Friends. Everyone has them. It makes sense that it’s simply within human nature to befriend another person. It’s how we procreate (to stand to be that intimate with someone), it’s how we care for our young (to stand to continue being in the vicinity to that same someone for many years). It’s how we relax, and gain entertainment. They bring familiar joy to our short lives, making them worthwhile with only a small amount of effort.

Some people you’re friendly with, and you can take it or leave it. Some people will do for the moment, some people get on your tits, but you know how to deal with them, some people you have to work really hard to get what you want out of them. But some relationships take years to perfect. While others click straight away, it’s these envious friendships which are capable of spending years without much nurture or care, yet can be instantly reignited to burn just as bright, years down the line.

Last weekend Kassy came down to London for the weekend with a friend. Kassy is one of these people whom I don’t speak to much save an occasional facebook comment, and carefree text, cast on the edge of a breeze. I lived with (near) her in my first year of University, but ever since, have only managed short weekend visits to each other’s abodes. Whilst this of course, is never enough, it contradictorily, is plenty enough. As whenever those short weekend visits arise, the air is free, is clean and is comfortable. Like an old tattered arm chair in your grandma’s house.

After the girls had spent the afternoon shopping around Camden in a boozy endorphin filled stupor, I join the story after they’ve shown up at Gazz and my flat, and we’re on our way back into Camden for a dirty pub crawl.

As soon as the girls boarded the dried sweat-covered tube carriage, filled with the stench of a thousand city workers’ fervent anticipation for a night on the booze, they spot a man. A poor London soul, asleep, nuzzling against the glass aside his seat. To any one of us practised Londoneers, this is fine. Just a hardworking grafter, on his way back to his wife or girlfriend to watch Strictly Come Dancing, or Britain’s Got Talent, or whatever shit he’s forced to attempt not to fall asleep in front of. Bloody tourists don’t seem to understand that this kind of thing happens every single day, to everyone.

Stepping into the night, the weather looks like it’s recently been puked up by a drunken fly, so we chase the dry into the nearest pub, The World’s End across from the station. I don’t really like the pub. Usual complaints. Too many people, too small, too expensive, too few staff, what have you, and not charming enough to make up for them. This time however, even with the place so full you’d have to amputate your arms to get to the toilets, we manage to procure a table in the nice pubby pub area (as opposed to the grotty grunge bar area). Our luck increased yet again too, as it was from this tabular viewing position in which we had front row seats for the main event.

Gazz had just seen a pretty normal, average, 5ft 7 or so girl, go fucking postal on her 6ft+ ‘bastard’ of a (probable) boyfriend. She grabs him and forces him up against a wall as she strides past in a mood akin to a wasp in an upside down pint glass. I glance over under his recommendation, just in time to see her (perhaps on hearing something) turn with clenched fist et al, punch him smack on the side of the face, knocking him back into the more stable arms of his friends. She then continues to walk off, crumples into a ball on the floor and starts crying.

One of her friends then rushes over to her, and throws a comforting arm across her shoulders. The accosted man is thrown from the pub, and in all probability castrated. Why is this the done thing now when a woman attacks a man!? Used to be a time when a man could beat the living shit out of any woman to within an inch of her life, as part of his right as a man! Of course I’m not saying this was anymore right, or correct, but the woman wasn’t punished by everyone else for being the victim.

After one in The World’s End, the rain seemed to have died off a tad, so we sack in the shithole of a pub and attempted to find a place the girls were certain they’d been before. We walked around completely the wrong side of Camden for an hour to find a place I could have directed us to in 5 minutes, but was told definitively it was NOT where I knew it was, until one of them asked directions (again because a man wasn’t leading the way) and it turned out it was exactly where I knew it was.

The supposedly brilliant pub that served cheap glasses of gorgeous tasting green cocktails for £4 and stayed open all night, only served pitchers for MUCH more than £4 a glass worth, of disgustingly sweet yet sour green muck, and closed instantly after one was ordered, giving two girls 5 minutes to down the 4 pint pitcher between them, and leaving Gazz and me stood outside in the rain like a couple of Britain’s Got Talent contestants.

Walked down to the Purple Turtle amidst pouring rain as it was the only place still open…. for it to charge £5 to get through the door, only to find everyone jumped ship hours previous, stale beer, and a combination of Elton John / Michael Jackson lookalike freaking everyone out.

Leave the Purple Turtle as we’re reminded that Kassy is quite a lightweight, and that she’s been drinking since noon. Wait for the bus whilst considering going over to Calum Best’s house to eat his cereal and steal his DVDs. Invite the rest of the bus stop to come over to Best’s house. One guy is actually up for it because, why not? But when we get on the bus, he cannot sit any further away from us and pretends he’s asleep.

After hassling him for it all night, we get a picture of Calum Best’s Cock, and show it to the entire top deck, forcing lots of tears and vomit.

Get back to the takeaway in Leytonstone just in time for a huge fight to kick-off. With the people running the take away slowly turning the lights off, and hiding under the counter, and everyone else waiting for their food slowly dispersing out to wait in the street (where they wouldn’t be caught by a stray bullet), I remained at the counter, willing my chips not to burn.

They managed to take the fight outside by the time Gazz and the girls show up, and upon leaving, I see the group of guys all hugging each other and promising they’ll stay in touch. Girls.