An oddly topical last line.

Yesterday I reminded myself why I don't ever plan on becoming a farmer. I spent the day being not-terribly-useful in a job that essentially involved strong-arming sheep into running through an Orwellian contraption of galzanised steel. When I was asked to help, I mentioned that I had plans to go for Birthday drinks with a friend called gram in Okehampton (If any of you have a frozen cheesecake nearby, check where it's made). Ha, they left unsaid, that's the most ridiculous objection I've ever heard, this shepherding lark is a morning job.

I spent eleven hours doing that, fuelled only with chicken salad and custard creams. In terms of satisfying jobs I rank it up there with the Fantastic Eleven, an eleven-hour shift that I did while at Little Chef Whiddon Down.

The Little Chef is a place of grim aspect and powdered-egg atmosphere. I worked there a few summers ago, and made the fatal mistake of admitting that I had no plans to make a career of it. Retrospectively I can see the flicker in their eyes that said "No point in training you for any job, then". And so the Fantastic Eleven, and many other days like it, were spent washing up in the facility jocularly known as The Pit. The key thing about Little Chef Whiddon Down is that it was built in ancient times, when the road could expect four itinerant tinkers a year. Then, of course, they built the A30 to take sallow-skinned motorists to Cornwall. Consequently the building was staffed to 400% of capacity and still had far more busines than it could handle. On that day, apart from a sub-legal twenty-minute break, I was in The Pit from three in the afternoon until two the following morning. It was in that pre-dawn sodium-lit car-park that my resolve to go onto higher education rather than an early entry to the career market solidified.

So anyway, yes.

At about eight I arrived home from bullying sheep and by nine arrived in Okehampton to catch up with my friends. Gram was already looking a little fuzzed around the edges. I could tell it was going to get a whole lot worse though ,when he was presented with what is known as a "top shelf special". If you don't know what I'm talking about, I'll bullet you some points.

• This thing comes in a pint glass.
• On first tasting it, he remarked "It tastes of washing-up liquid".
• It is only made on request.
• It cost £8.20
• It was electric blue.

I was sat opposite the visibly-quaking Gram. Dilley, engineer and taxer-financier of the Blue Pint, cackled. My humanitarian spirit rebelled as people drifted up, took a sniff of the pint and put it back on the table, untouched. I sipped my weak Jack Daniels with coke and tried to think of a way we could discreetly dispose of it. The key things people note about electric-blue pints is that you can;t easily swap them with dead glasses and pretend it's someone elses. Similarly I rejected ideas of pouring it into the ashtrays or setting it alight Kuwaiti-Invasion style. I even sacrificed part of my liver tissue by drinking some, but it tasted strongly of washing-up liquid.

To give him credit, if that's the word, Gram did indeed put most of it away. Every gulp was like watching a prizefighter take a blow to the stomach. After about two thirds of the way down the pint, Gram's head began to roll as every sip was an invitation to a sudden dash to the toilets. It was like playing Ker-Plunk, except much more visceral.

Gram turned his unfocused eyes on the still-chortling Dilley and slurred "Right, you bastard. We're going Nero's."

Nero's Nightclub is Okehampton's only venue with a late license. I can't vouch for the truth of the follwing, but there is a legend regarding Nero's. So the story goes, the popular men's magazine FHM once held a survey to find the UK's worst nightclub. Nero's came in second-worst. The worst venue, at time of writing, was on fire.

Nero's is popular with many of the town's locals: violent men with dead-end jobs in cheesecake factories, desperate women fighting a loosing battle with lonely middle age, pregnant teenagers, coke-addled school dropouts, and soldiers. Gram hates it with a passion. But the key thing is that Dilley hates it even more. He planned to spend the night at Gram's house, so if Gram went, so would Dilley.

Aparently up until the last minute, Gram was planning to drop the bluff at the door. Then he was pushed into a thornbush in a desperate attempt to dissaude him from going. Like the British Army in Ireland, we tried our best but only suceeded in making things a lot worse.

Unfortunately, I also planned to stay at Grams. It was my second trip to that club. In terms of decor, ambience and fun, I would describe it as a laser-quest arena without the lasers, but keeping such features as smoke, darkness, noise and sweat. Smiling broadly, Gram leant over to where Dilley and I sat, trying to avoid eye-contact with the locals, and said "I want you to know why you're here... spite". Chuckling, he swayed back into his corner chair.

After we all had hidden for about an hour sat in a relatively quiet backwater, Gram started to sober up. I, who had seen how much he had drunk and fully expected him to pass out, or become a Russian politician or something, felt a strange awe at his kidneys. Becoming aware of his surroundings, of course, led us to leave as soon as possible.

It wasn't until after a strangely pleasant night's sleep on a sofa that I realised that I had spent £8 on the Nero Gambit. Thanks to moderation, I had spent £4 on the massively more enjoyable rest of the evening.

British Army and Irish politicians, take note: that's what spite gets ya.

Song in my head: "Red eyes and tears" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club