What happened in Brighton stays in Brighton. But I did manage to smash my face up and give myself a black eye. I'm a fucking idiot.
Also, my best mate's fiancée was totally cool and didn't bat an eyelid as I chucked up everything I'd ingested over the last week in to her toilet in nothing more than a small t shirt telling everyone to come to the Cayman Islands and a pair of frilly knickers whilst the man she is going to marry rubbed my back saying, "Awwww." Give the girl some sort of medal.
I have also earned myself the following names owing to my behaviour in Brighton:
I can't say which one I'm most proud of. Anyway, blah blah blah I can't really be bothered to write much more. It's just far too epic. All of it. Maybe one day, I'll tell the story that can never be told. In very small bits and pieces. But I probably won't.