Cow Tipping
Back in '96 I was part of a youth exchange group connected to my local youth club. We had been over to Italy the year before (where my phobia of waxworks had reared it's head, leading to another QOTW tale) with French and Italian groups and it was their turn to visit the land of haggis and sporting mediocrity.
We stayed in a little hut in the middle of nowhere and had entertained our continental guests with orienteering, canoeing and other pastimes bored minds can concoct when they have fuck all else to do.
Noticing that this hut looked out onto a large field full of cows (with all due apologies to those with a predilection for goats, nothing for you here), myself and a few others from the tartan contingent decided to introduce some of our more adventurous guests to the joys of midnight cow tipping, or "cowping" as we called it.
Making sure our coast was clear, and all youth leaders were asleep, our merry band snuck out into the field. Our only light was the moon and the odd torch.
Upon spying a likely target, silhouetted in a bovine fashion by the imperious moon, I decided to demonstrate how this particular operation should be carried out. From 30 yards I launched myself at the beast with the intention of knocking it over as it slept. I barelled into it with all the force an 8.5 stone 16 year-old could muster and landed flat on my arse, the impact accompanied by a distinctly masculine sounding bellow.
Sure enough, I had ill-advisedly lunged at a bull.
Cue numerous respresentatives of young EU solidarity tanking across a field pursued by an enraged (and possibly engorged) bull.
Thankfully no-one was injured, although I did manage a pretty fair approximation of the Fosbury Flop, which I had never attempted before or since, over the barbed-wire fence around the field.

Length? Possibly around 8 acres. Dunno, drunk in charge of a keyboard this evening.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 21:45, Reply)