Having conquered everything before him, notably a degree and La Rochelle, H dot Millar decided it high time to head north and illuminate the impoverished backwaters of this newly independent country. A 21st in the toon provided the perfect opportunity for H for Millar to venture to Durham and spread his famous charm and joy.

In an uncharacteristic manner his arrival was disorganised and dishevelled, but the welcome was warm and friendly from all the boys notably though barring a certain W dot R dot M dot Priest who took an exceedingly long time to greet his guest even for a man sporting the rotund beer belly he currently is.

Finally he emerged from his lair with his young ladyfriend. I had unwittingly arrived during a football shirt and wine social, and I'm afraid to report former 'alright bloke' me priest had decided to sack the social in favour of a quiet night with the missus. I have since been reliably informed this is now the norm. The experienced campaigner I am I've seen this sort of behaviour before but it still hurts to lose a brother like this.

However my arrival and some gentle persuasion convinced the man formerly known as 'the big show' to come out. After some tough negotiating and who knows what kind of promises, young miss Broomfield agreed to join as well.

The venue was to be 'Jimmy's' if i remember correctly, it was on the walk down that I accidentally leaked details of the romantic summer trip the happy couple had planned to the 36ers, which the 'sardine' had failed to relay. I was disappointed but not surprised to hear this was not the first incident of this ilk, his maiden trip to chez Broomfield going unreported as well. Incidentally chez Broomfield is just up the road from chateau priest in Worcestershire, showing that the man is still a wily operator regardless of his performance in other areas.

I am happy to report that young Miss C dot Broomfield is a charming lady, and Mr Priest has done very well for himself, regardless of what D dot Lloyd has to say.

Diehard KOLO fans may want to look away for the next paragraph as it contains a disturbing lack of commitment to the club, on par with C dot Hart's snakitude. Former 'fourth best keeper in England' has in some people's opinions essentially hung up the gloves in terms of the number of games planned this summer - his penchant for romantic weekend getaways taking precedence. Further rumours came through the grapevine of job hunting in Newcastle so as he could remain close to his sweetheart as she continues her studies next year, this though surely just a vicious rumour.

In O dot Benham's absence I was kindly offered his room, in an act branded 'exceedingly kind' by the Millar Monthly. On my waking up on Friday morning I found out that my ferocious door slamming the previous night I had managed to lock myself into the room, cue a slightly dazed and confused panic, luckily there was a second door hidden behind a wardrobe and I was able to escape.

Day two continued slowly but quickly grew momentum as B dot Fothergill won a competition to watch the Durham v Yorkshire T20 from a hot tub on the boundary, in a slice of luck flukier than priests 2.1. This obviously caused much ecstasy to begin with, until the sudden realisation that their rigs would be on show, the Cheeseman Courier reports though that a certain R dot Gladding was relieved to find out that the game was not being televised, saying ‘recent lifestyle choices have severely impaired my rig, and whilst its not at a Priest level, it shouldn’t be broadcast to the British public’.

Priest utilising the kind of negotiating nous and skill that BoJo is going to need with Juncker and his cronies in the next few months, managed to convince his better half to join us at the cricket. So we all headed off to Chester-le-Street, as expected pints were consumed and from our viewpoint on the far side of the ground the hot tub squad were having a thoroughly good time. The cricket though was slow, Yorkshire’s run rate struggling like Charlie Caine through a 100m ‘sprint’, unfortunately for all involved the weather took a turn for the worse and the rain began to come down. This brought an end to the fun and soon the match was abandoned.

The next morning and afternoon, was spent watching more sport however my host was MIA, eventually tracked to a café in central Durham messr Priest also missed out on an inaugural spot of windball garden cricket. Following the Wales v NI game, having thanked my hosts for a thoroughly enjoyable stay I took my leave to Hadrian’s wall.

On my way back from the 21st, I saw a few signs to Blackpool, and a quick check of the satnav showed it was a mere 20 minutes out of my way – I couldn’t turn down an opportunity like this. Having proudly voted LEAVE, it would be the great British seaside towns like Blackpool that would climb to giddy heights at the top of tourist destinations once again. Top blokes would proudly upload photos of ‘Pool 2k17. I arrived unsurprisingly in the pouring rain, to the glittering neon lights and amusements of the Britain’s answer to Vegas. I made my way down to great Blackpool Tower and the pier, and the beach – where ginger prick and all round shit bloke Chris Evans recently filmed part of a Top Gear episode, filming my damp and lonely experience of the place would have gone down much, much better with the great British public I have no doubt. On reaching the pier I finally what I had came for – a bar with a TV and arrived just in time to see young Mr Brady slot a pen against our former partners France. I settled in perfectly; lovely seaside, a nice cold pint, a great table with 100% top blokes and the Euro’s. Life was good. Blackpool was growing on me.
Fast forward a few hours and the miserable rain continued to pour down, I couldn’t hear the commentary because the waves were crashing against the pier so hard and frequently, the frogs had come back to win, my Strongbow was as miserly and disappointing as always, and whilst the quality of blokes on my table remained 100% (1/1), the filthy scum around me made my burger taste like an out of date turkey twizzler.
If I became a public toilet cleaner tomorrow and worked 24/7 until my 100th birthday I still would not see as much scum as I did on my walk of shame from said bar to my car. The place at times quite literally shouted of filth and embarrassment, and I firmly believe it would have been worse if it was sunny, the moronic ogres walking around would have removed their Liverpool shirts and displayed their never ending bellies, the stench of grubby sweat would have filled the air and their numbers, like cockroaches after a nuclear war, would have swelled. I got out alive … just.