Blimey, Chris, what another steaming night.

You can say that again, Torps, if only they could bottle that and sell it at Marks’.

Though, Chris, it wasn’t so much a steaming night, as a steaming weekend, a veritable banquet of indiscretion.

And who would have thought it possible outside the shores of Leeds, and in Lancashire.

Yes, that’s right, we made the traditional escape to Blackpool, for a stag-do I’ll have you know, we don’t venture over there for just anything.

Yes, the delights of Blackpool, where everyone has fond memories of saucy postcards, saucy comics, and even saucier tomato ketchup flavoured rock. I‘ve never liked the place, typical Lancashire seaside town, what’s wrong with Bridlington, why do these little Lancashire warts get so much attention?

Well, we did get off to a good start when, on the first night, you started to chat up our Blackpool landlady, Mrs Parker, who was so authentic that I heard some Americans tried to buy her, ship her across the Atlantic piece by piece, and have her re-assembled in a desert in Arizona.

She was nice looking, just a little plump that’s all.

Where did we go the first night? Oh yeah, hotel bar then Yates’.

All of us dressed up in suits and sunglasses à la Reservoir Dogs.

It wasn’t a bad night in Yates’ apart from someone taking a dislike to me because "I hate the Blues Brothers". I’m not that fat.

It was after Yates’ that we first encountered the delights of Blackpool’s rancid Double Cheeseburgers. Just in case a famous burger joint is eager for another libel case, they were from a hot dog cum fish and chip stand.

The next morning we found the best way for sobering up was to ride on the Pepsi Max Big One, I think it would be an asset for any town or city, it certainly settled my stomach, although my Double Cheeseburger did reappear at one point.

They were rancid, never again will I "trust you one this one".

On the second night we decided to have a round of "pub golf", a little drinking game which was introduced to me during my time at Wakefield College many moons ago.

I didn’t know you were properly trained journalist, Torps, I thought you were just some failed music reviewer from the Evening Post.

Ah, you see, Chris, I am a failed music reviewer from the Evening Post, I went to Wakefield College to do evening French classes, and that was where I met my second wife Brit, who was later to divorce me because of a little bedroom problem.

I nearly felt sorry for you then, Torps, with the little insight in to your sad, pathetic life, but I won’t bother now. Right, the first stop was the "Beer Keller".

Thanks, Chris, the "Beer Keller" must be the dodgiest pub I’ve ever been in, anywhere that has a notice saying that "the management accepts no responsibility for any injuries" must be a place worth avoiding.

And after a slow start to the evening’s drinking that’s exactly what we did, and made the Stanley Arms our next stop.

The Stanley Arms featured the worst Karaoke singer I have ever had the misfortune to hear and her rendition of the 4 Non Blondes hit "What’s going on", apparently she is soon to be featured on a new Sky programme. She seemed to think that if she screamed it out louder and louder, it would suddenly be in tune and therefore people wouldn’t notice her lack of musical ability, but all in all, even if it was very poor, fizzy beer, it proved to be an inspired choice after the "Beer Keller".

She was a lovely looking girl, and I told her so.

Did you pull though?

No, of course not, and she was drinking double vodka’s. £3 a time.

"Uncle Peter Webster’s" provided the next stop off point on our round of ‘Pub Golf’, and another lucky choice, a pub with very little attitude, but no lack of atmosphere.

What are you saying, Torps, it was empty, well, no tidy young lasses.

I thought your type was a little older, with children our age, remember Mary.

Erm, after "Uncle Peter Webster’s" we ventured in to a pleasant place called "The Fox Hall", this was where that dwarf guy told you he was the only one allowed to take photos.

I know, what a little bugger, he didn’t see me later on though, sneaking a few pictures in the corner.

You little devil Torps.

This was about as far as I can remember up to, I think the 9-hole course had taken its effects. We were told later that we had in fact ended the night in "The Manchester", but as neither of us remember the place we can’t really say what happened, or was even like.

The last thing I do remember, Torps, was losing sight of the ‘stag’ when you were trying to impress that Australian lass with your story of how you came to see Carlton versus Collingwood at the Melbourne Oval.

I think she was impressed with my worldly knowledge, and at least the ‘stag’ had a good night albeit without us two.

He must have had a good night, he’d only had 3 pints all night. It must be the first ‘stag-do’ where the ‘stag’ is the most sober at the end of it.

3 pints is enough for him, that’s like 10 for us jokers.

But Torps, we didn’t even tie him up though or embarrass him in any way.

I think he was quite capable of doing that himself, Chris, remember the ‘groinal enlargement’ that occurred in the "Jagged Thistle" when the stripper was doing her stuff to him.

Oh yeah, how could I forget such a little thing like that?

And there was always the threat that something might happen to him, the seemingly constant flow of men running about naked apart from being wrapped up in "Cling-Film" probably made him evacuate himself enough. Plus there was the time when the ‘stag’ kept being accosted by Scots who wanted to feel his blow-up breasts.

Torps, why is it that Blackpool was full of Jocks and Brummies, and virtually no Blackpudlians?

I don’t know, but if you had to live in either of those places, you’d be keen to get out at any chance, even if it was just to Blackpool.

I suppose your right, even Blackpool is better than Birmingham.

Chris, did you work out why that elderly woman was pushing about an empty wheelchair on the promenade?

I think it was her own wheelchair, which makes me presume it was some sort of punishment from the matron at her home, not only did she have to walk about, but with the wheelchair right under her nose, either that or her dead husband had rotted away without her noticing.

Well, that’s about our lot, what’s left? Why are you waving your arms about Chris? Oh yeah, the Rabbit’s verdict.

Thank you, what will it be this week? I wonder.

The Rabbit’s verdict: Bring on the dancing ferrets.