Iron Surfing
Evangeline (not her real name) was a rather hefty young lady who lived in my halls of residence during my undergrad time. When I say hefty, I mean she must've been 6' 2" and looked like the muscular love child of Jonah Lomu and Sandi Toskvig. She was a nightmare to deal with when she got drunk, and get drunk she did regularly.

One night a bunch of us had traipsed down to the Union to go to one of the club nights there, Evangeline and my then girlfriend (her of the puking in the mouth story - see the vomit question of the week) were with us. Evangeline had rather a crush on one of my friend and spent the night trying to back him into a corner so that she could have her wicked way with him. Crunch time came at the end of the night and my friend, with the sort of expression I imagine a hare has when, after having been chased over 4 or 5 fields by a pack of baying hounds, now discovers a brick wall blocking its escape, was near panic. With difficulty we managed to corral Evangeline and cajole her into going back to the halls.

It was a bad walk, she kept on singing and shouting, especially about how she wanted to go surfing. When we finally managed to get her home we had to manhandle her up 4 flights of stairs as by this point she couldn't walk. My then girlfriend looked on pityingly as we manoeuvered her into her bedroom, then generously stepped in to strip her down to her underwear.

A minute later, as we stood talking in the stairwell, Evangeline bounded out, now only wearing her underwear, clutching an ironing board to her chest, and loudly declared she was going surfing. After another 10 minutes of persuasion we got her back into her room and all seemed quite. My girlfriend disappeared to her room and came back a few mins later with a joint, and we elected to go outside on to the grass, and to smoke and watch the stars.

Just opposite where we lay was the entrance to the building, with a fairly large glass window in front of the long flight of stairs to the first floor. We lay in dreamy happiness, arms around each other, appreciating the stars, each other, the pot, when we heard a bang and a crash, followed by another bang and a crash, then another...

Filled with wonder, we sat up, just in time to see, through the window, Evangeline (now dishevelled and minus her bra) balancing an ironing board at the top of the flight of stairs. She stood like an Olympic ski jumper for a second and then, before we could react, launched herself down the stairs, surfing on the ironing board. She actually made it to the bottom, but the edge of the ironing board caught on the floor and she flew a few feet forward, spread eagled, into the window.

There was a resounding *thunk*... the glass shuddered under her impact... she was pressed up hard against it, tits squashed flat, her face pressed hard... and then she slowly slid down, making a sort of *squueeeeeedge* noise, leaving a small trail of blood from her nose. Trying to control our mounting hysteria we checked she was ok and put her to bed again. She couldn't remember anything in the morning.

For about a week afterwards there was a faint imprint of a human body on the window.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 0:27, 2 replies)

That.
That is true poetry.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 9:27, closed)

Ah, ironing board surfing
When I was at university in the early 1990s, most off-campus students lived in pretty much identical houses, where the staircase was perfectly aligned with the front door. One of my friends lived in such a house, and threw pretty great parties, one of which had half the mountain bike club in attendance. After much refreshment had been imbibed, somebody thought it would be a great idea to ride one housemate's bike down the stairs and into the street, which the mountain bikers all did with great aplomb. My mate (not a mountain biker) then attempted to do the same, but made the mistake of hitting the brake near the bottom, causing him to fly over the handlebars and headbutt the radiator next to the front door. He wasn't badly damaged, but the bike was locked away, fearing for its safety.

This irked me slightly, as it was my turn next, so, not wanting to miss out, I poked around in cupboards until I found what I thought was an adequate substitute - the ironing board. I gracefully launched myself from the top of the stairs, flying down them like a pro, but when the nose hit the floor at the bottom, instead of sliding forwards it "dug in" momentarily, throwing me forwards, and my back foot must have forced the legs to telescope upwards, as I ended up ripping my shirt to bits *and* somersaulting myself out of the front door onto the tarmac. Happy days.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Wed 27 Jan 2010, 10:31, closed)