There are times in one’s life, where one is in a certain situation, which seems so uncommon, and so unlikely, that it forces them to look back, recount their steps and logically pinpoint how the road took them there. Some of these times can be bad situations, some can be good, fearful, or exciting, but all are surprising. We get into routines too easily, any break from routine is seen as a special occurrence. A world where the routine is broken too often, a world where the word ‘Yes’ is uttered more than any other, can only be too dangerous. Sure Danny Wallace and Jim Carrey had a good enough time, and things worked out for them, but there is something we need to remember. Jim Carrey is an actor, and that was a film, and Danny Wallace was very lucky. His new found agreeable tendencies may have made him friends, and proved his world more exciting, but it also damn well near bankrupted the man, and pitted him on the verge of breakdown. Saying yes exclusively is a dangerous hobby, but doing it simply more often can leave you in outrageous circumstances, as long as you’re careful.

The story I’m about to tell you, the story of the other night, is a story of what might happen if you say yes, not because you have to, but just because of a good mood. Even when ‘saying yes’ you still need questions to say yes to. This is a night, where those questions came in abundance, and where the answer was not automatic thanks to a new manifesto for life, but just simple, and obvious. And it begins like this...

I was invited out for the evening by some old workmates. They still all work at the same place, and planned to hit a karaoke bar once they’d off’d the clock. Meeting time was 18:00, somewhere in Soho. I arrive at Oxford Circus circa 18:15 (naturally), and give them a ring. But what’s this? They’ve “been held late” I hear, “another half hour” is the news. Not to worry, a one half hour is plenty time for me to sit myself down (should I luck out and find a table at 18:20 on a Friday in Soho), get a pint, and wait for the cavalry. Me being the sensible type, that’s what I did.

I scooted down to the only pub in Soho of which I’m certain a table could be vouched, and proceeded to get a drink in. It was a hot day, and I’d been hard at work (on last week’s issue) for most of it, so I was rather parched. The first metric ounce hit the back of my throat like the kiss of a Mistress after a family holiday. Once I realised this pint had to last another 20 minutes I scrimped and saved the remaining half. Yet still, at around 18:50, with no word, I became worried. My dilemma? Should I stick around and wait for news, but do so with no drink, risking sobriety for the rest of the evening, as well as portraying the sight of a man sat alone in a busy pub, sans drink? Or should I throw caution to the breeze, arise, purchase a second drink, whilst risking the loss of my table as well as the likelihood of an imminent call to say ‘We’re somewhere else, come meet us.’ Forcing me to abandon the afore-mentioned, freshest of pints. Both options have advantages and disadvantages of course, in the end it just came down to picking a lane. Perhaps in a way, setting a standard for the evening, I plumped for the more adventurous.

So, with my second pint glass appearing decidedly half full, I was presented with a similar problem, and was forced, again to slow my drinking. Only this time, having the problem cubed by a regular-as-clockwork post 2pint desire for facilities. By this time it was 19:00, I had a call from Peafield asking after more directions, and a text from Gazz to say he was at a cash machine. I knew help was not far away, however neither was the depth of my bladder. Luckily, and with what seemed like literally seconds to spare, Peafield shows up, along with D&AD loyalists, Lisa, Richard, Carla, and Richard’s Mrs. With Gazz in tow not long after.

At this point remember, I am two unanswered pints deep, no food, no chatter, just drinking. So I was quite a bit further down the flight path than the others. Another couple of drinks in the Glasshouse allowed just enough catching up, along with a half-time Gazz Vs Peafield showdown pertaining to each’s opinion of the Transformers franchise. Peafield has an amazing ability to get into incredibly over the top, heated arguments with anyone, entirely by accident.

A couple of pints proved enough to shatter the remaining shackles of work, and the evening’s Jet Set moved on to more edible pastures. The original evening’s plan still filled whatever imaginary blackboard agenda in our combined mind. Meaning at some point we would head to Chinatown’s Corean Chilli for some good eating and good singing. Now, Corean Chilli readers, is the kind of restaurant (Korean), where the menu presents everything in some sort of alien symbol language (Korean). So it was down to Peafield to translate. Seeing as he speaks Japanese, we opted just to order a load of stuff that looked good (luckily they had pictures), and dig in to each other’s plates. Best way. Peafiled ordered grey clumps of fluff in watery noodles, which was all right. I had some red balls of some sort of meat (couldn’t work out which), but that was lovely... I also had a side of what tasted like some kind of vegetable, marinated in Hell! Just the one bottle of sake wasn’t enough for sufficient refreshment, and another had to be called in.

What follows is the point where the night starts to get legendary. Upon finishing the meal, our party was down to 4. With Peafield, Lisa, Carla, and myself, karaoke would at this point, be pointless. At a time where our options seemed only minimal, it was either expensive karaoke, which no one actually wanted; or head home, where our adventure ends before it’s even begun, which people wanted even less. Just when we were at a crossroads, Peafield presents a third option. It seems he’s just got word of a ‘rooftop party’ at a friend of his’ flat. I’m not sure any of us knew exactly what a ‘rooftop party’ was, but why should that matter? The answer was yes.

The rooftop of notoriety was in Bloomsbury. How, you might wonder can a friend of Peafield afford an apartment with a rooftop in Bloomsbury? Well you’re more inquisitive than I, I didn’t ask questions, only answered them, with ‘yes’. After a rather hot, dry journey across the Capital’s underground transport system, I polished off a half bottle of Bulmers in no time at all, and swiftly required use of facilities. “Flat [Flat number has been edited for privacy]” I was told. That’s great, but it’s not much to go on when you’re on a rooftop in the dead of night with no directions. 5 minutes of wandering around, weaving in and out of flu pillars, and I find a door! Hurrah, a door! Of course, because I’m a trailblazing hero of positive power... I open, and walk through said door. Once there, the flat I’m looking for isn’t there. Turns out it was the wrong door. I return to my own personal Knightmare, find another two incorrect doors before the fourth and final option takes me to the intended destination. And when I finally approach the correct door? Locked. An extended trip to the start, and back to the centre of Labyrinth is what it takes to obtain relief.

Upon my return, it takes me a while to discover exactly what has happened, but it’s something important. Everyone is packing up and leaving. I don’t know why, but I’d better collect my remaining booze and follow the leader before I get lost again. But where is my booze? 2½ bottles, disappeared faster than David Copperfield’s private jet. One can only theorise the reason for our hasten retreat, but once in the relatively safe confines of the 7th floor flat, I find at least the half bottle (sat in a bag of rubbish) and nab it. Look don’t judge me yeah? It’s not like it was an eclaire.

As soon as we’re kicked out of the one party, we’re told of another one around the King’s Cross area of town. It’s a friend of a guy, who’s a friend of Peafield’s friend. But it’s that or night bus so we head forth to King’s Cross. When visiting a party full of people, your only link to whom, isn’t even at the party, it’s important not to get to ‘friendly’. You could be seen as party crashers. So after meeting up with Guy (also an ex D&AD-er) we take up residence on the high-rise flat’s balcony, looking out across the city. After about a half hour or so of competently fulfilling roles as social pariahs, we say our goodbyes (who to? We don’t know) for two reasons. One, because we quite clearly are party crashers and have no idea who or why these people exist, and two, this party’s shit.

Instead we head over to someone else’s house. Asking me who’s house, or why we were there is like asking a blind man his favourite colour. The place was pretty nice though, and certainly good enough to fall asleep wherever we fell, on top of each other. Only to wake up the next morning, full of wonder.

Where am I? How did I get here? How do I get home? What day is it? Who are you? Where am I? What?