The fucking police
My story started when I was walking through Weston-Super-Mare high street in June of 1990 , and I saw someone running out of HMV (or something) being chased by two fat, sweaty security guards shouting in their walkie-talkies, clearly wanting to be coppers. Their equally excitement-lacking colleagues ran out of nearby shops (Top Shop etc) and managed to deck this thieving little scrote. I walked off, and I guess the police turned up and gave him a coffee or something equally lame, however, as I said I had gone.

Anyway, later on that night I was out on the piss in town (I’ve done it so you don’t have to, trust me. Just don’t bother.) and I saw what I thought was the same bloke again. I kinda recognized him, although was wearing different clothes etc. Naturally, I avoided him, he would have probably mugged me or something, despite the fact that he was out with two mates and clearly having a good time, singing and drinking. Anyway, the night wore on and I kept seeing these three lads, one time, two of them were in the toilet together chatting bollocks.
“Fuckin’ hell Stewart” Said one “You ‘eard that Andy got done over earlier”
Naturally, as we were all in the toilet together I was listening anyway, but my ears pricked up a bit I guess, as I assumed they were chatting about what had happened earlier..
“Yeah” said the other “Like he’d be nicking tapes from that shit-hole!”

I was wondering about it and being the pissed up twat I am decided to be the bravest I had ever been and ask about it.
“Squse me.” I slurred. “But I think I saw that, on the high street earlier right?”

They both looked round at me.
“Yeah. That’s right.” The one (I assume was) called Steward said, clearly wanting me to fuck off.

“Well I saw it – although I didn’t see him nicking anything, but I saw him get piled on by loads of security guards.” I told them, wishing I’d not said anything.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING?” The slightly thin, but fairly hard one replied.

It wasn’t until just before he punched my in the face, my nose exploding in a cascade of blood and mucus that I recognized him.
It was fucking Sting.
And that’s how I got in trouble with the Police.















Sorry. That’s a minute of you’re life you’re not getting back.
I win, right? Right?
p.s. People who miss points – this is an entirely fictional story. I made it up, based purely on the 'punchline'. Apart from Weston being shite. It really, really is.


/hides
(grr_boy, Tue 27 Sep 2005, 16:39, Reply)