rob discovers why the forum has also gone quiet

If you remember the song 'Come on England' - the song for the 2004 European Football Championships (sung to the tune of 'Come on Eileen') and you are a listener of talksport - then you may or not remember there was an official launch hosted my talksport at the Bang Bar in St Katherine's Dock, London.

Alan Brazil mentioned it and gave the impression all were welcome. So, as I was a postman at the time and so finished early in the week, I donned my Everton shirt (as Mike 'Porky' Parry, sadly missed from the station by me at least) was also an Evertonian and I'd enjoy having a talk about the Blues to him. When I arrived, Hawksbee & Jacobs were sitting there, mics and headphones doing their show with a couple of skinny girls sitting with them. My brother was later to tell me that while he was interviewing the Cheeky Girls, Paul Hawksbee suddenly broke off and said 'There's a bloke over there in an Everton shirt!' I later spoke to both H&J (liked PH a lot but AJ, as he has since proved on his show - especially when I've rung in! - is a bit too cynical for my liking so it's nice that I post this a week after the Mighty Blues put his team Chelsea to the sword). I later had my picture taken with PH where I looked pissed and he looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

I got myself a pint at the bar and, after seeking out Mike Parry (actually he noticed me so it was a bit like those slow-motion bits in films when two lovers run towards each other) he asked me why I bought a pint when bottles of Kronenbourg were free all afternoon? So the rest of what follows is down to Porky, who, although he looked a bit out of breath, had not yet been diagnosed with the heart problem that could have killed him later.

As the K1663 flowed I got chatting to the likes of Graham 'Beeky' Beecroft - who I told looked more like a theatre critic than a football pundit - Micky Quinn, Ray Houghton, Adrian Durham, Henk Potts  and various other party crashers such as the bloke who kept going on about table tennis and even had a carrier bag full of trophies he'd won. I was in good spirits, got on with everyone and have a few photographs of me with the aforementioned sporting and financial celebs. At one stage I was on my way out of the building looking for a tobacconist that sold cigars when two obvious models walk in but looked lost.

'Hello', I said to the tits of model X, 'You look lost. Are you here for the Come on England launch.?' 

'Yes,' answered the head that belonged to the tits of model X 'We're page three models.'

'How do you do' I said. 'I'm Wayne Rooney.'

They both wandered off with Who-the-fuck-is-Wayne-Rooney looks on their faces and I walked out, saw James Whale standing there smoking a fag, patted his stomach and said 'What's going on here then? Whale by name, whale by nature eh, James?' OK, I know I feel quite at ease in anyone's company but that was a bit stupid even for me (but I plead the 1663rd amendment) but I ignored the burning look of contempt and anger, found the shop, bought the cigars and swayed my way back to the party. I'd arrived at just after 1pm, told my wife I'd be home around 6pm and it was still only 3.30 so LOADS of time left. I cracked open another bottle and it's after that when all the pictures must have been taken for the next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital casualty department at 11.30pm

How had ended up there? I had a big bruise on my upper arm so had I been thrown out? Had I been clipped by a car when staggering across the road? I assume I, or someone else, had seated me there but I had a train to catch so got up and meandered my way out.

Ten minutes later I noticed my mobile was switched off. My wife must surely be worried and wondered where the hell I was so I switched it on and almost immediately it rang.

'Where the hell are you?' came the worried/angry voice.

'Outside a Happy Chicken shop or something.' (though I doubt the chicken I was munching was particularly happy) 

'What are you doing there!?'

'I was starving' I said (wrong thing to say).

'I've been worried sick, you said you'd be home by six!'

'It's a long story' (most of which I couldn't remember) I said. 'I woke up in hospital.'

'In hospital? Why? And where are you know?'

I gave a don't know answer to both questions but the cross-reference of roads put me in Camberwell and my long-suffering wife, who by the time she's managed to contact me had drunk three quarters of a bottle of wine to calm her nerves, got in her car, drove to my location and collected me, because she thought wandering about Camberwell at midnight was not a particularly wise thing to do. Such was my drunken state that when she arrived and said she shouldn't be driving but she was worried about me, I asked if she wanted me to drive instead?

The day after, Paul Hawksbee, when talking about the previous afternoon, said: 'I wonder how Pete the postie got on, he said he had to be up at four in the morning for work!' Well the simple answer, Paul, is I don't know how I got on except that I did get up for work at four and did go to work, but to this day still don't know how I got the bruise. When I rang the show and mentioned it some time later, saying I wondered if I'd been thrown out, PH said: 'Ah, that'd be Quinny. He probably couldn't take looking at your Everton shirt any longer!'

Anyway, the moral of this story is: If the booze is free, take advantage, but pace yourself!