Russian gun loony
I lived in a top floor flat, next door to a chap who can be best described as "barking mad".

Sergei was convinced he had a mission in life, and this mission was to kill as many people as possible, "but only when war come, da?"

The British Army wouldn't have him, on account of his Russian-ness, and he hadn't been to Russia since some dodgy business about shirking on his national service.

So, I arrived home from work one August morning in 1991, feeling rather smug with myself. I had, on my night shift, broken the news of the Soviet coup against Gorbachev, and my piss-poor quality recording of his ouster was all over TV and radio.

Sergei had heard it too. Sergei was very, VERY excited. I could tell this was the case because of the banging and crashing coming from next door as I tried to get some sleep, punctuated by exclamations in Russian, some of which I knew from when I looked up all the swears in a dictionary.

Then the doorbell rang. It was Sergei, wearing combat gear, carrying an extremely heavy holdall which may or may not have contained spiky weapons of DEATH, his hair shaved to a mohican Travis Bickle-style.

"Is me! Sergei!" he bellowed. "I go now and fight in war against bastard Communists!"

"Yeah. You do that."

"I go fight now in Moscow. I KILL Commie for you, yes?"

Then he turned, fell down the stairs ("Ha! I go now! I alright!"), the contents of his holdall clanking as he went.

I doubt if he even made it to Heathrow, but I never saw him again.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Tue 6 Oct 2009, 12:01, 1 reply)

he probably thinks he's a total huesos
when actually he's a bit of a padla!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 6 Oct 2009, 21:39, closed)