My local is one of those pubs in which, if you don't get chatted up at least once in every three visits, you're clinically dead. It's almost nice that way, and the lovely, sociable atmosphere in the place almost makes up for the fact that the carpet smells like a piece of cheese in a sock.
It's also one of those pubs where people get really, really drunk. Sometimes that people is me.
Last night, my mate Kylie and I popped into my local after a long lunch, and were soon conversing merrily with two gentlemen originally from the Northern Hemisphere.
Or: Kylie and I got pissed and had loud, sometimes-hilarious-sometimes-belligerent conversations with a couple of blokes from the UK.
After engaging in a Flashdance recreation competition, unzipping my boots and pouring beer all over me, one of the aforementioned gents was given my phone number. By, like, me. Unfortunately I completely forgot the middle two digits halfway through writing it out, inadvertently making it look like I was perhaps pausing to make up a false number.
So he called me right away, at the pub, no doubt to test the number's authenticity.
Because he was (evinced by the fact that I was enjoying his company) a gigantic smartarse, I didn't answer, so he left a message.
The message was "I… like… your… corduroy… ARSE".
Who can say no to that?