A cheerful story
I play in a moderately succesful ska band. I love everyone single member of it to bits, and I'm lead to believe they feel similarly warmly about me. Nevertheless, that doesn't mean we aren't frequently cunts to each other, I believe the infamous 'cock sandwich' incident has already been related by our bassist shitbitch on the food sabotage question.

By a stroke of bad luck I am the single most ticklish entity I've ever met. I have ticklish elbows. I can even tickle myself, which apparently you're not even supposed to be able to do. Regrettably, I have not been able to keep this completely secret and everyone knows they need only make as if to tickle me to induce the loudest fits of whooping laughter since that dreadful incident at the Nos factory that I just made up for the purposes of this scintillating example of figurative language.

So, picture the scene. It is August, and we are camping in a layby somewhere near Tamworth, of all places. We follow the usual post gig routine of setting up the tents somewhere where it looks like we won't be disturbed by angry landowners at some ungodly hour of the morning (not always with 100% success) then getting ourselves fucked in half off cheap boxes of wine and copious amounts of marijuana. It's a bit like On the Road, but less glamorous and with significantly less shagging. There is a massive field to our left with train tracks running along the bottom, and some kind of light industrial estate to our right. We are pretty much all alone in every direction.

It's about one in the morning, I think, and there is not much wine left (country manor is preferred, because not only is it dirt cheap, it's also endlessly amusing to conceal some of the letters so it says 'cunt man'. Truly, it is a joke that never gets old), so the only way forward on our quest for new and exciting mental states is to hot box the van. We do this. Everything takes on a sharp, surreal quality, the air hangs heavy with smoke and time slows to a snail's pace. My heart begins to samba beneath my skin as bollocks issues forth from my mouth with alarming alacrity (whoever she might be). On cannabis, I am no longer a humble skinny teenager, but an amalgamation of Cicero and Aldous Huxley when it comes to making outstanding orations on the nature of all things.

My dear, dear friends are also caned to oblivion and think that perhaps, whilst listening to me in full flow is a great pleasure and very enlightening to boot, it might also be fun to tickle me a bit, seeing as my limbs aren't quite up for doing what they're told. Tickling proceeds to much mirth all round. I was on the middle seats of the three rows we have in the van, enabling tickling to take place from all directions, tickling to the left of me, tickling to the right of me, into the valley of giggles road your humble narrator, helpless to resist. I have quite a hearty laugh at the best of times, but under this sort of extreme tickling I can only really be compared to Krakatoa in all its might, erupting with great molten flows of cachinnation.

Suffice to say, dear reader, I was fairly helpless, but it was all harmless fun. The idea, however seems to spread across the group of my assailants, as if by osmosis, that perhaps this would be funnier if I was naked. Now, As a band we are no strangers to each others bodies, and I believe this is as it should be, but I do object to being forcibly undressed. Nonethless, forcibly undressed I was, still howling from the ceaseless vellication being inflicted upon me. When at last I was parted from my boxers, I was left, spent, panting and gasping on the floor of our van as my bandmates cackled with glee.

Some minutes later, still considerably stoned and no less drunk, I found myself still buck naked, chasing after my clothed friends wielding my boxers like the scalp of some vanquished enemy, hooting with vicious delight, round a field somewhere near Tamworth. It is at times like this when I do have to wonder, 'how, really, has my life come to this? What kind of divine path layed out for me to follow includes chasing your best friends who have stolen your clothes in some field far from places I know while my head throbs not altogether pleasantly from excessive amounts of chemicals I've just welcomed eagerly into my body?'

Still, it's a bloody good story.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Thu 14 May 2009, 4:30, 5 replies)

...even if you say so yourself.
.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 14 May 2009, 8:49, closed)

I have been naked near Tamworth
I think the universe owes me some self-aggrandizing
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Thu 14 May 2009, 9:07, closed)

Some men tickled you,
debagged you and chased you around naked.


Congratulations, you are a bender.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 14 May 2009, 10:39, closed)

Well, strictly speaking I chased them
Probably making me even more of a bender, but I thought a light hearted tale of drugs and male nudity would lighten the frankly morbid atmosphere prevailing this week
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Thu 14 May 2009, 13:49, closed)

I am jesting.
You bender.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 14 May 2009, 16:40, closed)