Sanctuary with a chunkster
Living in Barnsley with a mate who was playing in Sheffield one night and the drinks are 50p for a vodka and coke, I have a tenner. All is good, my mate says the last he remembers of me is me chatting to a girl. I vaguely recall the following, being chased out of the club and up the road by the bouncers. so much so that I was now lost without the name of the nightclub, any idea where I was, and just in a pitiful situation. I get a taxi, ask the driver to take me to the club which 'plays hip hop' and get driven round for five minutes. Give him a fiver for the priviledge and stagger into the city centre.

Sit down by a Mac D's, head in my hands, quietly weeping when a girl comes over. She informs me of having an argument with her boyfriend which ended with her storming straight off for a burger. She asked of my plight, and offered a place to crash at hers. You know beer goggles? That bastard affliction whch makes heffas look like Helen Baxendale? I had Beer goggles on that night, and she still wernt all that.

So I went and done the dirty with a heffer from Halifax (hearing a fat lass with that accent cum certainly is...an experience) and eventually got my head down. I felt slightly whoreish (I had offered sexual services for shelter essentially) and more than a bit skittish that some Northern nutjob was gonna come in any minute. When I woke the following morning, I looked out of the window. The sky was Sheffield grey, the rain was straight from Manchesters wettest dream and I was on the outskirts of Sheffield on some ropey looking bastard estate with a chunk of monster snoring behind me, without a penny to my name.

Certainly felt a strange place.

Edit: floyd the grocer, I got those exact same words after the above escapade. Is it me or do you just want to swing for whoever says that to you and shake them like it's a reconstruction for the Louise Woodward trial?
(The_Greyhound wrote www.luckymcdanger.blog.co.uk on, Sat 30 Dec 2006, 19:39, Reply)