exuberant female of the previous night for my wife: thereby, potentially ruining her reputation before the two women even met.

So, I sent an e-mail to the boss saying: “Hi, I just wanted to drop a quick line to say that the rather over-refreshed woman you saw me put into a cab last night wasn’t my wife.” Immediately, an answer was fired back: “I completely understand.”

And so it was that word went round the Agency that the Chief Executive had happened upon me as I put my drunken mistress into a cab after a night of heavy drinking -and then had sent her an e-mail that asked her to help me maintain my deception… Perfect.

I think  I eventually managed to straighten things out with the Chief Executive: but I think she remained slightly confused about why on earth I kept updating her on the state of what she took to be my extra-marital relationships for most of my stay at that (otherwise) very staid agency.

Wife was due to join us, but had had so many night out on the piss that (after a lunch out in High Road House, that began at 12.30pm, and finished at 6.45pm), she got home and passed out. Thank fuck that the babysitter was also in the house, or there could have been a lot of very hungry children… Anyway, she was suitably sheepish the next morning, whereas I was on a high of having had a fabulous night out with some wonderful friends.

Wife used the phrase yesterday to explain why she was in a filthy mood, but she used it with a smile on her face, and an utter realisation that she had no logical reason to be so furious.

I had spent the previous day in an absolutely foul mood, but that was entirely based on my ludicrous decision to slap tables, down red wine and demand Puccini until 2.30am. Nevertheless, to various people who were unfortunate enough to come across my path that morning (specifically Account Manager About Whom I Have Changed My Mind, who is in danger of a significant name-change, perhaps to “Account Manager Who Wants to Watch Her Fucking Step”), they might have wondered about my bedside exit strategy, because I was a little BEAST for the entire day. When I got home and Wife (who, let us not forget had had no more sleep, though rather less red wine than me, and was thus also exhausted) that I had to lug boxes out of the cellar and the attics in my diminished state, I came very close to bursting into tears. Or setting fire to something.

Wife dealt with her quandary rather more straightforwardly: she got into bed and shouted for me to perform every menial task she could thing of, including the memorable (and slap-worthy) “Could you turn my light on?” and “Could you change the DVD disc, please?”, but also stretching to issues of tea-preparation and delivery, and pedicure. All this served to interrupt the brilliant “Who Do You Think You Are?” on TV, featuring Boris Johnson who is as magnetically fascinating on TV as he is repellent in his political views, although I did like his book on the Roman Empire.

Concerned readers will be pleased to hear that Wife has risen from her bed this morning a paragon of loveliness and is likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.

Good Friend in PR is here, you see – and after drinks in a bar, we went back to the friend’s house where he is currently billeted. And we drank, and we drank, and we drank – until 2.30am. On a Monday. This makes me a twat on any number of levels: most excitingly, on the level of a man who has to go to work the next day and doing anything other than sob, but I managed to supplement it with a couple of quite interesting versions of twattishness:-

1. The twat who compares everything (unfavourably) to Shakespeare – the fact that everyone is used to this makes it no easier for anyone to tolerate.
2. The twat who demands total iPod control and is not above ordering music in if it is missing (last night’s choice: “E Lucevan Le Stelle”, previous offences include Nina Simone and Kathryn Williams).
3. The twat who slaps the table repeatedly, shouting “No! No! No!” like an unfortunate combination of the above mentioned theatrical knight and Amy Winehouse’s refrain in “Rehab”, as he shouts over everyone who’s trying to get a fucking word in.
4. The twat who gets back to his Wife, who is understandably nervous as it’s 2.30 in the morning on a Monday, and her husband was “popping out for a couple of drinks”, not shouting his head off until the early hours of the morning, arming himself with a horrifying hangover.

Saturday saw me deep within the grip of such an activity – but with the, not entirely unexpected twist, that after a certain amount of Pimm’s, an aura of Corporate Hostility crept into the proceedings. Well-oiled partners decided that this, this, was the opportunity to inform their partner (a Client) that he was an unsatisfactory shag, that a big cock was all she was really after, and that he was lying and pretentious. Now, I can’t remember whether Miss Mitford deals with this in her tome “Noblesse Oblige” – I am certain that it isn’t covered in the volume that my splendidly Edwardian grandfather gave to me before I was ten years old: “Etiquette for Gentlemen” – so I dealt with it as best I could, and was rewarded with said lady’s hand inside my shirt APPARENTLY in search of a nipple: so that wasn’t ideal.

The only upside was that her husband was, by this stage, as pissed as she was. I knew this because he was earnestly enquiring of Fearless Leader (who has the sort of mien that could freeze vodka at ten paces) whether she had ever been fucked on the bonnet of a car… She handled it with the sort of froideur and composure that spoke of a father used to quelling native uprisings and a mother who was going to have none of that sort of nonsense, which was a joy to behold.

Anyway, as Wife pointed out when I returned home (somewhat Pimmsed, but still walking in a straight line and able to make it down stairs unaided), they obviously all had a pretty good time, and that was the point of the exercise – so it must be counted a success. 

On Friday Old Friend In Advertising, Account Manager That I Have Changed My Mind About, Distractingly Breasted TV Producer, Common Sense Creative and Silent But Approachable Creative were in the pub. It was all amicable and friendly and fun, and then someone started talking about how Planning and Creative should work together…

Maybe it was the fact that Champagne had entered the equation. Maybe it was the fact that I had been at work for 15 hours by this stage, but Roger came out to play, and took control of the session. I can’t imagine where it went, but I do remember a lot of people being placatory and calling me “Mate” (which I can’t stand: dogs mate, not me), so I must have been going fairly postal…

Anyway, my encounter with the above-mentioned on Monday was marked by a new level of interest and collaborative zeal – so either I actually made some sort of sense, or I threatened the use of weapons to make my strategic point more pointedly…

The high point (also the low point) of the night was probably Woman Who Dressed As An Elf At Christmas (who was absolutely CLITTED), returning to her Eastern European roots and proclaiming the beauty of my face (which she held in a tight grip, as if it were a live goose) and responding to my demurrals with cries of “Ttcch!” and hard slaps round said face. 

The charm and the comedy of the situation wore off after about ten minutes, but Woman Who Dressed As An Elf At Christmas seemed keen to keep the proclamations of beauty with assault and battery routine going for a couple of hours more, resulting in my having to wrestle her arms flat onto the table and pin them there, whilst trying to maintain an aura of amused matiness that I certainly didn’t feel. Oh well…

We had a great time (partially because of this incident), but also because of the company and the unspoken but cheering decision that we would drink only Champagne all night. It was a fairly small ball: probably only 120 people – but I think I preferred it to those huge ones (that can feel a little like one of those American cult mass weddings), and it’s nice to look around and realise that you pretty much know most of the people in the room.

A magnificent night out with Best Friend. We found the most off-hand, self-satisfied French bar staff in London, and then went for a superb meal in Smithfields Market. The time flew by. I just wish I still saw her every day.

I got the Tube home, but found that I had to walk a mile or so from Hammersmith to the house. No hardship, as it was a nice night and the walk was probably not a bad way to get the Champagne to stop swilling around my body.

I was just passing Latymer, when I noticed a woman, her head resting on her drawn-up knees, crying and sitting on the floor. She had no shoes on.

I was reluctant to go up to her: part of me fearing that she was part of an elaborate mugging scam, part of me convinced that she would be violent – but I couldn’t leave her there.

“Are you alright?’

She looked up. She was no more than 17 and couldn’t stop crying, but she spoke nevertheless.

“I…I…I don’t want to ruin your evening….I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

I stood back from her, but tried to keep my tone light. If she had been frightened – or worse – I didn’t want to be invasive.

“No, I am. Really. I’m sorry.”

“Well, look. Don’t be sorry. Where do you live? Do you have somewhere to go?”

“Yes. I’ll be fine. I’m sorry.”

Her voice was cut glass – and I suddenly realised what was going to happen to her. She was going to stay where she was, and not accept any help out of the defining British emotion: embarrassment. Now, Hammersmith is hardly The Projects, but it was nearly 1am, and at that time of day the people who are about are not always the best. Certainly not for a young girl, who isn’t compos mentis and not feeling strong.

“Can I put you in a cab? Have you got somewhere to stay? Do you know where you live?”

“Yes. I’m not drunk. Oh! It was all going so well, and then it all went so badly. I was at this flat and then I left and I left my shoes there and now I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I’ll be fine.”

“Look. I don’t think you are fine. Please. I’ve got a daughter myself. I wouldn’t want her sitting here at one in the morning, crying, with no shoes.”

These were like magic words. She raised up her arms to me and I stepped closer. Suddenly, I saw Daughter, three years old and raising her arms up to me to be lifted up for a hug. I literally saw that: she had done it to me before I left for work that morning. I took her outstretched hands and helped her stand up.

“May I put you in a Taxi? I’d be much, much happier if you’d let me.”

She nodded.

As we waited for a taxi, she was shy, but happy: I don’t believe anything physically wrong had happened to her. She was a transformed person: grateful, embarrassed, focused on getting home.

A taxi drew up, she gave him an address that was no more than a ten minute walk (for those of us who were shod…). I gave her some money and the car pulled away. She turned around in the seat and waved at me as she drove away – just as Best Friend had an hour ago.

As I walked home, I thought: “It was those words: “I’ve got a daughter myself”.” when everything changed.

Just as to me they crystallised (apart from common humanity and Christianity) the reasons that I had stopped. More importantly, I think that those same words made her think of the people who would be worried about her if she didn’t go somewhere safe. They made her a daughter, with parents whom she knew would be worried about her, sitting there, with no shoes in the middle of the night – not a young girl who felt alone.

I don’t write this to suggest that I acted in a particularly insightful way. I think the thing that got both of us acting was the same set of words, which reminded us both that we weren’t alone, we were lucky enough to be loved by others. And we owed THEM (my daughter; her parents) a duty.

Wife told Greengrocer what had happened. 

“Fucking Hell. Does he do that walk home from work every night? I’ll take my shoes off and burst into tears for a score!”

Fucking hell: I made a RIGHT twat of myself on Friday night.

I went to the pub with Old Friend At Work and Unimpressed Planner – and naturally, there were quite a few others from work there as well: including a man who shall now be known as Creative Baffled To Find Himself The Butt of Planners’ Vitriol For No Good Reason (or “Baffled” for short).

The incident: Old Friend At Work haranguing him loudly and at length for imagined slights on our discipline, as I shouted from the sidelines (my favourite witty rejoinder being “Bollocks!”) seemed to go on for a couple of hours until I stumbled home, where I returned at 1am.

The hangover was not BRILLIANT, and even dwelling on the night in question long enough to write this entry makes me feel a bit sick. I cannot imagine how we are both going to handle Baffled hereon in: we virtually called for his lynching, but we had better organise a united front – and (I think) simply pretend that it never happened, although, there were (I fear) witnesses…