THIS is the way it should be. Having negotiated a space on the hard bedroom floor I am lying here with only a thin-sleeping bag to stave off the crisp Autumn cold.

An army of beer bottles -- both empty and half empty -- stand guard while half-eaten pizzas lie abandoned in their cardboard coffins.

The flickering glow of the PlayStation pierces the darkness but no one can be bothered to get up and turn it off.

Every now again myself or the Muppet -- a good friend from Sunny Rochdale -- accidentally kick over a beer bottle as we make a vain bid to get comfortable.

The sound of liquid pouring out forming a puddle, is faint but clear. Nobody moves.

With just two years to my 30th birthday it's heartily reassuring that I can still partake in good old fashioned debauchery.

People -- especially the folks -- keep throwing frightening phrases at me about such things as "upgrading" my car, "getting my foot on the property ladder" and thinking about a pension.

Tonight all I'm thinking about is sneaking the pillow from underneath the Muppet's head when I'm convinced enough that he is asleep.

It's not that I particularly enjoy living in such conditions but it's a poignant moment.

Myself and the Muppet have travelled to Cambridge to see our old pal Fred the Dread, where he is studying Philosophy.

We all grew up together in Sunny Rochdale and this is not the first time we have crashed out on each other's floors in a comatose state. But it could well be the last.

Since the halcyon days of our youth so much has changed. We have all left our native towns to take up residence elsewhere.

Throughout the years various partners have come and gone (the Long Suffering Marjorie to her credit gets the long-service award for staying with me for more than five years) and this is the first time just the three of us have been together for a long time and we are making the most of it.

Life's luxuries -- and etiquette -- have been abandoned for the weekend as we explore our primal instincts and live like teenagers -- boosted by the fact that the Dreadster is at university.

There is no talk of work, cars or houses, just hours spent playing the PlayStation, drinking beer and talking nonsense.

It evokes memories of mis-spent youth, when we would live at each other's houses when our respective parents went on holiday.

We would stay up all night, playing golf on the Sega mega-drive (a true pioneer in its time) drinking beer, trading insults and generally being idiots.

Open House season, as it was known, is something well and truly in our past, and in a couple of years encounters such as this will be as well.

This is our last hoorah as the three of us enter another stage in our lives. When the weekend is done we will go back to our pampered existences and our own homes with all the baggage that comes with it.

We will talk to each other on the phone or via e-mail but we won't actually see each other probably until Christmas.

And then it may only be for an hour as we all do the rounds visiting friends and family.

It's not something I would like to do on a regular basis but living like a degenerate youngster is good for the soul.

And it's good to know that I can do it so well.

My Big Sis is only 18 months older than me and I can't see her dossing down on a bedroom floor for two nights.

Not with two kiddies and a husband to contend with.

The only time she is drunk with her pals is either at the wine bar or at a dinner party -- a thought which fills me with absolute dread.

For now I am managing to hold canapes and white wine at bay for beer and crisps. But I know it can't last forever!