New Years Eve was spent in the company of Simon and Mr. Watkins. We started the evening by going to everybody’s favourite restaurant, Garfunkles. Alongside my predictable chicken dish, I was encouraged by Simon to be adventurous and instead of ordering a Carling, try a cocktail. I can’t remember what it was called, but it contained vodka, Baileys, some other spirit, ice cream and whole cream. Had they included a couple of cigarettes and a heroin syringe, I think I would have had everything bad for the human body in one single glass.

After the meal we went back to my flat where we played various emulated games. It was just like any other evening. Watkins screamed like a mental patient, I became increasingly violent, while Simon turned into Mr. Ultra Competitive – a personality trait only seen when he plays videogames, football or watches Arsenal on TV.

After Watkins left things became bad – well hazy and blurred. The plan for New Years Day was for Simon and I to go to Chippenham to watch the mighty Bath City take on their local rivals. Earlier that day, Simon was unfortunate enough to be caught in a terrible English monsoon in Homebase car park. The soaking put him right off going to Chippenham on New Years Day. What’s wrong with catching an unreliable train, walking 2 miles to a death trap of a football ground to watch 22 amateurs kick a leather ball around a field of mud? I ask you…

I am just as stubborn as he is, so there was no way I was going to back down on New Years Day – I wanted to watch Bath. We were going, or at least I thought we were. On the evening of Sunday 31st December 2006, Simon performed an illegal and ungentleman-like act. He poisoned me.

I was happy to drink soft drinks all evening. I must have had 5 glasses of orange juice and another 5 of Dr. Pepper. All the time totally unaware that Simon was filling each glass with massive amounts of vodka from my spirits shelf. By 2am I felt like Mr. White on a weekday afternoon – a tad drunk. I went to bed and immediately fell asleep.

I awoke the following morning shivering and feeling rather unwell. The last thing I wanted to do was leave the flat and go to Chippenham. Simon had won. He had poisoned me with my own poison and prevented me from watching Bath City play. The bastard. Still, at least I had a bottle of vodka for him to use. Had that not been present, he may have had to use his own poison, polonium-210 – the same stuff he gave to that Russia fella.

If you would like to read Simon’s version of events (all lies), check out his new blog.