I have 3 types of friends, 'friends of friends' that I occasionally bump into and am happy to drink and converse with, 'work friends', a collective of people who I deal with purely for the chance of an earner and my 'real mates', a collective inner circle of proper pals from my dog shit on a stick days.. Sundays are sacrosant for us, we drift into the same corner of the same pub one by one, no texts or calls are needed it is simply a thing that we do. After a couple of Stella's and a steak sandwich we follow the same route of boozers into town and are all back at our respective pads by midnight. It started with a throwaway comment from my Mr's, she simply muttered 'did you know Aaron is seeing that Becky from blah blah?, you know, 'her with the 3 kids'? My fucking heart sank, this Becky is a particularly nice looking bird with a peculiar habit of bleeding blokes dry for a couple of years and siring them an offspring before fucking them off and cashing in, her biggest claim to fame was going out with the black chap from Blue for a couple of months, (apparently his penis is a site to behold, very small and with a curious bend in it just below the glans which is a shame as Ive often wondered aloud about how immense his cock must be) Couple of Sundays later Aaron was curiously quiet and had barely touched his 3 Red Aftershocks and banged out early with a muted farewell, I surmised that due to him not going to bed for 2 days that it was just a burnout, fair one, happens to us all, we had discussed his new relationship but he waved it off as 'just a shag', I bought it hook line and sinker and quickly put an early chit in for one of her used tampons, (where possible I collect them), after swapping a couple of texts during the week he seemingly went to ground and was a no show at the weekly Sunday Hangover Summit. To date he has cried off an all dayer in Liverpool, a BBQ and a lads night at mine where nakedness and paintball guns become one. Alas the inevitable phone call I got after pointing out that he was being a cunt by text was a weasely, painfully eeked out conversation littered with excuses which included the phrases 'can't mate, we're going to York shopping' and 'mate, what ill do is give you a ring when I get back and well go for a couple of beers?' Bollocks, but I can't grieve forever. As I sit here I remember the good times, scrapping in a Scarborough pub with the lookalike cast of the League of Gentlemen, giving his fucking petrified face a double thumbs up as he was in the door for a tandem jump, his brief relationship with my sister whereby he once snuck up to the house and was caught trying to get in through her bedroom window by my Dad, 18 stone of furious Paddy dragging him down stairs whilst dressed in my Mum's dressing gown, the tales go on and on.. Aside from me being heartbroken and sat staring at a picture of the 2 of us unconcious and top and tailing a sofa bed in Spain I have concluded that a cunt struck mate should be cut adrift, it isn't worth the tears. He has blown us out now 3 times, what doesn't help is that his new squeeze fucking hates me with an unbridled and vocal passion after an incident of pure misunderstanding with one of her friends in the toilets of a pub last summer, an incident that to this day makes still makes me shiver in pleasure. So thats that then I suppose, another warrior felled by a doe eyed slag, it happened in the block a lot as well, you'd spend months nurturing a friendship based around spending Friday through till Monday morning completely ratted, sharing gronks you've convinced to come back to the accomodation and carrying daring moonlit raids on the galley stores creeping back to the block with a half tonne of corned dog, 4 loaves of bread and the chief chips hat to then lose your trusty new compadre to some fucking child spawning divorcee still hanging onto her pad post divorce.. Lost any homies to slags lately?