I woke up with no eyebrows and badly singed hair
following a night out at a Manchester discotheque (it was the 70s) on magic mushrooms and an obscene amount of alcohol.

Having managed to get myself and my cohorts ejected from said disco, we took a shortcut back to where we stayed over some rough parkland which had been commandeered by some gypsies. We approached a group of them, all sat round a blazing bonfire. They were not pleased to see us, to put it mildly, and suggested we find an alternative route.

I told them it was public land and we could go where the fuck we pleased, and to demonstrate this concept I kept walking. Right through their bonfire.

Man-made fibres were really popular in the 70s, so I lit up quite spectacularly, and had to be rolled on the dewy grass by my mates to put me out. The gypsies had retreated to a safe distance and I bade them a good evening as I went on my way, smouldering noncholantly.

This was all conveyed to me the following morning - I don't remember much after getting chucked out of the night club. The most worrying after-effect was where one leg of my nylon underpants (I know, yuk!) had melted and fused to my inner thigh. I didn't seek medical attention and it took weeks for new skin to grow and the blistery, nylony mess to peel off. I still have a strange blotchy scar 'down there' to remind me.

Happy days...
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 16:04, Reply)