As any regular viewers will have by this point surely realised, I don’t like to overstate things. I hate writing things in ALL CAPS (even now, only doing it to show, what ‘caps’ are – it pains me to do so), preferring to simply use italics for any intonation. Often, especially with smaller words, italics prove to be completely pointless. When they’re only attached to a very short word, you hardly realise they’re there, and so read them no differently. But rather that, than have a big ugly CAPITAL strutting in to my carefully worded piece like it owns the joint. I also enjoy thinking twice before adding an exclamation mark. It’s just… who am I to decide how exciting something is? No one, that’s who. If I mention something I think is especially exciting, surely it’s with me to present such a thing in a way making it exciting enough for you to add the exclamation yourself, not just stick a fucking punctuation get-out clause on the end and sit back with my literary feet up.

Talking about points… (I was in the initial part of that last 178 word sentence), last week was the illustrious 6 month-versary of London Me Up (this is deserved)! We’ve been strutting our hairy bodies on the airwaves (this is how the internet works right?) for 6 whole months, and that surely deserves some kind of recognition. It’s over half the time Leeds Me Up was ever up for an entire stretch, and we’ve already got many many more articles, and reviews. The evolution continues.

To celebrate the achievement, we decided to spend the weekend back where it all began (in Me Up form). Back to Leeds for the weekend. Our trip also had something to do with it being Leeds Me Up Resident Mr. Teddy Youd’s Birthday that weekend. But the amount of the event to do with his Birthday was entirely down to the man himself. Seeing as Youd doesn’t reply to emails/texts, returns phone calls, or even answer his phone anymore, our haphazard plan simply involved getting to Leeds for the weekend (Ala I’ll Be Home For Christmas) and hoping he hadn’t planned a big Birthday night out in London or something else as ludicrous as that.

The last time I was in Leeds was over two years previous. It’s a long time to go without visiting some of your best, and oldest friends. But the reason it was so long is I was staying in a house shared by Youd and Rob. This was a house, which had not been cleaned, tidied, or enjoyed so much as its anyone emptying the bin since I moved out a full year beforehand. They’d made an extra sofa from discarded pizza boxes. I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had opened up an arm rest for a slice of month old meat feast, I really wouldn’t.

No no, this time was going to be different. Sherlock and I were to stay at Nathan and Gemma’s flat on the outskirts of the city centre. A flat where I was certain there’d be no pizza boxes in sight (mostly because in that area you couldn’t get 3 slices of pizza for £10, never mind 3 whole pizzas).

Friday night, we arrive at Leeds city bus station, pupils shimmering like black pools of joy, lit by all the old sights we’d come to see. First sight on our tour, the Bus Station, then the Market, the old flat above the all you can eat buffet, the fish and chip shop where the screaming man was bundled into a waiting ambulance and taken back to his suite at the mental hospital, and of course, Irania.

Irania isn’t the actual name of the place, it has some kind of Iranian word as a name, it was just (quite racistly) renamed in the mind’s eye of someone I knew. Anyway, it’s got to be one of the best kept secrets in the city. While every other clueless fucker that side of town rushes out of the clubs to get to the Subway before it shuts up shop, the wise and sophisticated few are sticking around till 3 or 4am, casually strolling down some cobbled back alley, opening a closed door of what looks like someone’s house, like walking into a private member’s club. Once you’re in there… it’s a normal café, with a deli counter, padded benches and old wooden tables. There’s the obligatory blackboard full of sandwiches and desserts, entirely superfluous all of it seeing as everyone only ever orders one thing. The Chicken, Hummus, and Cheese Toasted Ciabatta Sandwich. I’m certain all the other food they’ve got is just for show. I’d try to order something else occasionally, just so they’d have to admit they have no other ingredients, but the chance of it not being true, and me not getting a chicken, hummus, and cheese sandwich, is entirely not worth it.

After getting our fix, and walking down maybe 6 or 7 dead ends (with Sherlock directing us to Nathan and Gemma’s to which I was a stranger) we finally found the place, got in, and got our beer and reminisce on. – 5 hours later, and I’m waking up from underneath a towel, on top of, another towel, with a Leeds Sunrise punching me in the face like only a cloud of dank, grey fog can.

Time to rise. With a full day of sightseeing to get through, there wasn’t a moment to lose. After a bit of Christmas shopping, and a visit to Agent Provocateur, we got down for a well earned Scream Burger in my old favourite, The Dry Dock. I’m not sure if it’s the times, or just me. But Scream Burgers aren’t the same as I remember. It may be that I’m eating a lot healthier in my post student life, or that in those days, I was hitting the gym 2-3 times a week, but those burgers are rough. Half grease, half salt, with the kind of French-like bread that crumbles into sugary little cubes in your hands. But what do you expect for about £3? After meeting up with Rob, he drops us off outside the old gaff before going home to meet up with Youdman. Perfect opportunity to visit the old place and take a few pictures before being arrested, then shooting off to other fine establishments. The international supermarket, now with the tills and half the shop ripped out, still operating, just with everything laid out on the floor like some middle-eastern village market stall selling rugs. Old landlord’s, still with the same 3 unrentable houses in the front window, faded into ghosts of their past selves. The Hyde Park Pub (another Scream), now, without it’s pool tables, and stinking immensely of piss we get a sheen on before stopping to eye anyone to pin it on.

The old job – Robovideo, but no! what’s this? White wash windows, shutters down, sign painted over? It’s not there anymore. I had £3.67 on my card! Never seeing that back! The John Peel Statue, walk to Uni through Leeds University and the park, and down to the German Christmas Market.

Seeing as we wouldn’t be joined until later on, we thought we might get out early and grab a quick bite to eat. After a well-thought out pre-booking phone call to Zizzi’s down the road we’re told there’s no need to book, just come straight in and get a table. Great we thought, another highlight of Leeds’ Student heavy nightlife. Unless it’s an all you can eat buffet, no queues. After arriving and being told to wait 45 minutes for a table we felt understandably chastised. Not only the 45 minute table wait, but having been seated, there’s an additional hour for anyone to acknowledge we were there at all. After the sub-par food was ordered along with another drink, it took the time for the food to be cooked, served, eaten, and the plates removed before the drink actually showed up, shaking its head and looking at its watch, mumbling something about buses.

Understandably after quite the angry talk with the gaffer (by Nathan – Being the only real man with us), the second round was on the house, and 25% had been lobbed off the bill. Although only Gemma bothered to look at it, realising after ten minutes of our money sitting on the side of the table, that it’s only the wrong frigging bill! A hefty £10 more than ours should have been!

Very nearly 1,500 words down, and there hasn’t been one physical mention of the man we all came to see. The man of honour. The man we named the event after! YOUD! This is not important. He’s not that kind of guy. The great man doesn’t need to be in and around your face all the time, vying for attention. He just shows up for a blissful few hours, sits there, and laughs. He laughs his King Crabs off! Sadly for you, this means there’s not much to tell about the actual night. Pretty standard evening with Youd, as I imagine might feature on a Sunday night ITV2 special. Oporto - Youd grunts at a girl. Turned away from Jake’s. Turned away from Normans. BRB (you could get into BRB wearing a bin liner [containing a dead body]) - Youd grunts at a group of girls. Mook - where we commandeer a big table and laugh the night away, massaging our aching jaws in a pool of sambuca and joyous tears. Then Youd gets his cock out.

Our good byes were shouted, the drunken hugs lasting a little too long for sobriety, with none of the “let’s meet up for breakfast tomorrow” line spouting from Youd’s mouth believed by anyone. And that was that.

Until the next morning when he only goes and turns up! Fresh as a daisy ‘n’ all!