Doing your bit for International Relations...
Many years ago, when I was ne'er but a young 'un, my Aunt used to have a house in Whitby. Now being a spinster and all (and a member of the 'sisterhood' apparently) she had plenty of space in the house and nowt much to fill it, so she decided to take part in a scheme where EU and NATO delegates would be put up for a few weeks whilst they were on business in the UK. Whitby is quite close to RAF Fylingdales so she had quite a lot of serious NATO types staying, much to the amusement of me and my bro, who were regularly on holiday there and got to meet plenty of high-flying executives with big cars and lots of cash.

One time particularly sticks in the mind though. It was towards the start of my Aunt's lodging set-up, and this lovely middle-aged Norwegian couple working for NATO had taken up lodgings there. We were also there, on half-term holiday (and to give mum some much needed quiet time from the pair of us). Now, we were told to be on best behaviour, so no fighting, playing G 'n' R at full blast in the bedroom or screaming mentally when Wednesday were on the telly (this was during the Owls' early 90's hey-day). Not a problem, despite me and my bro regularly scrapping (see previous posts) we could be darlings when we needed to.

Anyway, I digress. It was a balmy Saturday (Sun, in Whitby? Surely not!), and the Norwegians decided to take the sea air and go for a stroll after the gargantuan dinner that my Aunt had served for us.

So, off they toddled, down the road, hand in hand like all cute middle aged couples do.

Then, about 5 minutes, later, the door burst open, the man of the couple - Bjarni, or something - cursing his head off in Norwegian as he charged up the stairs, closely followed by his dear wife, who popped in the living room to explain the situation...

"Bjarni just realised needs to change his jumper, he got gravy on it, he gets rather annoyed about these things."

Now, obviously that wasn't the case, and our suspicions were confirmed when Bjarni hollered from the attic room of my Aunt's pretty little mews terrace...

"I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT FUCKING SEAGULL SHAT ON MY NEW SWEATER!!!"

Ah, yes. Of course.

Now, my Aunt, being of an evangelical Christian persuasion, struggled to show her disgust whilst holding in a fit of giggles, whilst my brother and I were rolling around the living room floor, pissing ourselves at the whole thing.

So, it just goes to show, no matter how high you are in the great scheme of things, you can always get shat on from above.

After the event, the guy realised what he'd done and offered to take me and my bro off my Aunt's hands for a day as penance for his mistake. So two days later, me and my bro, and the Norwegian geezer found ourselves riding donkeys up and down Scarborough beach, the old fella chuckling away to our impressions of his announcement about the aftermath of his encounter with the Great British Seagull.

Great days.

I would make a joke about length, but it seems to be the trend lately to make a dig about rachelswipe and legless's stories. I won't do that, because even if they are made up, they're still fucking funny. Kudos to them!
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 21:11, Reply)