Saturday Night Live

I can’t wait. Saturday Night a select few of the most handsome gentlemen on the Isle of Man are out on the lash. These are not any ordinary fine-looking lads; these could be described as “The Manx Lads”.

We’ll be meeting early to dish out the Shitty Sticks, which are compulsory for fighting off the Ladies. We’ll start off with a few quiet drinks, throwing ideas around for our next Internet Domination Plan, and then before we know it, we’ll be surrounded by countless leggy blondes, all teeth and silicone, with little fanny pelmet’s and FMB’s.

That’s when the Shitty Sticks will appear, and we’ll open up a can of Whoop Arse on their East European tight arses. We’ll whittle out the chaff and be left with the top totty.

Then we’ll retire to the Snug, and allow them to ply us with drinks all night. As the midnight bell tolls, we’ll disappear in to the dark, with the chicks wondering, “Who were those Manx Hunks?”

That’s Plan A, Plan B is to meet up, drink beer, drink more beer, talk bollocks all night, try and make it to the Kebab Shop and walk home eating Chips, Cheese & Gravy.

I’m happy with either plan; it’s absolutely ages since I’ve been out on a Saturday night with my mates.