We decided that the teaches of Fleetches are like also very much like sex on the beaches. Huh. What? On a slightly related note, the Fleetch and I had the following conversation earlier in the week:
Me: You know what I really like? Rum.
Fleetch: That's very pirate-y of you.
Me: I know, right?
There is a brief silence.
Me: By the way, we're out of rum.
Fleetch: (eyeing me suspiciously) Are the two things related?
Me: I refuse to address such accusations. Much like I imagine a pirate would.
Fleetch: You know, we should really start making Fleetch-related cocktails at home.
Me: That is a genius idea. Like a "Fleetch On the Beach", or a "Fleetchito".
Fleetch: A "Strawberry Daiqufleetch". Oh, wait - a "Fleetchmopolitan"!
Peaches performed a brilliant set which had the entire crowd dancing and throwing themselves around like toddlers on a sugar high. She wore what I can only really describe as a 'boob dress' - literally, a dress with enormous breasticles sown on - as seen here:
Peaches also ensured that the crowd remained sticky throughout the night by spraying us with champagne and beer, held between her legs in a rather suggestive manner. After the bus dropped us back in Edinburgh, we walked home. On the way I saw a constructive digger, looming all shiny and alone in the darkness, so I dared the Fleetch to ride it, which she did without a moment's hesitation.
Young man! There's no need to feel down!