Roy
Lou points me to
this site - stories of Roy Orbison wrapped in clingfilm. A master work.
'You are completely wrapped in cling-film,' I say.
'You win the bet,' says Roy, muffled. 'Now unwrap me.'
'Not for several hours.'
'Ah.'
Rikaitch's story of mirth and woe
In my younger days as a rebellious type, I was a typical student of the early 90's with a serious overdraft and the need to alleviate it in any way possible (but in reality I needed beer money). Getting a job in a local nightclub in Scary's manor in Reading town centre, I used to find I had the inane ability to stomach things that most people wouldn't contemplate. No chewing other peoples chunks, but I would have done it maybe given the chance.
In a drunken state one Sunday afternoon with work colleagues in the Purple Turtle Bar we decided we would see who could come up with the worst cocktail. The usual Pernod and Black, Guinness and Coke and Black Russian were surpassed quickly for the more sinister Bailey's and Vodka, Advocaat and Lime (bleugh), and even (allegedly) someone's own bodily fluid later, and I came up with the suggestion of a pint of Postmix. The thick black gloopy liquid that is very watered down to make Coke. It's just a little sweet, and to be honest once you start drinking it, it's kinda hard to stop.
One pint later, and my teeth were itching when Cliff (not his real name I hasten to add, he knows who he is) decided he was going to do his party trick of having a poo there and then at the table. Dave the other bar manager decided it would be more fun if he laid under a glass table as this was done onto said surface... A delightful brown Mr. Whippy style cone of faeces was produced on the table surface and everyone was cheering loudly in the bar. Me, now a little worse for wear, decided to take advantage of the situation and moronic Dave, pulling faces under the glass table and even licking the glass surface, was horrified as I kicked the table, making the glass shatter and a load the Luftwaffe wouldn't have dropped landed squarely on his face. I'll never forget the oatmeal that seemed to be wedged up his nose.
I think I was the only person in the entire bar not wretching at that point... hehe... burn in hell? me???
B3ta question of the week: Lies our parents told us
Speaking as a parent myself, and therefore lying through my teeth...
My seven year old son pointed to the condom machine in the pub toilets and asked "Daddy, what's that?"
"That, son, is a chewing gum machine."
"Can I have some then? They've got fruit flavoured."
"Err... I haven't got any money."
All well and good, but he now asks me the same question wherever we go, and I am obliged to pretend that I am broke. God knows what he thinks the "Novelty" flavour are.
I once cracked the "Two quid a packet, but *what* bubbles" gag to him, just as a test, and he didn't have a clue what I was on about, which, I suppose, was fortunate.
Downfall, naturally, in front of a large audience in the Gents' in Tesco. The little bugger.
I also convinced him, on Children in Need night, that we don't have to donate any money because "we've already done our bit."
"How's that then."
"We gave fifty quid to the children's home to get you."
The threat to send him back always works in those sticky parental moments. Maybe we should come clean sooner or later. He thinks "Oliver" is a documentary.
If Lennon was alive today...
Imagine there's no heaven,
It's easy if you try,
No hell below us,
Above us only sky,
Imagine all the people
Touch my bum, this is life.
Legal Jargon Explained
So what exactly, does the Master of the Rolls, one of Britain's top judicial posts do? The answer to this question is a simple one: The Master of the Rolls is a traditional post, handed down through the centuries to the most senior judge in the country, usually after a legal career lasting many years. He has seen causes celebres come and go, criminals, traitors, politicians and has handed down judgements in some of the most important cases in recent years, and it is now time for him to take it easy. The Master of the Rolls does one job and one job only - he is in charge of the lunch menu at the Old Bailey.
Nicked
"I'm arresting you for a breach of the peace. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence."
"Oh. In which case: Ouch. Ouch. Bastard coppers. Stop hitting me."
An alternative to scariness
You may wish to take a look at
Crap Life, a selection of stories that make my very own Scary tales look positively bland. Brought to you by The Idler, the people behind the rather spiffy Crap Towns book doing the rounds this Christmas.
Bad reception by Charlie Hungerford (who needs the work now he's no longer doing Bergerac)
I quite literally put my foot in it some years ago during a friend’s wedding reception at a pub in Glossop, a market town far enough into the Peak District to have successfully defended itself against the march of human evolution.
After rejecting the temptation to "Wang Chung Tonight" for the 3rd time that evening, I abandoned the winking bike lights and rattling treble of "Dynamite Derek’s Disco Bus" to enjoy that 9 volt battery lick kick of a Lambert and Butler cigarette in the beer garden to the rear of the pub. It was there, next to a child’s climbing frame (which broke at least six Health and Safety regulations), that I shared several cans of Special brew and a couple of jazz cigarettes with a mysterious bearded gentleman who introduced himself only as "Netto".
As Dynamite Derek asked the owner of a brown Vauxhall Astra to move his car away from the entrance to the bowls club, Netto and I were approaching the zenith of our high. And then behold, a gift from DJ heaven! What should the turntable wizard drop but "Holiday Rap" by Mc Miker G and Deejay Sven!
Like a single atom of pure dance energy, Netto and I leapt aloft the picnic table at which we were sat and began to "ring-rang-a-dong" for a holiday; hot rocks and vagrant-strength lager filling the air like confetti.
Just as "Yo Sven" was about to take a piece of Amsterdam, "riigghhhttt!" there was a sharp, splintering crack as our makeshift dance floor
collapsed, plummeting us towards hell. We struck the floor several feet later, both landing upright on our feet. Standing there waist high inside the shell of a wooden picnic table we laughed until it hurt.
By the conclusion of the Rednex’ "Cotton Eye Joe" we had managed to clamber out of the table’s frame and start to collect the planks of wood, broken pint glasses and upturned ashtrays that radiated outwards from the centre of the blast. We were still laughing and rubbing our bruised buttocks when the music stopped inside and Derek asked everyone to fetch their drinks and gather in the beer garden for a short speech from the bride and groom.
With enough incriminating evidence bundled into my arms for the publican to legitimately set his arm-wrestling champion wife on me, I began to panic, running round and round the garden in ever decreasing circles until I found myself back at the collapsed table.
"Over here! " called Craig calmly. He was stood above a steep slope at the back of the garden which lead down to a huge, brooding rhododendron bush below. I jogged over and after nodding in silent agreement we hurled our crimes as far into the vegetation as we could. As the final plank tore through the undergrowth there was a terrible thud and the unmistakeable hiss of lungs expelling air as an unconscious body strikes the floor.
Like a silent bolt of lightning Netto, span around, sprinted across the lawn and leapt over the fence at the side of the pub. Alone with devastated garden furniture and possibly a corpse I froze for what seemed like an entire episode of "Where the Heart Is". The sound of drunken wedding guests performing an a cappella version of "Atmosphere" (Russ Abbott, not Joy Division) alerted me that people were making their way outside. I clambered down the slope and forced my way into the dense foliage. With trembling hands I lit my Zippo and held it to the face of the dark shape at my feet.
It was the bride’s grandmother! From her state of undress it appeared that for some reason, God only knows why, Grandma Milly had chosen to forgo the comfort and convenience of the indoor toilets for a bush, in the garden, at the foot of a steep, muddy slope. I grabbed her beneath her shoulders and lifted her more than ample frame out of the shrubbery.
Although unconscious she was, fortunately, still breathing. With all the strength I could muster I staggered up the slippery bank, collapsing several times before I reached the summit.
She came to at the top of the slope when the garden floodlights burst into life. I turned around slowly to find myself stood behind the happy couple just as they were about to launch into their speech. The audience of assembled family and friends stared at me, mouths agape in horror as I cradled the groaning and disoriented Grandma Milly by her arm pits, her large pants still wrapped around her ankles.
"I’ve forgotten the arrangements, " she announced, somewhat cryptically.
