Sandwich of death..
So anyways, the scene is Norwich on a cold winters night, back in the early 90's. Three teenage rapscallions are bored. Dave, Myself, and Matt are all sitting in Dave's bike shed (bit of a speedway rider was our Dave, back in the day). Our other mate, Neil, Was inside the warm of Dave's house, getting off with some young filly he'd managed to pick up a couple of days before.

So anyways, as you do, Dave decided he'd shit in a bucket outside. Having deployed his bum cigar, we were then at a loss of quite what to do with the foul thing.

Then it came to us.

Neil wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. And had previously pissed in Dave's beer a few weeks beforehand.

The plan was hatched, and off to the kitchen did I get dispatched to obtain two slices of Kingsmill. Meanwhile, Matt politely tapped on the closed door of the living room - "Alright Neil Mate, we're makin sandwiches outside, want one?" "Yeah, that'd be great!" Comes the reply of the hapless one. Dave, outside, has found a spatula looking device to make the instrument of Neils demise.

The turd sandwich is constucted, by Dave's not-so-fair hands. And took into Neil by Matt, who informs him "Here you go mate, its crab paste." "Lovely", comes the reply.

And us three gits hang around outside the patio doors...waiting for the scream we knew most certainly would come. And waited. And waited. And waited.

"Did he eat it?" we wondered. Maybe he'd twigged and was playing it cool. I was sent in to knock on the door and tell him that there were more paste sandwiches outside, but we needed the plate, so eat up, eh?

Back outside we waited some more.. and then... The noise we'd been waiting for. I cannot describe it, other than to say that it was probably a combined mixture of revulsion, horror, and disbelief. Combined with the added bonus of a mouthful of human excrement and bread being sprayed at high velocity onto Dave's parents wedding photos. Neil came storming and spitting his guts up out the back door, whereupon we attempted to leg it, but were collectively laughing too hard to run. resulting in me (being the youngest fat kid) getting the shit (aha ha ha) kicked out of me solidly for a full 15 minutes.

Turns out, Neil's little girl had twigged to what the sandwich contained, and stated to him, as he picked the sandwich up, "You're not going to eat that, are you, Its Shit!". Taking that as some kind of challenge, Neil had folded the sarnie in half, and had taken a walloping double-decker bite out of it.

He brushed his teeth with Daves toothbrush, and we didn't leave him alone with our drinks for about 5 years after that.

Sorry about length.
(Napstitch, Fri 7 May 2004, 6:38, Reply)