Ben's leaving do

Well doing this retrospectively as it happened on Saturday and this is now Tuesday if I'm not much mistaken, but anyway here's the deal. Basically my friend and drinking buddy Ben is escaping from the grimey metropolis that is London (where the streets are paved with chips, don't ya know?) for pastures new, in this case Bologna, Italy. Good luck Ben! or actually, maybe good luck Bologna, as I've had firsthand experience of Ben after he's had a few.. harharhar but anyway great lad etc.. and I'll stop before this turns into a wedding speech.

Anyway. Met up with him and various other friends on the roof terrace of The Lock Tavern in Camden, which is actually rather a nice place if you can get a seat, and the perfect place to enjoy the fag-end of this 'Indian Summer' the papers tell us we're enjoying. I've had the food there before and it's also rather special, so definitely worth a look on Sunday. Beers were consumed the breeze was shot, until, somewhat anticlimactically, the place decided to close at about 11.

We then ended up in some oriental themed cocktail bar up the road, where we drank bottles of Sol or something similar (limes were involved), and Mojitos – a snip at six quid each. There was a DJ playing somewhat generic soul and disco, and though it didn't really sound like he'd been diggin' in the crates too deeply no-one generally goes to oriental themed cocktail bars around midnight for the sounds I'm sure.

Lesser mortals might have taken baulked at even this much hedonism, but following our auspicious leader we sallied forth once more into the night (numbers admittedly depleted) in pursuit of yet more 'action'.

Next stop was some pokey shebeen in the city centre, manned on the door by an earnest looking Spanish guy who explained to us the rules of Spanish Drinking Club: "First rule, you don't ake any drinks inside, second rule you don't bring any drinks out" OK fair enough, but we can talk about it yeah?

Inside it was predictably bare with lots of graffitti, and a trestle table at one end selling bottles of Carlsberg. It was quiet for a while, but eventually filled up with lots of Spaniards, dancing enthusiastically to slightly ropey spanish music. There was some girl who had lots of white fabric bandaged round her legs, and none of us could quite work out if this was Halloween related or not. Eventually we'd seen (and drank) enough, so exited, whereupon the doorman exercised the second rule of Spanish Drinking Club, and filleted a bottle from where I'd secreted it in my jacket though it has to be said, was very nice about the entire thing, and even offered to let me finish it. Didn't. Went home.