As previously mentioned, I spent the New Year holiday in Montreal, Canada with girlfriend Ann, staying with her sister and her family in the amazing wilderness outside of the city.

The celebrations were a-plenty, and Ann's sister, Jessie, and bro-in-law, Chris, made busy with preparation of sumptuous meals every time I turned my shorn dome. And as plentiful the food was at mealtimes, the nights were made for Michelob.

Actually, thank God they weren't. But the nights were made for the guzzling of alcohol and general fucking around.

Ann told me years ago that her sis and husband were hardcore into the sca, the Society for Creative Anachronism. This sect totally shames Renn Fair geeks, as, not only do they dress the parts, but they wage fully-armored, hardcore battles, the number of sword-wielding participants sometimes reaching into the thousands.

Naturally, after a few hot ciders topped with brandy one evening during poker, Chris took me out to the garage to show me his battle gear. And by show, I mean "dress me up in it".

Firstly: Holy Mothra, These guys must be in amazing shape. The pieces that weighted me down were probably somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 pounds, and resting on my ladylike frame, I felt my feet slowly sinking into the earth below me.

Secondly: When you're drunk, wearing a suit of armor - including helmet - and there is another drunk person holding a bamboo sword standing in front of you, you are going to get hit. Several times. And you will laugh hysterically and ask to be continuously hit.

The charm wore off after about a dozen smacks, my blurry, drunken vision made even blurrier by the near-concussive smacks to my cranium, and, feeling quite triumphant, we 2 knights packed up and stumbled back inside to play a few more hands of poker, sip some ale, and drunkenly yell, "Avast, ye maties!"

Or is it pirates who say that?