Tiny Tim... er Jon

For once, this weekend I managed to attend not one, but two parties and behave at both. No getting my arse out, no inappropriate outbursts. I schmoozed friends and business clients alike. A success I'm so proud.

I even managed to drink loads of water after the Friday night party. So much so I enjoyed the horrid delights of the night bus from Shaftsebury Avenue, watching a guy slowly vomit all over himself. Even I have never managed to achieve that in London.

The highlight of my Saturday night though was my friend staggering round at the end of the party telling me how much he loves me, yes, yes I know he's only human. Still time for me to make my exit though! He calls me the next day, with no recollection of these comments [but no denial I note] and telling me how he fell down the stairs at Vauxhall Station (probably straight into the doors of the Royal Vauxhall Tavern), this morning he's come into work looking like Tiny Tim, hobbling on a walking stick - his own.

"Tell Tiny Tim I won't be coming 'ome this Chris'mas"

Wonderful stuff.