Here's something weird I once witnessed..
Just shortly after my old man left the army in the late Eighties, we moved from our comfortable, safe 'Family Quarters' to 'civvy street' - namely a crap council estate in Yorkshire, as it was near impossible to get work as an ex-army squaddie. It wasnt really a good time in our lives because, as a family (My Mum & Dad, with me in tow..) we used to spend many weekends drinking with the equally unemployed residents, usually taking turns to visit each others houses to get absolutely shitfaced on cheap cider, stolen beer from the local, or anything else that was either brewed in the cellar, or filtered from the local river (probably).

So what, completely off topic I guess, however my small tale does actually have a point, and here it is:

This housing estate that we lived in, was populated by Elvis fans, now, when I say 'populated' I mean entire STREETS of fans, one family named their first-born after the king himself, and their houses were festooned with wall hangings, tapestries and cupboards full of Elvis albums, singles and posters.

They followed this guy like a religious cult, and there was even a dedicated shop that sold Elvis shite to these people.

Strange.

It was mingling with these retards and witnessing this phenomenon that gave me the initial motivation to work my arse off, do well in college and get a job, otherwise I'd probably still be sat there, getting absolutely twatted on moonshine whilst listening to 'Blue Suede Shoes' and admiring an Elvis rug on my wood-chipped council house walls..

Long live the King, In Yorkshire.
(danniekavanagh did nothing constructive on, Fri 5 Feb 2010, 17:04, Reply)