Grahame came to my stag do back in 2002. In some respects we were polar opposites, I was relatively quiet and naïve, he was the life and sole of the party. We went to Guernsey for two nights where my friend Craig was resident. He managed to organise a pub golf round on a minibus, the sort of thing that was frowned upon by the locals, but Craig was able to pull some strings. The round started easily with a par 4 followed by two par 3s. I was getting slowly comfortably sozzled, nice & easy does it. The fourth pub was a par 1. We all tumbled out of the bus and Grahame swiftly ordered nine double Baileys! I was distracted as the bar tender lined them up, Grahame caught my attention and handed me my drink. “Right lads, on 3” Grahame said, “1, 2, 3…….” and we all downed our shots. My face turned sour as my Baileys stuck to my teeth and lips! I glugged down the chunky lime laced drink resisting the urge to gag, spilling some down my chin determined to score a par! I turned to Grahame, with the congealed creamy mess on my face and squealed “eeeehhhhww ………… mine’s curdled!!”. I distinctly remember his delight, his laugh, his ecstatic face, his giddiness at my demise. It was pure Grahame!