It was dark, warm and Plymouth Hoe was as quiet as the moon. Three friends were sitting in a burgundy Rover 214SE in the only filled parking space on the seafront. It seemed like a mad and crazy idea - let’s go and eat our chips up on the Hoe said I as we stood crammed in a steamy chip shop 10 minutes earlier. It’s the kind of improvisational and impetuous thing I do about once every three years so no-one should have really been surprised. Indeed they weren’t. Instead they were a bit pissed. Just a bit.

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