Vikings, tadgers and real nurses
Back in my days as a student at Plymouth uni dressing up was a regular event. So much so that most people would own several different outfits and many lads actually had a goodly collection of make-up and whores perfume (pound shops can supply all these cosmetic items, at just a pound each!). I think it was either my 19th or 20th birthday and we had settled on a theme of Vikings. Many lectures were missed scouring local charity and toy shops for pointy helmets, plastic swords/axes and kilts. A lad I lived with called Skip was unable to find a kilt so had to settle for a second-hand Marks and Spencers plaid mini-skirt.

Come 1100 on the big day and myself and Skip set out for a pub (The James Street Vaults for those in the know) next to the uni campus. We lived about a 20min walk which must have taken as least 40min that day due to the regular stops for pillaging and sword fights.

As we arrived on campus a couple of bus loads of spotty high school kids had also just arrived for a look around this esteemed school of learning. Of course we waded right through the middle of them swords and axes flailing wildly. I’ve always wonder whether we encouraged more or less of those kids to apply for Plymouth, probably more I reckon.

Flip forward a few hours and things are getting decidedly more blurry. Several bloody wounds are in evidence thanks to one lad who had bought a plastic axe which provided weighty enough to de some serious damage. Many other Vikings have arrived and we had started a drinking competition which was something along the lines of drink 5 pints, 4 bottles of lager, 3 doubles, 2 alcopops and a Jack Daniels with anyone finishing sans-chunder winning a T-shirt.

Skip was feeling the effects of many guinesses’ before starting the race and was having trouble performing everyday tasks. A non-Viking came up to me and explained that Skip had fallen on the way to the toilets and was lying on his back in the middle of the packed pub with his M&S mini-skirt over his stomach and his tadger in full view. After checking he was ok, and taking a photo, we left him too it as he still had hold of a beer, his drinking arm was free, nobody seemed to mind stepping over him and the bar staff were fellow students didn’t seem like they were going to throw him out.

Some time later Skip has picked himself up and now the majority of blokes are also sitting around with kilts tucked up to show that they too have come commando.

More beer later and once again im told that Skip has fallen down. This time its outside and much blood is involved. So out I go and find out that after finding a big queue for the toilets he had gone for a slash outside. Whilst half way through the deed he had lost his balance and toppled backwards. For reasons that the couldn’t explain, instead of putting out his hands to break his fall he had keep a firm, double-handed grip on his old man and instead had slowed his fall with his own head. Fool.

One trip in an ambulance later and we are in hospital. Skip has passed out on the hospital bed, the top half of which was now soaked in a combined mixture of blood and vomit [Head wounds bleed a LOT]. Unfortunately he woke up mid way through his X-ray’s and as he was a bit confused wouldn’t lie still. After several failed X-rays the nurses ask me if I can try to get him to stay still. Sure, I answered, stepping forwards, punching him in the stomach and getting him in a head lock. Their reaction make it quite clear that this wasn’t what they intended and they even got quite stroppy with me. Well what the f#ck do they expect, I’m not exactly a trained health-care professional. Ungrateful bunch of slags trying to get me to do they job for them. No wonder they get paid so little if they have to get assistance from drunken bystanders for the simplest procedure*

We are then taken through to the ward for Skip to get stitched up by one very cute female trainee doctor and a matron-type evil nurse. Now, it’s a well known fact that blokes are at their most charming whilst pi#sed and splattered in vomit. Me and the doctor are soon bonding, and she has let me have a go at using the razor to cut away the hair surrounding Skips head wound [maybe I too should have become a doctor?]. Evil nurse** is not happy and TELLS the doctor that im not allowed to have a go at the stitching. Oh well, I guess its the medical professions loss rather than mine.

Stitching done and we are left alone in the ward whilst they find somewhere for him to stay for the night. Im drunk and bored, and so go for a wander. In an adjoining empty room I found a blood pressure machine on one of those three-wheeled type things that trail behind really ill people carrying plasma and stuff. I wheeled this back into his room, wrapped the collar-thingy around his arm and began pumping.

I had got it well inside the red zone before he woke up and began to squeal like a girl. Kept me amused for a few minutes though.

Nurse comes back, takes him off to a proper ward and I am given a pair of NHS trousers to go home with (Since leaving the pub all I have been wearing is a kilt and horned helmet with most of the rest of me smeared in Skips blood).

For anybody who hasn’t worn NHS trousers they are like pyjamas except the groinal area is open with no zip or buttons. I accidentally exposed myself to many, many people whilst trying to find a taxi that night.


*Most nurses do a very difficult job and should be paid much more than they do. Just not these ones.
**Or this one





If you didn’t like the length you would have stopped long ago.
(Digstar fu#king loves biscuits, Sat 14 Jan 2006, 14:22, Reply)