Where's Ugi? Oh - he's gone to report to the police station....
You know it's been a trying night when your holiday-housemates' breakfast conversation runs like that, so I had better elaborate a little... apologies that it's turned out rather long.

It was something like 1994 and I was in Scotland with a bunch of reprobates I knew from University. We'd hired a cottage for a couple of weeks with the intention of checking out the hill-walking by day and the drinking by night. With the odd distillery thrown in for good measure. My brother, Pencil, was also in Scotland at the time with the coolest summer-job ever and on his day-off I'd driven the hour-or-so to pick him up, we'd all had a pleasant day falling into streams and getting damn-near blown off mountains, and had retired to the local hostelry for the evening. All fine and dandy so far.

Now Pencil needed to work the following morning so I had to get him back to his digs overnight. I never drink-drive so while Pencil and my mates all get hammered, I stick to coke and in due course play taxi back across the glens. This is where things start to take a distinct turn for the worse because I'd borrowed my father's Citreon CX; a crazy vehicle that rose like a flying-carpet, looked like a space-ship and handled like a bowl of jelly. Not a great combination if you're 18 and have been keeping up with your older bro's cirrhotic mates all night. It also had electric windows which were....not...quite...fast...enough...oops. And so it was that I found myself driving across Scotland in the dead of night with my bro' throwing up more or less equally inside and out of the passenger door of the car.

But we're not done yet 'cos the car was clearly in need of a new exhaust and had been starting to make some noise during the journey up. One slightly-over-eager sleeping policeman later and it's sheared something - it's suddenly banging away and making a noise like a geriatric lawn-mower. Not to worry, thinks I, and I crawl underneath with a torch and bind the bits back up with a bit of cotton cloth, thinking that it'll never get that hot that it could possibly be a safety hazard....

So it is that around 3am I am stopped by Scotland's finest, in a vehicle that sounds like a worn-out machine gun, containing a drunken bastard throwing up more-or-less-equally inside and outside of the passenger window, yelling "good evening orificier" at the top of his voice - oh yes, and is on fucking fire.

I give you a night out gone wrong.
( Ugi , it's a game of give and cake, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 16:45, 1 reply)

*clicky*
I like.
(WillI'mNot logs in twice a year, every year, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 23:41, closed)