Sunday December 9 - Northern Uproar

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, eight days and 15 hours since my last drink.

22 DAYS AND NINE HOURS TIL SHOW TIME!

Ever seen one of those films where the cops raid a gambling den and all the tables magically flip over to replace the cards and booze etc with something innocent, like tea and cakes?

I went somewhere like that last night. But in this case the transformation was from sophisticated restaurant to chavtastic Butlins-style disco. And I absolutely love it.

Gem and I went to Manchester for a meal with some old uni pals. Emma and Dave, who live in the area, had chosen a classy-looking venue called Stock. It's housed in a former stock exchange just off Cross Street - a truly beautiful setting with an ornate domed ceiling, wooden panelling galore, and the whiff of old money seeping from every cornice.

Likewise, the menu was a sophisticated affair - scallops, wood pigeon, dover sole, and all the other stuff you don't tend to find on a Beefeater menu.

They even took our coats on arrival - for free! - a sure sign of a classy do.

So far, so posh. Yes, perhaps we should have smelled a rat when some of the finer details didn't stack up. But maybe the cheap crackers, complete with paper crowns, had been left out as an ironic touch of kitsch. Ditto the cheesey Christmas music, controlled by a tubby little DJ who looked like a fat Gordon Strachcan. Perhaps the fact that all the tables were laid out for parties of at least eight was simply a sign of the restaurant's success.

I suppose the first proper clue when fat Gordon began clearing tables from the middle of the room. Suddenly, the Christmas CD came off and some old classics crashed over the speakers. Barry White, Tom Jones, Glen Campbell.

"I think some dancing's going to break out within minutes," I told Dave.

I was right. Within 60 seconds a group of four middle aged women had shuffled onto Gordon's hastily improvised dance floor and began gingerly shaking their hips. Within seconds a rather brazen young lady who, in all honesty, was slightly too fleshy to be wearing that backless frock, leapt up from a different table and dragged a rather hapless looking man (let's call him Ken from Accounts) onto the clearing.

Moving almost too fast for the human eye, fat Gordon then pulled out his trump card. With all the skill of Captain Hook wearing mittens, he mixed in the unmistakeable sound of a Neil Diamond intro.

"Sweeeeeeet Caroline!", sang the speakers.

"Bah! Bah! Bah!" replied the crowd - many of them now waving their hands in the air for some synchronised swaying, shirt sleeves falling upwards to reveal muscular forearms covered with fading blue ink. And that was just the women.

"My God!", I cried. "It's a trap. We've gone and walked into an office party venue."

The look on Emma's face was priceless. Her classy night out had been hijacked by the guys and gals from Prontaprint. Fat Gordon was playing Abba by now, and backless dress girl was grinding her ample buttocks into Ken from Accounts' crotch. A gaggle of women were already gathered around one crying female outside the ladies' toilets - the first of many casualties. And our paper napkins were being blown off the table by the breeze caused by flapping bingo wings.

"This is fantastic," cried Murph, swinging his arms aloft to Hi Ho Silver Lining. "Let's stay here all night."

I agreed with him but others were keen to leave. We ended up in a trendy bar in the northern quarter. It was called Socio-Rehab, and sold cocktails which came with a Wham bar. There were no backless dresses - just faux vintage t-shirts with ironic slogans. There was no Neil Diamond - just gritty drum n bass. There was no synchronised arm-waving - although head-nodding was permitted, providing you didn't smile.

I didn't put up any resistance when Gem suggested hitting the road at about 12.30am. Nothing else was ever going to hold a candle to Stock.

I should have gone to bed when we got back to the Pool. Instead I went around to Jimmy's house and stayed up until 4.30am to watch the Hatton-Mayweather fight. Being sober meant this was the first late-night boxing match I've ever managed to stay awake for. I kinda wish I hadn't now, as it was sad to see Ricky looking so shell-shocked and humiliated after being royally pounded into the early hours.

No-one can ever really know how that feels. Although I reckon Ken from Accounts has a fairly good idea.