We've just come back from the pub, where we've had one hell of a time with our friend, Glen.
Glen paid for all of our drinks, because he won some money on the lottery at the weekend, and knowing that Tony and me are currently financially stretched, he didn't hesitate in making sure that we got completely hammered, at his expense.
Tony reckons that Glen is the nearest anybody could be to being a living saint, and that when Glen dies, he thinks that it's only right that the nation goes into official mourning for at least a week.
Well, whilst I think Glen showed that human kindness hasn't completely become a thing of the past, comparing him to a saint is just a little too much.
I mean, how many saints do you know are heavily tattooed, have a criminal record as long as your arm, and carry around at all times an iron bar, so that they can protect themselves if the need ever arises? Well - NONE!
Still, at times, Tony can get a little bit carried away, but after twelve pints of cold lager, six whiskies and god only knows how many cigarettes, it can only be expected.
Glen will be joining us later, back at pub, to continue sharing his good fortune with us, but only after he's completed a bit of business that he needs to attend to, on the other side of London.
Tony can hardly wait for the second part of this fantastic day to get underway, and whilst I'm probably the least religious person in London, I reckon that Glen's fortune is a real gift from the gods.
And as Tony says, he'll drink to that!