Editorial

The Party Puss

So, an absolutely debauched night out in Newcastle last weekend. The rest of the North Barnet Shooting Society (NoBSS) and I felt we deserved a break from our busy social calendar, so we decided to hit the town on a Saturday night. In light of past disagreements, however (Henderson accidently shooting Wellington in the leg), we decided to go up via two trains; hence the unfortunate delays experienced by both the 14.52 and the 15.25 last Saturday. Nevertheless, we arrived unscathed; I can only wish the same could be said of the trains.

Now, I am a cat who considers himself well acquainted with club culture. I take my breakfast in the Chindale Morning Club in upper Chelsea, and, from there, I will sojourn at Orrol’s in Richmond, where I will partake in a late luncheon. Finally, I end up in an easy chair in the Seamstress’s Arms nightclub in Soho, supping on brandy till the small hours of the morning. I know how the club scene works. As such, I was slightly bemused by Newcastle.

We started in Attic, where Caruthers bought me a treble triple. I am uncertain of the exact makeup of this concoction, but I am fairly certain at least half the ingredients therein were of an illicit and unbranded nature. Now, I can handle my illicit substances – my predilection for catnip has been documented within the pages of this hallowed publication – but these beverages put my fur on end.

I asked if I could exchange for a glass of Glenfiddich. The barman spoke to me in most uncouth terms, to which I was quite taken aback. I’ll get Johnson to take care of him later.

Regardless, by then, Clearwater and the Artist Formerly Known As Prince had got into an argument with some local lads and were trying to find the room to load their rifles. Fairfax suggested that we retire elsewhere.

From there, the rest of the night is a pleasant blur, interrupted by the occasional flash of painful lucidity. Another of these treble triples and such thoughts were dispelled though. I finally awoke face down in a gutter somewhere on Pilgrim Street. The NoBSS were nowhere to be seen. So I called Johnson and watched him firebomb the clubhouse.

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