Club I
last night I went to the club that Phil Mitchell owns. It smelled and had a sticky carpet.
At one point the 3 wide men waddled through carrying their gift of a flailing drunkard, but they had to put him down because he stopped moving, which is much more dangerous.

Drinks 1 quid! Woo-hoo!

But it was fun as us professional writers sat in a corner like the socially awkward types we're supposed to be and discussed books. Hah.

Well, a bit anyway.

My reading group is ace, compriséd of
Ruth (who is also on my magazine team thing and had to write a fairytale)
Gareth (who is basically Jim but much taller who had to write an historical novel)
Rosemary (who is married to someone like Heathcliffe and is a brummy and had to write a mystery)
Janicke (who is norweigan and had to write soft porn)
Anusia (who is a quarter polish and had to write gonzo)
Angus (who looks a bit like fran from travis and is descended from pirates and is well good and had to write an Aga saga, and probably had to spell it too)

as an whole is was pretty good we managed to start dissing each others work already!

Gareth siad he could have punched me in the face for "inhaled silence", but apparently that was a positive thing.