Vaguely on topic repost from yonks ago, apologies for MASSIVE DRUGS but I am simply too tough to tone it down
Many moons ago, I took a trip back to my particular corner of England for a much needed break from all things French. Catching up with friends and family was the main aim, and it wasn’t until I arrived that I realised that to do this unhindered by the proles that be I would have to drill twenty JJB England flags into my back and become fiercely patriotic. Enjoyed the football fever for my brief visit anyway.
Things started off pretty well. We were in an old local of ours, enjoying the sun and a few London priced pints in the beer garden, just chatting shit and perhaps talking too loudly for the innocents in our presence. Especially when donkey punching came up and had to be explained, with gestures, to one of our party. Things were good and we all had our lager heads on so we stayed on for a few more.
A few hours later we realised it was time to eat, lest we Stellarise ourselves into an unrecognisable, malfunctioning state of total fuckery. Not fancying the £20 steaks on the menu, we went back to my old place and ordered a take away. Inevitably, before that, the weed was produced. An ounce of normal grass and half an ounce of vicious skunk weed needed to be weighed up and distributed amongst our number. Got that sorted first, after a discreet run for cling film that reminded me of the hundreds of similar runs for film, foil and food made in times past, then the reefers were rolled. Off to the front patio to smoke them up. Faces crinkle and brains begin to flap in the wind. Especially those now unaccustomed to the chronic life…..
Jeers and baiting ensue as we lurch back upstairs, ready to take our places in the ceremonial Tekken battle and rekindle ancient rivalries.
After a few rounds we notice two or three police cars directly outside the house, lights flashing. Fuck. Bollocks. Cunt. What is it ? Get up to have a look and, with temporary relief, realise it’s absolutely nothing to do with a few mates catching up and getting lean, and entirely about the two mashed up cars outside. The relief ends when I see it’s my mate’s car that’s been hit. A large saloon car facing the opposite direction than it was parked, sporting some serious war wounds. We’re caned and the timing couldn’t be worse, but we’ve got to go out and deal with this one. Apparently the driver at fault was completely pissed, or severly retarded. He was also losing blood from a nasty gash in his forehead and muttering in a thick mockney accent, voice fluctuating from high to low like a punchy barrow boy, “look at my fuckin car, I can’t believ it. oh mate”. He had apparently tried to overtake two cars at once, lost control, crossed a lane of oncoming traffic and smacked into the rear of my mate’s car. Anyone in the car would have been pretty shaken to say the least. An unlucky pedestrian would have been killed. I think the guy must have known he was in trouble as his first reaction was to call his solicitor.
We had a lot to deal with, but the pizzas had arrived, and those cunts upstairs were getting the munchies.
The police were there until 1 in the morning. After much goading I was convinced that it was still alright to go and smoke three large biftas on the porch, just a few metres from the good officers, who seemed to be playing top trumps and taking holiday photos. They were right. My house paranoia needed taming. We continued to drink, to ourselves and the honourable death of an M reg Mondeo. The land of total fuckery would have us after all.
(impossibly witty twat No, YOUR Mum etc etc, Wed 11 May 2011, 10:12, Reply)