Superhuman Fencing

At the turn of the century, two friends of mine set out in their local town for a fix of millenium blues. They headed out after tea, and were ordering their third pint by 5pm. Yes, they took an early tea, like a poor cricket team who have been bowled out early. By 9pm they were dancing on tables, struggling to hammer a sentence together and oozing vodka sweat. Somehow, they were let into the local nightclub by 10pm, but if you knew the club, this would not suprise you. It's one where you have to wipe your feet on the way out.

By the time they were formally ejected from this premises at about 1am, they had managed to collect two friends, who in fact did know these two people quite well, which is fortunate, as one has managed to pass on this story.

Now allow me to explain the build of these two 'heroes'. One, who I will call 'Doogie' is in his 20's and a fairly standard build. The other, whom I will call 'Guns' is not standard. He could give Arnold Schwarzenegger a bench off, and have a good shout. He is calm of nature, but could lift you off the ground, whilst you were sat in your living room, including the living room. He is a unit, enough said. Anyway........Doogie and Guns were amazingly drunk on their journey home. They lost one of their collected friends before long, but the other remained loyal to his two mates, who constantly told him they loved him, and that he was the best bloke ever etc etc.

On the route home, they passed a school. Ideal place for them to stop and have a slash, they thought. Doogie went into a bush, but Guns went out of sight round by the science block, worringly for the third party friend. After a couple of minutes, the friend went to check up on Guns and found him pulling his trousers up, after he had just layed an almighty cable on the school turf, and used leaves as finishing paper. Amazed and disgusted, the friend brought Guns back to the front of the school, where Doogie was swaying in front of two police officers. They informed the now hideously drunk pair that urinating on the school grounds was illegal. Just as Guns was butting in to say that he had in fact manufactured a large brown cookie, the friend sweet talked the police, and they got away unscathed.

Now for the crux. After the police had gone, Guns thought it would be a brilliant idea to steal something from somebody's garden. Now this would normally entail something lightweight, like a 'for sale' sign, or a pot of some sort. "Not today", thought Guns. Today he could move something impossible. Feeling like a superhero, he proceeded to rip out somebody's entire front fencing. Now, this was not like boards of timber, oh no, this was five concrete posts connected by hefty metal chain links. Anyway, Guns got to work, ripped it all up, wrapped himself in it, and carried / dragged it home, amazingly not getting pulled up by anybody between there and Doogie's home, where he was staying. The third party friend left them, and Guns dumped his new found gift on the front drive.

In the morning, Doogie's mum came in with two scolding cups of tea. Doogie in his bed, and Guns in a coma on the floor. She woke up Doogie and said, "Can you please move whatever you have left on the drive, as I need to get the car out?" "What is she talking about?", thought Doogie. She led him to the window and showed him their new fencing, posts and chain, all in tact, piled up. Doogie racked his brain, which did not take long, and he had absolutely no idea what it was, or how it got there. He came up with a dreadful excuse, like a football agent on a bung trial. He said, "Oh, that's um.....um.....part of Guns' fancy dress costume". His mother did not contest this fact, nor did she implode with rage, but merely asked again if it could be moved, so she could go out. Doogie held a scolding cup of tea against Guns for a good 20 seconds before he flinched. Doogie explained to Guns about the fence, and he had no memory of the whole thing either, except he wondered why his back felt like it was in a vice. They went down to move the fencing, but could not shift it an inch. Their superhuman powers of 30 alcoholic drinks had departed them. They had to get no less than 4 mates to help them shift the fence off the driveway, due to its immense weight. The third party friend was one they called. When Doogie phoned him he said, "I know I haven't seen you for ages, but"....etc etc. The friend then explained how he had walked them home, the school and police business, everything. It took six bodies to transport the fence back to its owner at 3 am the following night. It was not hard to see where it had come from, and there was a soil trail on the pavement between there and Doogie's house.

Nut Screws Washer And Bolts

This little gem of a story produced what I think is my favourite newspaper headline. The article was quite serious, but as the victim was fine I think it only fair to share it with you.
I am unsure of dates, as this was passed on to me by someone else, but you should never let the truth get in the way of a good story anyway.
A cleaning woman was minding her own business and washing the office hallway as usual at 7pm, when the office workers had gone for the day. She swished her mop from side to side, like James Brown passing the microphone from one hand to the other. Whilst she did this, a loon had escaped from the local nuthouse, and was on the loose in the same town. This man was a dangerous cookie, and had a history of minor sex offences, and general inhuman behaviour. The man went for the nearest place that looked like safe cover, yes.....the same office block. He could see no lights and plundered in. As he tacked his way around the corridors he slipped on the wet surface and slid straight into the woman washing the floor. Let's call her Edna, as that was her name. He bundled her into a store room and miserably attempted to rape her. This was the serious part of the story. Anyway, there were other cleaners in the building who came to Edna's rescue and she was saved from the loon by her washers in arms. The loon went back on the run and fled the scene without capture. He is probably a politian by now or managing a League One football team. I digress. The Sun newspaper got wind of the story via a local tinpot gazette and printed the following headline, which I think is superb. NUT SCREWS WASHER AND BOLTS.
I thought the article was about plumbing.........I was wrong.

President Piles

Going back some 30 or so years on a sports tour, an event happened that will be embedded in the memory of an unlucky chambermaid forever. It occured in the picturesque west country, on a beautiful morning in July time, or so i've been informed. The touring rooms were allocated via a hat draw, so as to mingle the people as one, and unless you hated somebody, then you just rode what you were dealt. This selection policy landed the clubs young hotshot player, aged about 18, and two elderly gentlemen, together. One was a standard older man, with greying hair, good sense of humour and an eye for detail. The other was far from standard. He was the club president, and his nickname 'The Colonel', was no fluke. He had a large white handlebar mustache, which was kept in Craig David style meticulous nature. He was over six feet, glistening white hair, and simply carried himself like a colonel. Spoke as though he were a colonel, walked as though he were a colonel etc.
On this fine morning after breakfast, the three men went back to their room to pack for the days game. Whilst the youngster and the 'standard' older man remained clothed, the colonel was undressing himself to the complete buff. "What's going on here?" Ushered the young hotshot. "I need to apply the cream for my piles", replied the colonel. The other two sniggered, whilst the colonel placed one leg up on the table in the centre of the room, with his rear end facing the door. Totally starkers. The only thing he had on was the radio. He flexed his fingers to begin application, just as there was a knocking at the door. The two others could immediately sense a great stitching opportunity, but to another colleague it might not be that amusing they thought. The colonel was motionless with shock, as though somebody had hit pause on the remote. The silence was broken as the young hotshot bit the bullet. "Come in" he bellowed. The colonel went blue and faced the other direction, still one hand at bourneville. The chambermaid entered with three fresh towels. She dropped the towels and screached, saw the handlebar sides from behind the head and the other two laughing and fled the scene.
The colonel never forgave the youngster, and there were some awkward silences for the rest of the week, particularly when the colonel was passing any members of staff.

Crocodile Dundee

After spending a year downunder, a mate of mine had his leaving bash at a nice restaurant, where the food was good, but the drink was better. After some time the 'hardcore drinkers' were ready to move on, and let the family faithful make their way home. The crew moved onto a late night bar called Joes Garage. The interior looked about as good as a garage, with bits missing, but they had beer on tap and a dance floor, complete with podiums, which is important for later.
At about 1am the joint was rockin, although not particularly busy. The leaving do crowd were the main attraction, and the 'leaver' had been fed free drinks all night, and was suitably a little bit wrecked. The dance floor was not especially crowded, although the crowd, (especially the male members) had noticed that a girl was up and dancing to DJ Sammy's version of Heaven. This information is pointless, but it exists, deal with it. There was much consultation however about the sexual orientation of the 'girl', and people were in fact questioning that it may actually be a well turned out fella. She appeared to have big hands.
What to do? Well, the guy that was leaving the country the next day knew exactly what to do. He abandoned the group with the words, "Have you lot seen Crocodile Dundee?" He swivelled round towards the podium, the rest of the group still trying to decide the sex of the dancer. He placed himself in front of the 'girl', he smiled, and 'she' smiled back. He then lent delicately forward, placed his beer on the podium and stood in front of her. "What's he doing?"....we all thought. Then he swung his arm back and brought it down, crunching her nether regions in his sweaty beer festing claw, Mick Dundee style. He clung on for a good 2 seconds before being slapped by the 'girl', on his cheek. He turned to the group, looking ever more drunk, and shouted, "It's ok fellas, it's a chick!!"
Absolute raucous laughter broke out as he descended the podium to the most shocked girl in the bar. He came back to the group, but was quickly tapped on the shoulder by the bouncer. Fearing an early exit, he turned to confront the darkly attired gentleman. The bouncer leaned in and said......."I'm glad you cleared that up, we've been wondering for ages", and he went on his merry way. Genius.

The Fake Accent

A few years ago I went into town with an Australian mate, who looked and sounded 100% authentic Aussie. G'day, and all that cackle. Anyway, we hit some bars, had a few drinks and thought it was time we tried our luck with some women. Before we embarked, I decided to put on an Irish accent, as I was feeling just drunk enough to try something both new, and completely random. I was backing my Irish, which by all accounts is passable, although I have only tried it on people the wrong side of alcohol.
We nicked our way into their conversation, two women, two men, it was as if it had been written by Moses. Things were going along fine for some time, they were believing the accent, or at least playing along, and it didn't bother them. Drinks were flowing, everything rosy, until about an hour later, when the aussie went to the toilet. When he was out of sight, the girl he was talking to grabbed me and said, "You are obviously Irish, but why is that bumbling idiot pretending to be Australian??"
I thought this was brilliant, told my mate when he came back and he got annoyed, more with them than with me. The Irish has made many appearances since and only been shot down once, upon approaching a girl from Ireland. It was always gonna happen........

Weight Loss

During the good ole summer of 05, an annonymous colleague excelled himself with a cavalcade of well nurtured abuse aimed at a member of the opposite sex.
Twas a bleak morning at 2am, and the nightclub was kicking out the local pond life onto the esplanade. Our group of lads was minding their own business, which is quite rare, and the air was still. Suddenly, our peace was broken by a herd of clatty beasts, who descended upon our concrete turf, and their leader, who can only be described as 'Mel Smith in a wig', plundered her way forward. My colleague at this point had parked his highway on a wall for some much needed post club rest.
She crept subtely nearer, the concrete writhing in pain beneath her kankles. "Oi", she cried......"You lot know where the nearest chinese is?" We all stood like statues, nobody wanting to converse with this minatour. A voice from the wall behind me slithered out as he stood to confront the unamed species. "My dear, I do believe that a chinese is in fact the last thing that your body requires right now". With this, there was no comeback, no launch of verbals and no help from her mates, who watched like grazing wilderbeast. Instead, she planted a haymaker slap on the side of his face which echoed around the entire esplanade. People within 500 metres were wincing. It was bellyaches all round for the group of lads, which made it worse for the poor girl. The slap hurt, yes, of course.......but the moral of the story is the truth hurts, and that fat people can really hit hard when cornered about their weight.

European soccer in Thailand

To say that European football leagues have influenced Thai culture would be an understatement. You cannot walk down a street without bumping into a top flight strip from either England, Spain, Italy or some form of international footy fabric.
It was during a wet afternoon, and I was having a quiet Singha or three with a mate, when a large ice lorry turned up to offload its ice to a bar on the other side of the road. A Thai driver got out wearing a hugging Ronaldinho (Barcelona) shirt. He went to the rear of the lorry and flipped the shutter up. This is incorrect. No health and safety in Thailand, so the shutter was well and truly already up. Two comrades appeared from the depth of ice in the lorry, one was attired in a Frank Lampard (Chelsea) shirt, and the other was pretending to be Kaka (Milan). They jumped down and started shuffling bags of ice into a cart, which looked ready to break at any time, and then a Rooney (Man Utd) shirt strolled confidently out of the bar to greet them. We thought this could not continue, but the five fold was complete when Rooney shouted something in Thai to deep inside the bar, which fired up another character who approached the door. Me and my mate were trying to guess the club that he would be wearing, but the new guy trumped us by wearing a Michael Ballack (Germany) international shirt. It was a commentators wet dream, and we were thoroughly enjoying watching Ronaldinho throw bags to Frank Lampard, who passed them to Kaka, who put the ice into the cart. Wayne Rooney then took the cart to the bar door, and it was all Ballack from there on in. Do Thai's watch european soccer? I'm guessing it may have have crossed their lives at some point.

The Armchair Kebab

After a local beer festival, it was safe to say that a mate of mine was coming off second best courtesy of a brew named 'skull splitter'. Anyway, whilst festering in an armchair, he decided he needed a kebab, but would not leave the chair. Nobody was keen to go for him, so another highly sober person suggested we take him to the kebab shop..........in the armchair. Thus ensued a crew of four pushing him to the local kebab joint. We got the chair in and he ordered, much to the amusement of onlookers. It was a monumental effort by all, and just before we got him back to the front door he dropped his kebab on the pavement beyond repair. Then followed one of those amazing drinking feats. There was simply no way the chair could fit through the doorway. How we got it out the first time was a miracle of modern science.

Boycott verses Hadlee

Back in the late 70's, a new, up and coming New Zealand bowler named Richard Hadlee visited the cold and damp Headingly ground in Yorkshire, and was up against one of England's then finest batsmen, Geoff Boycott. As the unknown Hadlee ran in to bowl he was smashed away by the arrogant Boycott for four, who patted the soil with his bat, raised his eyes at Hadlee and said, "My names Geoff Boycott, you'll be seeing a lot of me this summer". Hadlee said nothing and went back to his marker. He ran in again, silence through the air, then Boycott's middle stump was shattering towards the wicketkeeper. Hadlee ran towards Boycott saying, "My names Richard Hadlee, f*** off!!"

Toilet Destruction

After basking to redness in the equatorial asian sun, myself and two fellow comrades decided to go for a mexican. How very asian! Anyway, we were given a table and thrown magaritas until we were ready to order. About 20 minutes later, we were ready, although not before one friend had to dash to the toilet as he announced he had an a*** like a Japanese flag. (Feel free to ask for a resume of terms). We ordered for him in his absence, and 10 minutes later he returned to the table walking like John Wayne after a grand national on a buffalo. He sat in pain, but laughing. Why? We asked. It turns out that he was supposed to use the pedal bin for used paper, although after the drinking he couldn't read, and therefore had managed to block the toilet. He wasn't sure what to do. Never going to miss any holiday snap opportunity, I ventured to the toilet only to immediately find some poor local workman on his hands and knees with a long metal rod. It looked like a scene from Marathon Man. I used the urinal, trying not to laugh out loud, which was tougher than a George Foreman steak. I returned to the table, both of us laughing, and i told the other two about the poor man on his knees. A few minutes later the staff were all laughing and pointing at my mate, as if to say, 'haha, he's the phantom toilet blocker'. Everyone in the joint was laughing now, and our table errupted when the local plumber was called in with his tool kit some 15 mins later. Comedy genius.
Feeling guilty, upon leaving, my mate walked past the lady who served us and gave her a decent tip. And I quote. "Thanks for a lovely meal. Sorry about your toilet".
There is a photo of the sign in the toilet to follow shortly........