Pissed
As usual.

On the way to a gig in Preston. Neverland, I believe.

In the back of Tall Paul's Austin Princess and being the smallest I'm shoe-horned into the back seat behind Tall Paul's pushed back as far as it goes Sniff and the Tears Driver's Seat.

My legs are bent into drinking straw shapes but of more pressing concern is my bladder. Because I should'nt - SHOULD'NT - have scoffed that fifth pint in The Friars because Tall Paul won't stop to let me piss on the M6.

And every - fucking - hedgehog - we run over is another jolt to my tortured internal parts.

Man is simply not designed to carry five pints of Hartleys Best (God rest it's hallucinagenic soul) down the M6 in an Austin Princess.

So we get to the pub in Preston where the gig is. I expect - I'm not sure - that I was a puce colour by this stage and slightly foaming at the mouth.

I burst in, clutching my crotch and sweating profusely, panting "Where'syerbogwhere'syerbogwhere'syerbog?"

"Down the corridor - first left" I dimly heard.

So in my panting, crouched, badly internally bruised state I unleashed my bits, relief ironing out the deeply ingrained furrows on my forehead and shouldered open the door first left.

Which was the kitchen.

And once you pop, you can't stop.

Kids. If you're ever in trouble. Make sure you ask someone who knows their left from their right.
( The Disappointed Caravanner of the year, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 21:36, Reply)