Hello, and good evening, Harrison Chase here, polishing off my magnificent column.
I got asked out when I was in Morrison’s earlier. It’s surprising considering how rough I look and feel. Good on her though, it takes courage to do something like that. I could learn a thing or two there.
I explained that I was a full-time gay and told her that she had made my day.
I’ll tell you why I look so rough. I’ve been on a four-day drinking binge that even Mel Gibson would find a bit excessive.
Manchester was the destination, wine, beer and spirits were the tipple, a stag party was the reason.
We stayed in a swanky penthouse with a spiral staircase. Such staircases are quite treacherous when you’re constantly shit faced, thankfully none of us slipped.
We did two escape rooms while we were there. The first was in a terrifying haunted house. Some aristocrat had been fucking around with a Ouija board and then vanished from his locked room without a trace. We found his body stuffed in a wardrobe in a secret room that we accessed through the fireplace. Mystery solved, high fives and beers all round.
Next up, the President’s son had been kidnapped. The clues led to a trainspotting style shit hole called ‘Room 60’. We cracked that one too, though if we’d known it was Eric Trump who was being held to ransom we probably would have let them keep him. I don’t care what people say. If you kill an elephant for fun you’re a dickhead.
Anyway, I’m back in London now, the excitement is over and a return to work is looming. At least I have Saturday to look forward to, dancing at my now joint favourite club. The brother-in-law is coming down for it. We’re going to party like it’s 1999, that should be easy…..it’s a Britpop night.
Alright, see you fuckers
Mr Harrison Chase