Music: West End Girls - The Pet Shop Boys
Destination: Wakefield, West Yorkshire.
Drink of choice: Vodka lime and soda.
Men: Pretty hot, as it goes.
First up, it's a cheesy 80's bar. Duran Duran and Bananarama all round. All the normal Sunday drinks offers were off (robbing bastards) which made my first round a bit expensive. Hmm, not impressed so far.
When I got back from the bar, Amy and Nikki were talking to a group of blokes. They were OK. Mid-thirties, not beaten with the ugly stick and they looked pretty friendly. But then one of them came out with possibly the weirdest chat up line I've ever heard.
Bloke 1 (to Nikki): "Hi you alright?"
Nikki: "Yeah thanks."
Bloke 1 (looking at Nikki closely): "Bloody hell love, you've got really hairy arms."
He then pinches Nikki's arm hair as if to demonstrate his point. We all laugh. Ace line, but it didn't get him anywhere.
An old man pub turned into a bar with blaring dance music. But things are looking up. I spot a really fit guy. And I mean really fit. Tall, dark, broad shoulders, great arms, slightly tanned. He was wearing a turquoise t-shirt that hugged his body in all the right places. To top it all off he had a cheeky glint in his eye. Nice.
Sadly, he was at the other side of the bar and I'd only had one drink. There was no way that I was making a move on him sober.
But we did meet a guy with the best hair I have ever seen in my life. Amy, Nikki and I had been debating whether his curly white-man afro was real or if it was a wig. Think Seth Rogan with a head of massive bouncing curls. He was quite cute, in a slightly geeky way.
Me (beckoning him over): "I've got to ask, is your hair real or is it a wig?"
Curly Wurly: "What do you think?"
Curly Wurly (laughing): "Well, touch it and see."
Amazingly it was real. Soft and bouncing curls. He must have loved it: three girls running their fingers through his hair. And do you know what? I kind of liked it too. Not enough to pull him though. He wasn't that fit.
A slightly cooler bar. Now we're talking. Plenty of muscle bound hot guys roaming in packs. That's one thing I love about going out in small towns - the undiscovered talent. However, there were also plenty of young, primped and preened 18-year old girls which made me feel about 100 years old.
To make matters worse, one (slightly drunk) bloke decides that I have an encylopedic knowledge of the drinks prices, just because I'm standing at the bar.
Drunk bloke: "Alright love, how much are Jagerbombs?"
Me: "I have no idea."
Drunk bloke: "Yeah you do. Come on, are they £3?"
Me (sighing): "I don't work here."
Drunk bloke: "Or is it £3.50?"
Me (getting annoyed): "Yeah, probably."
Drunk bloke: "Will you get me one?"
Me (really annoyed): "No."
Drunk bloke: "Oh go on."
He then thrusts £4 into my hand. Fine. Anything to get rid of him. I jiggle my boobs and get the attention of the barman.
Me: "How much are Jagerbombs?"
Nice one drunk bloke. The extra quid will buy my winning lottery ticket next weekend. I give him his drink and keep the change. Ha.
We grab a table and another round of drinks. We've been there for a few minutes when fit turquoise t-shirt guy from the earlier bar strides in with his mates. Excellent, a nice bit of eye candy. I consider doing the oh-so-not-very-subtle brushing past him on the way to the bar technique, but then I see that he's the wrong side of drunk and is ogling a group of girls who are about 10 years younger than me.
Maybe this cougar in training needs more work...
I decided to leave it. More drinks all round.
Several double vodkas down the line and we're all a bit drunk. That's probably why we ended up having a stupid girl row over where to go for takeaway.
We quickly leave after necking our drinks, and half an hour later I am safely tucked up in my bed, alone, with a belly full of cheesy chips.
As nights out go it was OK. No great shakes. If I'm honest it was a bit of a weird night out. Maybe I'm just used to going out in the big city? Wakefield is, well, it reminds me of the small town where I grew up and where I went out drinking when I was 16. I felt old, really old, being out in the same places as a load of teenagers. It doesn't feel like that in the city. I don't feel like a crusty old fart.
Maybe I've turned into a city girl? Eek, I never saw that one coming...