#74 Goodge Street
"Craft beer ho!" I leapt onto the train. It was six o'clock and I was heading uptown for a rendezvous with the notorious crew. "No girls allowed" according to the Facebook chat. That was just how we liked it. Deep in some musty corner of a north London public house, Ditch, Burrows, Shiel and I gathered to sup Portobello brewed suds and discuss the finer points of girls, football and social politics.
Rumour had it that the fabled Chunderland FC, our shelved six-a-side team, might be resurrected by its former captain to grace the leagues of Southwark this summer. Into the night we plotted until merrily we stumbled across the road and fell into the appreciative lap of London's cheapest pizza parlour.
Shiel and I mooted the return of Keira, the house cat, from the prospective marital home of my old house mate. He agreed to return her the next day. Tomato and pepperoni churned vigorously about the lad's pieholes. As it turned out, she hadn't caught any mice but had been an effective deterrent nevertheless. This was the sort of job to which Keira was perfectly suited. A role where she could sit on her fat ass all day looking pretty. We paid her in cat food and cuddles.
After eating, we headed back to the pub for a couple more and then parted ways. There would be more meetings like this. Ditch's craving for obscure brands of alcohol knew no bounds and before too long, it would be time again for it to spread it's wings and fly out into the night, searching for the perfect prey on which to feed.
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