The Sands of Brighton Jima
While at Uni I had the misfortune to live with Michael Jackson. Not that one, this one was black, didn't much like kids, couldn't dance, but was a whizz at chemistry.
I feel it was a waste of his talents (not as much as working in a chemists like he does now though), but he dedicated most of his studies to perfecting his home made bazooka.
We started off by topping and tailing some beer cans, filling the end one up with lighter fluid, leaning out the back window and peppering the flats opposite with conkers.
It was a mere matter of weeks before four of us were to be found on Brighton's Old Stein early one Sunday morn, green painted tins of Crawfords or Roses on our heads, kneeling in military formation with the mother and father of Sadam's alleged monster guns (still made from beer cans, but now filled with two cans of lighter fluid) attempting to launch golf balls wrapped in wet tissue at the Pavillion. I can't remember why we wanted to do it, but do remember jumping into the fountain and flapping about like Niki Lauda when the cunting thing exploded and gave us all a rather aggressive tickle. Burnt my jeans, but my helmet was fine. As was the one on the end of my cock.

Length? All still there.


Students, eh?
(Hampton St.Roker (has probably had your mum), Thu 12 Feb 2009, 21:36, Reply)