On Saturday night, Tim and I braved the artic winds and driving rain of Britain, to venture into downtown Bath. Actually, in terms of sheer unpleasantness, the weather was nothing compared to the drunken assholes that were parading about, shouting the odds and blocking the pavements in every street.

What is it about these people, that after a few beers, they feel the need to conduct their personal lives at a volume normally reserved for opera singers and yodeling champions?

When I get drunk (yes it's hard to imagine, but it does happen occasionally), if I'm in town, I generally have to put all my energy into

a) staying upright
b) not tripping over my own feet
c) remembering where I'm supposed to be going
d) resisting buying a kebab

I don't have any time or energy to be bellowing my personal business at the top of my voice

The other thing about these amateur Pavarotti's is this business of going around town, in weather conditions that would cause your average Eskimo to say, "Sod this, I'm staying home tonight", wearing nothing on their upper-half, but a short-sleeved shirt. It's possible that the whole shouting and singing routine is some technique they've developed for keeping warm, by causing the blood to flow more rapidly around their body, but then if we're lucky, it's possible they'll do us all a favour and die of hypothermia.

Tim had spent the previous night, in a bar in Reykjavik, drinking his way towards dawn. Given that Iceland has about three hours of daylight at this time of year, this was a bold plan, considering how late it gets light, and the fact that as soon as the sun was up, his plane would be leaving.

Consequently, after a night of no sleep, and then a plane ride to the UK, he wasn't in the mood for the classic "Tim and Max sit in The Porterbutt and drink Guinness for five or six hours" kind of Saturday night.

So we were downtown, with a view to reacquainting me with the Eastern Eye. This is one of Bath's best Indian restaurants (IMO), and is located in a great Georgian building, that used to be a bank, was then an art gallery, and now houses some works of art of a more edible nature.

I snapped a picture of the main room, but it's sheer size, meant that at night, my camera's flash, just wasn't powerful enough to give you a well-lit image. I've Photoshopped this was best I can:

Click to enlarge image

The meal was superb - the best Indian meal I've had this trip. My Chicken Tikka Masala Balti was purportedly only medium heat, but I definitely saw a waiter standing by with a fire extinguisher, as I started it.

He needn't have bothered. It was the next morning when the fire danger was at its highest.

Having consumed three courses, plus coffee, we gathered several waiters to help lift us into standing positions, and rolled out back into the night.

We made an abortive attempt to find somewhere to get good coffee, and ended up in the Coeur De Lyon pub for a quick Guinness. The Coeur De Lyon is one of several Bath pubs that whilst very cute and quaint, is smaller than the average SUV, and has fewer seats.

After just one pint we hit the road again, with every intention of going straight back to Tim's, and doing something intellectual. Unfortunately for us, the Porterbutt had its tractor beam switched on, and as we passed it, we were drawn, helplessly, into it.

A momentus event, as Dr Evil (Tim) buys a round of drinks

Our heroes, recharging their superhuman powers, whilst engaging in lively philosophical debate

"The future's bright, the future's black with a reasonable head on it"

Quite how both of us managed to shoehorn three more pints of Guinness into ourselves, after both having two pints in the restaurant, a three-course meal, coffee, and a pint in town, is beyond me. Mind you, I did notice some Guinness trying to escape through my tear ducts, as Tim and I chuckled our way home.