Local Legend
Hoary oldsters tell the tale of a lad who decided, in his advanced state of beer consumption, that the beach would be a spiffing place to spend the night. A deep untroubled sleep took him away, disturbed by nothing and no-one.

Eventually, the morning sunshine burning his eyes, the imminent rupturing of his bladder and the fact that his tongue seemed to have been bonded to the roof of his mouth by a combination of rough cement and the dribblings from an open sore on a monkey's arse dragged him, unwillingly, into consciousness.

He manfully hazarded an open eye, and attempted to focus. There seemed to be shapes around him. Strange, dark shapes; some of them seemed to be poking him, and loud, angry voices were in evidence.

It must have been quite a way to wake up: completely surrounded by heavily armed police, all pointing guns at you. As you may remember, in 1984 the IRA had a fair stab at assassinating Margaret Thatcher, by blowing up the Grand Hotel in Brighton, and it was directly in front of that hotel, on the night in question, that our hero had chosen to pass out.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 17:14, Reply)