The Stags was full so we went to The Bankers. The Bankers is never full, just full of betting slips and the post-bingo brigade. They settled in some time ago, 1975 I reckon, liked the ale and never left.
Now they just spend their time talking value and cussing at Four Dame Lane across the path, the Anfield to its Prenton Park.
So we went to The Bankers and we sat on the only couch I've ever sat on in The Bankers. I think they hold it over for me, leave it barren for years until such a time that The Stags is heaving and I don't feel like fighting for my pint.
I tell her that this same arse groove has hosted me twice before memorably, and unctious more times drunkenly.
The first was with 5X not too long before he moved to Paris and we set the world to rights over crisps, porter and disgrace.
The second was with Mad Mandy on the only occasion that I knew her. She was the kind of girl I felt sexy in front of, and I'm not the kind of man who ever feels sexy in front of girls called Mandy.
And so it proved as the body language led to body language and the drink led to a brand new toothbrush, a proffered key and alarm bells in my head. Oh mercy she was a looker but there. was. something. not. quite. right.
Then the reveal.
A week later I was walking up the quays listening to her telling me she loved me down the phone, she fuckin' loved me down that phone and I thought it was nice to feel the drunken threat of her ardour, before hanging up and seeking a barring order.