Beer, betting, and ‘Ooooh bollocks’…

As many of the posts this week will testify – the vast majority of skull-fuckingly spacktarded bets seem to be conceived in the pub. I have only just remembered of I time when even someone as sensible, normal, and downright down-to-earth as me (what?) decided to dabble in a bit of alcohol-fuelled, bet-related general twattery.

Many years ago, I was once in the pub with the usual gaggle of cretinous turd winnets that I used to call my ‘mates’, when the subject turned to stupid bets, dares, and wotnot.

Mid conversation, I remembered a jolly little jape I had heard of previously, that can be utilised for the possible monetry gain from sad, plebite mong-trousers such as the company I was keeping.

When done correctly, this can also hopefully make you look like a frightful cleverclogs into the bargain.

As one mate finished his bottle of Bud I grabbed the empty bottle from him and declared smarmily: “I’ve got a challenge for ya!...”

I then placed a £10 note flat on the table, delicately balanced the empty bottle upside-down on top of it, and launched into my speech.

“If any of you lickspittles can remove the £10 note without touching the bottle and without the bottle falling over, you can keep the cash!”.

Oh, how I chortled with a smug sense of superiority as they pondered their meagre dullard braincells over the quandary I had provided them.

Mate 1: “Can we get someone else to remove the bottle?”

Me: “Nope, don’t be such a hairy flange! You have to do the whole thing yourself”.

Mate 2: “Can we place other bottles nearby, and then blow the upside-down bottle over…thus freeing the note?”

Me: “Heehee…nice try, but no, the bottle must remain vertical at all times".

Mate 3: “Can I…erm….well, I’m fucked if I know…*frowns*”


Every attempt they tried resulted in the bottle falling over and me jubilantly mocking their collective supreme idiocy.

Finally, they all gave up and banished my challenge to the realms of the impossible…and with that, I slowly began to roll the Tenner up into a tube, very gently, and carefully managing to successfully ‘nudge’ the bottle along…

Victory was mine!

Of course, being an all round good sport and gentleman type, I proceeded to take the piss out of them for a good half an hour, basking in the glow of my own self importance and the triumph I had scored over my chronically less-than-competent chummies.

“Fair enough Poo, you wonderfully bright individual”, they exclaimed with jealous pride. (actually, then angrily called me a ‘wanky spunkbubble’…but because I’m writing this I’m allowed to change some of the facts).

Then ‘Dave the cunt’ piped up with a bet of his own. “Alright then fuck face” he said, “…I bet you £5 that you can’t balance a full pint on the back of your hand for ten seconds!”

“Ha! – Easy!” I bellowed defiantly and promptly got up, bought a pint, returned to my seat and slapped the palm of my hand down on the table.

Then, with a little ‘arching’ of the fingers, I managed to make the back of my hand go totally level, and then painfully slowly, I gradually balanced my pint on top of it.

It was a struggle, the glass slipped around on my skin and I thought I was going to lose it a few times, but eventually I could remove my 'steadying' hand and leave the pint perfectly still, tentatively balanced on top of the other hand. I then counted to ten…I win!

“Get in there!, shove THAT up your rusty bullet hole!” I roared, before continuing only to say: “…now pay up, you thick fucker!”

”Hang on…” said Dave the cunt before continuing: “…Whaddaya say to ‘double or quits'?. You keep that pint there, and we’ll balance another one on top of your other hand. If you can hold the both for 10 seconds I’ll pay you £10!” He then glanced over at the rest of the lads, who all flashed a smile his way and 'nodded' knowingly...

Can you see where this is going? I didn’t. My immense ego knew no bounds by this point. “Bring it fucking ON!” I declared, bursting with boozy bravado.

Another pint was duly bought for me and I slapped my other palm down on the table. “Careful now, you dopey bell-ends” I said, confidently making the previously successful ‘arch’ shape with my hand. “If any of you mimsies spill any, then it doesn’t count”

They approached me….delicately balanced the pint on top of my other hand, then slowly took a step back.


“1…….2……..3…..” They counted, cheering as the glasses wobbled precariously.

“….4…….5……..6…..” They continued, as sweat started to form on my brow, but I allowed a smile to creep across my face…I was going to do it!

“7…….8….

….9…..”

…and then they all got up, turned on their heels and promptly walked out of the pub...

Leaving me with with two full-to-the-brim pints balanced precariously on the back of my hands…and me totally unable to move.

The utter cunts!

I was left with no alternative but to sit there and panic, feeling like a monumental gonad, with and my hands going numb for about five minutes, before a barmaid (whom I fancied at the time) came and rescued me, whilst she muttered about how I was a ‘collosal twat’ under her breath.

When I saw them later, they didn’t even pay up either, they just said something about ‘teaching me a lesson for being such an arsehole’, and ‘you can’t put a price on education’.

Why is it that even when I win, I can still manage to find a way to turn into a big fat loser?

Worse still, when I’ve told this story since it appears that everybody has heard of this ‘practical joke’ before, but I wish someone had fucking well told me about it back then.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 13 May 2009, 9:16, Reply)