Filthy Bastards
Once upon a time, my school rugby team went on a tour of Holland. All went well, and we arrived unbeaten for our final match in Amsterdam. We won (woo), and were let of the leash for the night. Strangely enough, things started to go wrong soon after (at least half of the team being 16, with a few 18 year olds in charge).

Aside from a few early fallers who weren't used to weed, advocat, and beer, the group managed to stay together. That was, until our token popular-but-only-because-he-was-filthy-rich-so-not-really lad offered to pay for everyone to go whoring.

When you're that age, it doesn't seem like such a bad idea. When you see what just been in there before you, it suddenly seemed like a very bad idea indeed. Any remaining doubts were confirmed when a collective lack of imagination and hygeine led to the team forming a line at the same door. Poor girl.

I thought better of it, and wandered off to look at some porn and then go back to our youth hostel. Now, where was it again? Hmmm, let's ask a hotel doorman.
'Hello, where is the youth hostel please.'
'Fer shure, but vich vun? Der are hunderts.'
'Ah.'

So, 16 years old, innocent, smashed, and with no money, no idea where I was, or where I needed to be, I roamed Amsterdam until 5.00 in the morning. Eventually, and purely by chance, I recognised a shop and found my way back to our hostel. 30 minutes before we were due to leave for England.

I needn't have bothered. Our teachers didn't make it back for another three hours. I thought a lot better of them after that...

As for the line, everyone in it spend a very uncomfortable 10 hours in a cramped mini bus trying to scratch themselves without being noticed.

Length, yes, painful rash, no.
(Hampton St.Roker (has probably had your mum), Fri 8 Dec 2006, 16:05, Reply)