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(, Sun 1 Apr 2001, 1:00)
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Opening my eyes and not being entirely sure where I was.
A smell a bit like the seaside.
A taste a bit like a mouthful of sea-water.
A sensation of struggling to breath, like something was blocking my airways, burning my sinuses.
A rush of oxygen to the head as I was finally able to gasp for breath.
Cold, crisp clarity as my senses cleared.
A pat on the head from the vicar.
Promising I wouldn't tell anybody. NB Last line edited in after the original post because some people were TOO FUCKING SLOW to realise what the joke was meant to be. For crying out loud...
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:11, 3 replies, latest was 15 years ago)
You were a choirboy, weren't you?
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:13, Reply)
Ruining my hilarious retort in the process, the floppy wristed, limp haired bumderist.
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:17, Reply)
Row upon row of Deacons belming at you as you boot up.
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:19, Reply)
Duly edited in case it wasn't obvious enough for these revolting plebeians.
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:19, Reply)
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:22, Reply)
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:22, Reply)
He was actually complaining about having sore wrists.
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:24, Reply)
as he gets all confused by the range of ales on display what does it.
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:26, Reply)
It was years since I'd seen Vale's Black Swan on tap, but apparently there wasn't enough space for us in the pub. (I knew we should have tied Labs up outside...)
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:28, Reply)
and not the fact that he was made to carry a load of cans of coke...
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:28, Reply)
These damn things are only good for mincing around my local environment and occasionally carrying Pina Coladas...
(, Fri 4 Mar 2011, 13:25, Reply)
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