If anyone had “less than a week” as a bet on how long I’d last without drink, you can tear up your bookie’s chit- I’m 8 days and counting. This weekend I had visions of sitting in with a “Quincy” box set and bumper bag of Murray Mints, going to bed at nine pm, and up with the larks to go for a morning constitutional. It didn’t really turn out like that however.

Friday night I went out for Texan food at a place called “Big Bubba’s BBQ Ribs Yes Yes Y’all!” or somesuch.
It was just me and “The Godfather” AKA my mate Jonathan who’s over here for a month. Bubba’s alledgedly has the best BBQ ribs in all of old Shanghai. Just the thing with a pint of foaming Cranberry juice.

Afterwards we headed to The Spot, where we discussed the issues of the day (the works of Chaka Demus & Pliars, Gordon Brown’s speech impediment, how amazing I am at table football) over a delicious Soda water. Then onto the Big Bamboo where I switched to still water (the bubbles were stinging my tongue, I ain’t Chuck Norris) and watched a bit of Australian ‘Rules’ Football, slowly shaking our heads in disbelief.

I called it a night after a Coca-Cola at the Blue Angel, but not before getting a big laugh from the table behind ours; the house band had just finished the last emotion-filled notes of a Chinese pop classic number when I called out:

“Ting bu dong!” (”Hear but don’t understand!”).

Which is hilarious  if you’re a world-weary Chinese prostitute.