To you he’s Peafield, but to a select few (me and his parents) he’s something else. He’s a proper person. With proper legs and a face, a Clubcard and a Facebook. He’s one of the ranks. He’s brought joy and laughter to the faces of literally tens of readers (maybe), but to me he’s brought so much more. For almost 9 fun-loving months he’s been by my side, at first at my place of work (where our affair of male-bonding began), but now his only Street Fighter style background scene is in my dreams. For he’s gone. Buggered off to bleeding Holland, and out of my life for two long years.

When I was done balling into a pillow, crying until I literally had no liquids left in my system... I got myself a drink. Sat down, and suggested a Goodbye get together. Actually that might be another of his ideas I’ve stolen there (N.B. the two back to back articles: The Role of Celebrity – By James and Celebrity Status – By Peafield, which I swapped round to make it seem like I didn’t just copy his idea).

First plan, a jovial jaunt up to Peafcake’s home ground (or thereabouts), Oxford. As soon as I gave it the touch of death, inviting people to come, the plan sank like a shit in a salad. Only when Peasy grabbed the thing by the scruff of the neck and put some numbers down was it when things actually took off.

I was supposed to meet EasyPeasy in Marylebone station, head off to buy some foody bits and bobs, over to Regent’s Park for a lovely picnic. Before partaking in an English Afternoon Tea game of rounders, then heading to some Festival I don’t remember the name of in London Fields. The reason I can’t remember isn’t the good kind of not-remembering-stuff reason (I got so far out of my skin on multiple drug, alcohol and sex cocktails that I couldn’t remember what my own face looked like and shouted “FUCK OFF MY FACE!” into the mirror for a week.), but the less good kind (that we didn’t actually get there). In fact almost all of the day went completely opposite to the plan.

I was around 5 minutes late for my sins, but I threw out a cursory ‘I’ll be late... Sorry’ text as if that somehow repents. Yet even with my lateness, I was first to arrive. Another 5mins before P.C.Plod himself turns up. After that his mate Rory, then a 30 minute wait for one other person. After about an hour and a half we’re in the pub, we’re running out of pound coins after another ‘quick game of pool before everyone arrives’, still missing four of five people when we decide to call it a day and finally buy some food because we’re bloomin’ starving. TESCO Express isn’t really built for picnics, nor were we. No cups, no plates, no blankets, no knives or spoons or implements of any kind. No matter. We are young, attractive, resourceful and philanthropic individuals after all. But none of that matters because we’re British! And we would make do! Just like our ancestors did in wartime Blighty! They had to share bath water with the rest of the street, we had to use a carrot stick to spread hummus, it’s all relative.

Before long it seems, our strong British resolve would be tested by the heavens once more. As any patriotic soul worth his/er salt will complain to you, a ‘Proper British Picnic’ isn’t quite right until it starts shitting it down hard enough to kill off the Dinosaurs again. This is complete bullshit if you have a picnic in Summer months, likelihood is that it won’t rain. But likelihood doesn’t rule. We would not be deterred; after finishing off our soggy sandwiches, as soon as the Taramosalata had a high enough percentage of rain water to give us all dysentery, Petes and I thought we’d get in a quick game of ball and racquet.

20 minutes later, as soon as the short shower had been turfed out on its ear, the others joined in, and we started games of rounders (with a plastic tennis bat), and ‘Extreme Frisbee’ – which is a sort of netball/handball hybrid only with a Frisbee.

When we returned to the car-crash scene of the abandoned picnic, sticking around any longer was pointless. We’d given it a good go, but the floor was wet, we were wet, the air was cold, we were cold. It’s not terribly British of us to just give up admittedly, but to give up and go to the pub... well that’s the best crying in front of a flag moment I can thing of. Sadly as we found ourselves in Camden, there were no pubs to be found. Only stupidly trendy bars that were so trendy, that they didn’t even need any people to drink in them for them to be trendy. In fact the place skilfully kept up its trend-setting style solely by being completely shit. After 10 minutes we eventually left the pub in search for the most British event of them all, eating badly cooked foreign-styled food. The rest of the diminishing party visited what looks like a Thai restaurant whilst I got a Subway and went home because I was tired.

But before I left... I’m proud to say, that Baby P and myself enjoyed sharing a ‘slightly too long, yet never long enough’ manly hug. I’m still sad about it now, counting down the 731 days until his triumphant return. On that day... there shall be a picnic. There shall be singing in the streets, a sailor will firmly yet gently pull an off-duty nurse towards him and kiss her during a ticket tape parade. And I will smile again.