So, anyway, Saturday night I was due at the home of Mark & Danelle.

The occasion was an evening of beer and Catchphrase. My suspicion was that I was only invited because of my convincing Roy Walker impression.

The evening's excitement, however, didn't start there.

In my haste to leave the house, I copied down the directions into my PDA. I should really have just printed out the email they arrived in, but in an attempt to save the planet, just scribbled it down in the gadget. That was my first mistake.

So, I'm barrelling along I70, looking for 58th St, when I should be looking for Kipling St. Eventually, somewhere near the Utah border, I realise that I may have gone just a little bit too far west.

I make the call. The call that let's the world know:

a) I can admit when I'm wrong
b) I'm secure in my masculinity

Yes, contrary that male cliché, I ring, and... ask... for... directions.

So we sort that out. I was on Route 58, not 58th St. I set off to find I70 again, and due to a slight miscalculation on my part, mixed in with a very arse-about-face road layout, I end up on the wrong carriageway, heading West instead of East.

But that's OK folks, because I don't head in the wrong direction for long. Oh no, my truck has other ideas.

Without warning, and just past a junction, it dies. No warnings, no strange noises, no smoke, no loud bangs, just dies.

Somehow, against all odds, I manage to get it restarted, and drive off. This little victory is about as short lived as that of the bloke who anchored the Hindenburg up good and tight.

Just past the next off-ramp, it died again. Again, no warning lights to tell me what was up.

So I call Mark, and thanks to the miracle that is Mapquest, he finds where I am, and arrives in his car.

He then used his aged 1600cc car, to tow my 5000cc V8 truck. Quite how it managed this, is a testament to late-eighties Nissan manufacturing standards.

We pootled along the hard shoulder of the highway, to the next off ramp, stopping only once to re-tie the rope. All the time my servo-assisted brakes are getting less and less responsive, until eventually they're so unresponsive they could have got jobs in Qwest's DSL Customer Support office. This means that whilst I'm being towed about six feet behind Mark's car, I have almost no way of avoiding hitting him, were he to have braked suddenly.

Just to add to the excitement, the lack of engine power in the Mountaineer means that the power-steering is dying away with each turn. By the time we reach the gas station, I'm doing an impression of King Canute, as it's taking me two hands and all my strength to turn the wheel.

Of course, Mark drives to the wrong side of the pump for my vehicle, but buy this stage, we're past caring. We figure it's probably just out of gas, although as I said, the low fuel warning light never came on, and the fuel gauge needle was only just in the red.

I stretch the petrol pump's hose across the back of the Mountaineer, and drive the nozzle home, locking the trigger open. Mark and I chat about how all the signs point towards it just being a lack of fuel. I relax.

I relax just long enough to let go of the pump's hose. Ordinarily this wouldn't be a problem, except tonight, the hose is already stretched as far as it'll go, and so half a second after my hand leaves it, the hose springs gazelle-like ouf of the gas tank,and bounces across the courtyard, pissing petrol everywhere, because the trigger is locked open!

The final jolt on the ground causes the trigger to pop out, and cease the flow of flammable fossil fuel (can you say aliteration?), but not before a good 100sq ft of concrete, the side of the truck, and my shoes have all been doused with about $3 worth of gas.

Anyway, after paying for the petrol, plus the $5 million dollar environmental clean-up operation that was required upon the surrounding land, we headed off to Mark's house.

We played Catchphrase, as promised, and drank beer. Mark and Danelle were a team, and Mary and I were a team, and the rest of the crowd sat around and played with Moose. We didn't have any need for hecklers, as we all heckled each other.

The first question for my team:

Max: It's the capital of France.
Mary: Belgium?

And they wonder why the rest of the world thinks that Americans know nothing about anywhere outside the US.

Needless to say, "Belgium" became the answer given to a number of questions, by all of us at some point during the evening. It was never, however, a correct answer.

My truck made it home safely, and true to the blogging cause, all of us who had been playing Catchphrase were online by the time I got back to DMfM Towers

With all the excitement of the truck breaking down, playing Catchphrase, honing my Roy Walker impression, and wrestling Moose, I was awake for hours after getting home.

Miles was curious to know the origins of the drool that was on my jeans. I assued him that it wasn't mine.

I confessed to him, that it was from Moose, who even at only four months old, is already producing enough saliva to re-stock Colorado's depleated water reserves.

Max: But you're still my favourite dog in the world Miles.
Miles: (silence)
Max: Miles, are you sulking?
Miles: Belgium.