Carlsberg don't do book clubs...

Ladies, as a group you are the worst influence I've ever met in my whole life.  I think that's why I love you.

I remember, oh so well, the day we met.  Which is more than I can say for many of the times we've met since.
There was an educational, cultural sort of day planned for people who like to write, paint, take photographs or otherwise indulge their creative side, and I'd decided to be a grown up, and attend.

I was delighted to meet a group of intelligent and entertaining women, and saddened that you were mainly made up of the painters, and that, alas, we were unlikely to meet again.

I can't remember whose idea it was to bridge the divide with a book club, but I was delighted.  You can never have too many friends, as my Dad used to say, and I thought, in my innocence, that it would be a good way to keep up with new books as they came out.

We decided that we'd have the first meeting in my house.  We hadn't chosen a book, but that's because it was the first meeting, more of a get to know you type thing.

I told His Nibs that it was a women only book club - I don't know when we came up with that idea, in fairness maybe I made it up.

He was an excellent host, mind you.  Welcomed you all in, showed you around the garden, made the dogs do the only trick they have (sit) for your entertainment, and left us to it.
I had asked him if he'd drive you all home afterward.  It would only be a couple of hours, I told him.  Just so we could all have a glass of wine, get to know each other better, and choose a book.

He waited about an hour before braving the kitchen, where we were all gathered, to make himself a coffee.  I think the poor soul thought that because I was the youngest of the group (sorry girls, but I am) that maybe you'd be a good influence on me.
That little illusion came to a crashing halt when he walked into the kitchen to be asked, by a woman he'd met an hour before, to please guess her bra size, because he would not be able to believe how big it was.

He fled.  As you do.

A while later, he took his courage in his hands and re-joined us.  He opened the door, and asked for silence.  He was going to the shop, he informed us.  Then he would be going to bed for a couple of hours, he had work the following morning.  But he was more than willing to get up and drop people home when the time was right.
Did anybody want anything from the shop?

Cigarettes! we shouted.  And Pringles!  And (and this is where it all went badly wrong) Mixers, so we could move onto the hard stuff!

Empty bottles lay on their sides on the surfaces.  The terrified dogs didn't look left or right when galloping out for their pee. The room was full of the blue fuzz of cigarette smoke, and the laughing could be heard two houses away.

His Nibs looked around suspiciously.
"This isn't a book club at all, is it?  This is just a piss up club."

We howled in protest.  We had even picked our book for next month, we protested (the slimmest volume we could think of, outside the children's section of the book shop).  We might be going a bit overboard tonight, just to loosen our tongues and get to know each other better, but this was a serious undertaking.

He didn't believe us.  I don't think anyone would have.  And he was right.  These days, book club nights are booked weeks in advance, wine is bought by the half dozen bottles, vodka and gin must be accompanied by the appropriate mixers.

I should have known, that night, when I crawled up the stairs on all fours to wake him and bring you all home, at five in the morning, that this book club wasn't like others.

An average of one member per meeting has read the book.  In fact, that's become one of the two unspoken rules, that you don't have to read the book. 
The other is that teetotallers aren't encouraged.

I don't know why I thought I wanted intellectual stimulation - sure can't I read on my own?  But do you think it's time we started taking His Nibs' advice, being more honest, and just referring to the thing as what it is, a piss up club?