by Reece Morgan ‘Twas the week before Christmas, and Shinjuku Hub was filled with Cru missing a good British pub. The committee had finished their meeting at last; Ev got the pints in. The die had been cast. Gibbo and Reece snuck away from the crowd to go don their costumes before things got loud. The latter, a reindeer with oversized quads; the former, a whore set to milk Santa’s rod. 15337527_1544435908918343_8879729477946439548_n The pack soon arrived – a mob made of fools! Tables bedecked with cold Moscow Mules: old Skurry was wearing used pants on his head; Ryuji was wishing he’d stayed home in bed. As pints were imbibed, the evening grew dim. ‘To the Hangover, then!’ cried Tooley within. The taxis were summoned, and the Cru made their way to hit up the bar and ruin their day. The idiot group soon streamed through the door and young couples on dates were rocked to the core: who were these brave souls? These gods amongst men? ‘The Shuto League champions,’ we told them, ‘again!’ 15542452_1544436082251659_7939074768907533738_n At length, the fish and chips finally arrived. Roppongi beckoned to those who survived. Our social sec breathed deep, and burst into song. With Ed at the helm, just what could go wrong? ‘On Tooley! On Gen! On Joe, Gaet and Neil! On Gibbo! On Owen! John, don’t break the seal! On Adam! On Skurry! On Akiba, quick! Nomihoudai for 10 at Vivo, you dicks!’ 15590014_1544427715585829_1413836696742875191_n Alas! What happened that cold winter night? The unruly mob…had been put to flight! Just four noble souls went onward in glee while Gibbo engaged in degeneracy. Ed, Owen and Reece then propped up the bar while Neil plied his trade. He’d soon head afar, leaving the Cru and his brothers behind, dear memories ever stuck fast in his mind. The boys did their best, but ran out of steam. Then, the bartender smiled, his teeth in a gleam: a clear voice rang out, ‘Boys, don’t look so glum!’ The large, flightless bird we call Sparrow had come. His eyes, how they twinkled! His words, how they pleaded! His ginger hairline – my, how it receded! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry. Clearly the bastard was pumped to get merry. It was time to smash Gmo’s, and the troupe made their way to go bang some drums and to greet the new day. Next, onward to Train Bar, Neil’s favourite place: ‘It’s my last night in Tokyo. Let’s end in disgrace.’ 15665462_1544435772251690_8388722534668246049_n Just three were now standing: two men looking queer with the third in a skirt and dressed like a deer. They kept with tradition, astonished the crowd… and belted Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’ loud. Crushing cans, chopping pints, they bowed out in style, eating their breakfast kebabs with a smile. They cried out as one when the sun showed its light, ‘Merry Cru-mas to all! And to all a good night!’

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