More nuts than a King Size Marathon
Back in The Day, when I was a long-haired Heavy Metal Guitar Hero (as opposed to the fat slaphead I am now), and my life revolved around alcohol, I naturally used to hang around with a gang of likeminded wreck-heads.

So, one of these idiots, sorry, my friends, was seeing a model. A gen-u-ine model, a regular in The Sunday Sport (back in the days before it became a Daily) illustrating some story she just made up, and, well, not exactly a rocket scientist. A lovely gal though, very docile.

Now, on the night in question, 6 of us ended up after the pub had shut round at her flat. Having woken the entire building by rampaging round doing Celtic Frost death-grunts, she was desperate to quieten us down.
"Look boys, look at all my sexy clothes" she declared, throwing open the door to the biggest wardrobe I have ever seen. It may well have simply been one room, it was immense, and we all hushed, as one imagining her in some of the frilly and lacy delights that greeted us.

There was all manner of wierd and wonderful things in there, it was like Mr Benn's secret dream. Dresses, nighties, uniforms, wigs, thigh-high PVC boots, more shoes than Imelda Marcos (mostly ridiculously high and made of clear perspex), underwear a-go-go, you name it, it was in there.
Suddenly the spell was broken:
"Fookin ell, let's dress up!!" from one of my comrades as he dived in, followed by the rest.
And me, I'm ashamed to say.
We were like kiddies, but at least we weren't playing human pinball listening to Slayer in her living room, so she was happy.

Some time later we emerged, dressed like Danny La Rue's sickest fantasy. Even today, my brain keeps most of the details suppressed, but I can recall I had a baby-doll on, and a Madonna-style metal bra over the top. I was dressed conservatively compared to the others. There was nurse, a dominatrix, plus assorted cavemen in dresses.

Suddenly, some bright spark decided it would be a hoot if we traipsed up to the 24-hour garage "to scare the queers" who worked there, so off we set, teetering on badly fitting over-high heels. Who knows if we actually got to the garage, but I do know that at some point a car pulled up alongside and 2 girls leapt out and took photos, and I distinctly remember they knew our names. I have no clue who they were, and no-one has ever owned up. I just know that one day, when the keys to No 10 Downing St are within my grasp, they will re-surface, pics in hand.

The worst thing, the thing that is seared into my memory, is Tommy, wearing a WPC tunic, hat, and erm, lingerie:
"Hey, hey, look at this.........Evening all!!"...... bending his knees in the time-honoured Rozzer fashion. It was the sight of his nuts hanging out of his split-crotch panties as he did it that haunts me.........
(Rsoles, Fri 16 Mar 2007, 13:24, Reply)