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Just last week,
my very drunk mate thought it would be hilarious to slap a set of handcuffs on my other very drunk mate. After a bit of wrestling, the latter managed to grab the handcuffs from the other's hands, but instead of thinking "phew, that was a close shave", he started maniacally laughing and heading in my direction.
Less than a minute of struggling later, I'm hancuffed to a steaming drunk person who is absolutely thrilled with this decision. Right. Fun's over. Where's the key?
"Key?"
Never has a word invoked such fear in me. We hunted and hunted, with that horrible sinking feeling of inevitability slowly growing, when suddenly, we found the key! Hurray! It was snapped in two.
We knew there must be a way of releasing the handcuffs, but try as we might we were all absolutely hammered and couldn't work it out. To make matters worse, my mate had applied the cuffs a little too enthusiastically to his own arm, and his hand was now swollen and slightly grey looking. Mine was a little looser, but no amount of fairy liquid or butter were getting my mitt out of these cuffs. Being a calm and rational drunken scotsman, my mate began panicking about the situation which was entirely his fault, and began roaring at the top of his lungs, crying and smashing anything he could get his hands on. This in turn irritated me. We now have two incredibly angry drunken scotsmen manacled together in a kitchen, threatening to kill each other. I politely but forcefully suggested he might like to calm down a bit. His response was to grab my arm and tighten my half of the cuffs until it cut off my circulation.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of my other pal's mind (the one who had started all of this but was currently free and enjoying himself immensely) he could see things were going badly. Something would have to be done, and quickly. What, you ask? Ring round, try and find some bolt cutters somewhere? See if there's anyone else with a set of handcuff keys? No, fuck it, straight to defcon one, phone the fire brigade.
So, the fire brigade arrives, flashers going and everything, and several highly professional men discover they've been called out to release two drunbken arseholes from a trap of their own making. They thoroughly ripped the utter pish out of us, asking how we had got our clothes back on over the cuffs, had we remembered to switch off our dildos to save batteries, all thoroughly deserved. At the time, I was sporting a rather fetching "shiteshirt", a creation Alfie Moon himself would be proud of, which made the firemen laugh even harder. I tried to apologise as much as possible for wasting their valuable time, while my mate writhed on the floor whimpering every time they touched him.
Well, they cut us free. It has, in the long run, been a positive experience for me. The amount of money I've saved on heating alone, due to the burning shame and beaming red face I've had for almost two weeks now, has made it all worth it.
( , Sat 1 Mar 2014, 17:28, 8 replies)
my very drunk mate thought it would be hilarious to slap a set of handcuffs on my other very drunk mate. After a bit of wrestling, the latter managed to grab the handcuffs from the other's hands, but instead of thinking "phew, that was a close shave", he started maniacally laughing and heading in my direction.
Less than a minute of struggling later, I'm hancuffed to a steaming drunk person who is absolutely thrilled with this decision. Right. Fun's over. Where's the key?
"Key?"
Never has a word invoked such fear in me. We hunted and hunted, with that horrible sinking feeling of inevitability slowly growing, when suddenly, we found the key! Hurray! It was snapped in two.
We knew there must be a way of releasing the handcuffs, but try as we might we were all absolutely hammered and couldn't work it out. To make matters worse, my mate had applied the cuffs a little too enthusiastically to his own arm, and his hand was now swollen and slightly grey looking. Mine was a little looser, but no amount of fairy liquid or butter were getting my mitt out of these cuffs. Being a calm and rational drunken scotsman, my mate began panicking about the situation which was entirely his fault, and began roaring at the top of his lungs, crying and smashing anything he could get his hands on. This in turn irritated me. We now have two incredibly angry drunken scotsmen manacled together in a kitchen, threatening to kill each other. I politely but forcefully suggested he might like to calm down a bit. His response was to grab my arm and tighten my half of the cuffs until it cut off my circulation.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of my other pal's mind (the one who had started all of this but was currently free and enjoying himself immensely) he could see things were going badly. Something would have to be done, and quickly. What, you ask? Ring round, try and find some bolt cutters somewhere? See if there's anyone else with a set of handcuff keys? No, fuck it, straight to defcon one, phone the fire brigade.
So, the fire brigade arrives, flashers going and everything, and several highly professional men discover they've been called out to release two drunbken arseholes from a trap of their own making. They thoroughly ripped the utter pish out of us, asking how we had got our clothes back on over the cuffs, had we remembered to switch off our dildos to save batteries, all thoroughly deserved. At the time, I was sporting a rather fetching "shiteshirt", a creation Alfie Moon himself would be proud of, which made the firemen laugh even harder. I tried to apologise as much as possible for wasting their valuable time, while my mate writhed on the floor whimpering every time they touched him.
Well, they cut us free. It has, in the long run, been a positive experience for me. The amount of money I've saved on heating alone, due to the burning shame and beaming red face I've had for almost two weeks now, has made it all worth it.
( , Sat 1 Mar 2014, 17:28, 8 replies)
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