Last night ended up turning into one of those surreal occasions that are categorised somewhere between intriguing and disturbing.  A few of us went out for Cat’s birthday, with only Cat, Frances et moi lasting the pace.  We reluctantly accepted the offer of a party mainly due to the fact that we were half pissed and had no alternatives, and consequently ended up at a house of an Edmund Trebus in the making.  The entire place was filled with random crap, most notably buckets full of sludgy residue left over from making homebrew.  More disturbing were the containers in the bath which were probably filled with further supplies of alcoholic sludge, but could quite possibly have also concealed the odd partially dissolved body part.  Every surface was covered with dirty plates, glasses, women’s clothing and unidentified filth.  I didn’t venture inside his bedroom, but if it was inline with the rest of the house it would probably have had an impressive mountain of wanky tissues.

We escaped without contracting the STD that appeared to have established a firm grip of our host’s face, and also gained an entire box of Fruitella (?), which being the philanthropists that we are, kindly donated a bar to every letter box that we passed.  After all, who doesn’t accept sweets from strangers?

This is underlines both my need to get away from Cornwall, as well as my love for the fuckwits that occupy it.  A world without slightly unnerving eccentrics would be a pretty boring place.

Blue Anchor tomorrow night my loves?