Change of plan

Phil from sales and I met this morning in the office kitchenette, where we discussed our plans for the weekend.

His involved little more than drinking with mates: the sort of thing I used to do most Saturdays when, like Phil, I was in my 20s.

"Now I'm older and married," I said, "and I go to relatives' 50th birthday parties".

"It's like you're already dead," he mock-snarled.

Come again

During my days as a reporter in Sheffield, I palmed off a couple of no-longer-wanted grumble mags on to my friend and colleague Andrew.

He was particularly taken with a photo set of a saucy minx stripping off her maid's outfit.

"I've been getting the cleaner in quite a lot," he admitted on the bus one afternoon. "But..."

I guessed what he was gonna say, so I was already chortling as he finished, "...she always leaves a mess behind".

Beer, blood and urine

I was having a few beers with a couple of lads from the ad sales department, Al and Phil. We were sharing tales of drunken shenanigans.

Phil related an incident of a night out in which, much the worse for wear, he returned to his drink after a trip to the bog and then noticed that the front of his strides were wet.

Has someone spilt their beer on me, he wondered, before realising that his crotch was soaked with his own urine. Naturally, he was mortified (at the time).

"Look on the bright side," I said. "Better it were piss than blood."

"Hey! Steady on!" exclaimed Al.