The Roquefort Files

that was très civilised. Christmas Day passed in a pleasant haze of food and enough beer, in an alternate universe, to have drunk myself under the table. On Boxing Day we walked along the beach to the Crusoe in Lower Largo, and if you kept the power station behind you, it was a genuinely picturesque [...]

What a farce – work has descended into chaotic wailing and gnashing of teeth with one day to go before everyone gets the hell out of Dodge and stays as far from it as humanly possible for the next week and a half. Your correspondent, of course, is still here, confronted with a Sisyphyean task [...]

the festive season has resolved itself into a constant stream of enjoyable nightly boozing and less enjoyable financial stress. On Friday I went along to a mini bash at Vanessa’s small but perfectly formed flat. We drank mulled wine and ate fun-size sausage rolls; I used the sentence “I’ll need to consult the board on [...]

on a journey through time and Broughton Street. Tiny Monkey practices of late have been getting a little routine, and we were all feeling varying degrees of frustration with them. We’d turn up, go through the same tunes (some of which we’ve been playing for almost two years), make a patchy attempt at a new [...]

Tiny Monkey salutes Russ Abbot. Russ Abbot. What a night.

they go and try to teach us something that requires an honest-to-God ability to dance. Michelle was schoolgirl-giddy when they announced that Thursday’s lesson would be covering blues dancing; we’d seen a couple doing it on the dancefloor (and that marginal double entendre is far closer to the truth than you might imagine) at the [...]