I used to work behind a bar. One evening I was off duty and enjoying a snifter of port before turning in when Lee, the lad in charge that night, asked me if I’d hang around until he’d closed up - he was going on holiday the next day and wanted me to take the keys so he wouldn’t have to come back to hand them over to the manager. Of course waiting can take its toll on a man’s sobriety, and by the time I got home I was, frankly, munted. Just as I was about to collapse into bed, a fuzzy thought entered my skull - keys! He hadn’t given me the keys! It was 2am but there was only one option - I rang Lee’s number, multiple times, until he stopped letting the answer machine get it and picked up.

“Lee, you tit, you didn’t give me the keys!”

“Yes I did, haven’t you got them?”

“Did you? No, I’ve not got them, how the fuck have I managed to lose those between here and the club?” (as should be obvious, my contributions to this conversation were much less coherent than they appear to be here)

“Fuck’s sake. Try retracing your steps, see if you’ve dropped them, and call me back.”

Steps were retraced. No keys. A call back was made.

“Nothing, god knows where they’ve gone. Did you definitely give them to me?”

“Of course I did you twat, you’re the one that’s pissed, not me.”

“Bollocks.”

“Shit, I’m going to have to come back down. You’ve definitely not got them, checked all your pockets?”

“Um…”

“Checked any of your pockets?”

“Hang on.” I’d been wondering for the last ten minutes why my left jeans pocket felt full.  “Got them, Lee. Lee? Hello?”

I remembered this event from my youth after last night. We were out in town and I went home early, having had my fair share of Hoegaarden and not being a fan of dancing to 80’s hits. As I was leaving, Anna said “Don’t lock the door when you go to bed, I haven’t got my keys.” Over the duration of the taxi ride home, possibly when we went over a speed bump a little too fast, this thought rearranged itself into “When you lock the door, make sure you take the key out so I can get mine in to open it.”

This new instruction was dutifully and conscientiously followed, going so far as to get out of bed to make sure I’d removed the key. Imagine my surprise on waking this morning to find Anna neither next to me nor downstairs, having failed to get in and failed to wake me to let her in, and so spending the night at her friend’s house.

Clearly, I am cursed to walk the earth having key-related mishaps til my time is up. It’s hardly surprising I have a drink now and then to make that burden bearable.

So says Bob Piper, and I agree - support Tim Ireland.