The Last Hurrah

Tonight is the Last Hurrah. What does that mean? Well, it is precisely one month till Little Boom 2 arrives.

As we all know. Or rather, as I have just been reminded, that means we will be on storm alert. At any moment the baby could come hurtling out of the good lady's bahjeen at a rate of knots. Exploding into the world in a frezy of waaahs and tarry black poop.

It simply wouldn't do for the Boomster to be out carousing and scuffling with vagabonds in alleys, caught short whilst the good lady gets the bike out of the garage and has to cycle to the hospital.

To this end being the sociable creature I am, I have organised a last night out before the birth. A *shindig no less.
*_{Shindig: old Scots term for a merry dance, a night of madness and reaping the whirlwind.}

I have gathered some doughty warriors (well, maybe two, definitely one) to help me on my quest. For a night such as this, strong stomachs and sea legs will be needed. We intend to go to a club. Oh yes, I have written of these places before. Normally I suffer from the fear of being too old to club.

Pah! Too old? This is my last hurrah, I shall be the...

My feet will be on fire, my wit will be scalding hot and my merry japery will be turned up to full bhoona.

These and other thoughts were in my mind as I arrived home from work and prepared for my epic quest. As I pussy footed around with my hair the good lady came and gave me a steely look.

No kebabs.

What? What the blazes are you talking about woman?

No. Kebabs.

Why? Why on earth shouldn't a princely night on the sauce not be followed by the Kings Meat?

Because they stink and that means you stink. When you come home drunk you stink of meat. In fact the house ends up stinking of beer and meat. No kebabs.

How very dare she. Normally I am a respectful man but to impinge upon my Last Hurrah? I prepared to give her a tongue lashing she wouldn't forget about the very principles of Man'ity.

And no smoking.

WHAT!?!

I don't smoke!

Last time you were out, when you came home you stank of smoke and meat and beer. It was not pleasant.

Must have been all that smoke in da club.

I mumbled.

You are not allowed to smoke in clubs. So...

Maybe I had a cigar?

Hmmm.

I have been off the tabs for ages, but I did have a lapse, Just that one night when I was very very drunk. Dammit, she had me bang to rights.

Alright, I will definitely not stink of smoke when I come home.

And no kebabs.

My inner man screamed at the injustice! Foolish mortal, she dared command The Boom? Somewhere on the edge of the world mountains crumbled into the sea with the force of my ire.

She dared challenge me not to partake in the pale grey, oddly overprocessed, spicy garlic meat of Kings that purported to be lamb? How exactly was I to resist, as it spins its inviting dance on the kebab spit in front of the artificial flame, like a succubus hoiking its fleshy flanks at me?

Although, come to think of it, I do remember I had a dalliance with a kebab once when I was sober. It was a greasy unfulfilling experience. Hmmm.

Alright then, no kebabs.

Aw smashing, thank you darling. You have a great night!

She positively beamed with delight.

I pushed a smile out of the boom face back at her and uncrossed the fingers from behind my back...