dad, moles, spades and blue y-fronts
when we were kids, mum and dad decided to take us on a caravan holiday to presthaven sands(classy, i know).
the caravan was right next to a railway track, which pissed my mum off no end. however, there was a beach nearby and blackberry bushes aplenty, so us kids were either swimming, building sandcastles or picking blackberries for pies. simpler times.
on the third morning, we were awoken by a loud yell from outside the caravan. we looked out to see dad, clad only in his hideous blue y-fronts, flat on the grass and surrounded by rubbish. it seems he'd gone to put the bag of rubbish in the big communal bin and had tripped over a molehill that had sprung up during the night.
the vendetta against the moles had begun.
dad tried pouring all kinds of stuff down the mole holes, trying to get them to come out. nothing worked. he complained to the site owner, who said he wouldn't kill helpless animals just to please my dad. mum stopped him from leaving bacon on the grass by saying she was pretty sure moles don't eat bacon, so wouldn't be tempted out by it.
that may have been a great holiday, i'm not sure. my one abiding memory of that week is watching my dad at 6a.m, standing in his y-fronts, spade raised, shouting all over the campsite: "come on, you evil little bastards! i'll knock your brains out!"

yes, he is mental.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 26 Nov 2010, 16:46, Reply)