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» Weddings Part II

Not thinking
About 4 years ago, during the usual wet but warm English summer, a good friend of mine was getting married back in our home village. There was about a group of 8 of us who met up the night before for a gentle beer or two. We were all happily off to bed at about midnight as we were meeting at 11am in the local for pre-arranged dutch courage before the show began at 12.

We all arrive at the local and welcomed by the landlord that used to serve us as lads. We were all suited and booted, the groom and best man in matching suit. After a few pints, we all headed towards the hotel staging the wedding across the local park.

There's a few lads warming up for a game of football, and one smacks the ball over in our direction. The groom, about 25m away, runs up and smashes it; it flies past the keeper into the top corner.

This on its own means nothing. The fact that he then runs to the corner flag in a moment of joy, jumps, and slides on his knees to celebrate.

In his wedding suit. His light grey wedding suit with trousers that are covered in mud and soaked through. 10 minutes before he gets married.

No-one noticed the groom was wearing trousers about 4 sizes too big for him, but there were a few comments about the best man wearing shirt, jacket and shorts.
(Wed 5th Nov 2014, 18:09, More)

» Encounters with politicians

2 of the Feckers.
1) Kenneth Clarke was MP for the part of Nottinghamshire where I grew up. On my 18th birthday, near to an election, he was in my local pub after attending a "chat to the locals" - long before Farage turned going to the pub as part of election night.

"I hope I can count on your vote in the next election"? he asked.

"I hope you get the beers in"! I replied. And he did. Still didn't vote for him.

2) The anti-christ of teachers, Michael Gove, came to the school I worked in. I asked the Head to not come near my room. So he brings Gove into the classroom when I am teaching the lowest set in the school.

He walks in and asks Ashley* what he is doing.

"You're that twat off the TV." Ash says to him.

"I have been on TV, yes"! replies Gove with a casual dismissal of the remark..

"Did you get caught shagging kids"? Ash throws back...

Never seen anyone leave a room in such a hurry.

*Ash was not his real name. I think it was Tom.
(Thu 30th Apr 2015, 23:34, More)

» Real Life Slapstick II

A few years ago, a couple of mates and me rode the Coast to Coast route from Newhaven to Sunderland with an arranged tour as a pre-stag party in Newcastle. There was 4 of us, another group of 3, a guy on his own and the guide.

The group of three and us got on really well, but the bloke on his own was an utter plank. We were all pretty shit cyclists, but he turned up with all the gear, a bike worth more than my 1st flat, all the gels, shakes and rehydration stuff and enough GPS/sat nav's to invade a foreign country. To compare, I'd bought my phone and some bags of Disco's (best crisps ever).

First day goes well and we all go out for a few pints in Keswick, and on the second day we get further than we should and we reach what the guide calls "the worst 10 miles on the route". All I remember was a pub, a left turn and then uphill for ever. About 6 miles (I'm sure it wasn't very steep but at the end of the day we were all knackered) up and we reach the top at a complete crawl, and stop for a quick drink before descending.

To be fair to our guide, he warns us that the way down is steeper than the ascent, but we are ok until the cattle grid; after that, just roll and keep your back brake on. The chap on his own gets out his spare bag, swaps his front and back wheel out for less drag and then just says "You guys get started, I really want to burn this"

We all enjoy the descent, clocking about 35mph and then there is a cattle grid, and we all brake. Thank Jebus we did; for at the bottom is a 90 degree turn with a nice dry stone wall in front of you. Down comes Mr "Burn this", and he must be clocking 50 mph, goes to pop on his brakes, and all we hear is "Shit....... cables aren't done up".....

He smashes into the wall, attached to his bike by his pedal cleats, and flies about 20m through the air, somersaulting like a Charlie Chaplin extra, and lands arse first in a field full of shit.

I have never laughed so hard....
(Wed 8th Oct 2014, 23:17, More)

» Nepotism

Apologies for the length in advance, been waiting for an opportunity to get this out there.

Cricket: There is no sport in England where nepotism causes a bigger problem.

In my more athletic days (yes - Athletic and Cricket in the same sentence) I was a good leg spin bowler. Having watched Shane Warne destroy England, I saw what a job a "leggy" could do and became pretty good at it.

Now, my local village team had a season of joy. We played 32 times in total, and won 29 matches. We won the league (albeit the 9th of 10 divisions) and made it to the local cup final. And this was with Pete in our team. Pete, the son of the teams captain, club chairman and the person who had paid for the new clubhouse.

Pete was fucking woeful. He thought he could bowl, but in the first 10 matches he set a seasons record for runs conceded, wides bowled and didn't take a wicket. He couldn't catch, but his dad, the team captain, put him in at slip. As a bowler, I counted 13 chances he'd dropped from my bowling. He wanted to bat No.3. He got to double figures once. He averaged 7 for the season in question; shows how well the rest of us were playing.

Come the local cup final, a rumour spreads around the village that Pete was injured. He was; he'd pulled a muscle in his back. But his dad still puts him in the team. So the rest of the team have a plan; put him at Deep Fine Leg (yes - I know, non-cricketers; these words mean nothing to you) and hope no one hits it there.

Now we bat first, Pete gets 3 and out, but we manages to get to 229. A decent 40 over total. We begin to bowl, and after 32 overs, we are owning them. They needed 14 an over to win. Then Father puts Pete on.

1st over, he goes for 25. I bowl from the other end, and go for 2 runs. Next over, Pete goes for 22; next, I go for a maiden. He bowls 2 more overs and brings the opposition back into the game. Bowlers are swapped around and it comes to over 40 with the other team needing 31 runs.

I have one over of my allotted 8 left, as does our best fast bowler, Andy. He's an ex-Nottinghamshire player who, although 48, still bowls tight. He gives me the nod to say "mine" and walks to the middle to bowl his last over, and we all think "That's it, we've won". More than 30 from an over; 5 sixes and more, fuck off...

"Andy, take a rest, Pete can bowl this" shouts the captain.

Utter cuntfuckwankbastard.

His final over went 6, 3 (no ball), 2, 4, 4, 6, 3 (no ball), 6. Fucking 34. 30 fucking 4.

The opposition had their last batsmen in and he gave away 34 runs. Their captain came and asked "what the fuck happened there- if he'd put the ball on the track you would have won."

Pete came in the dressing room afterwards, and just said, "you could have given me more runs to play with..."
(Sun 12th Oct 2014, 21:10, More)

» More Terrible Hotels

Opening the gate...
The year was 1996, the destination Palma Nova, just down the road from Magaluf. The end of A-Levels resulted in 8 of us, 5 lads, 3 girls begging for money off the parents to go on an all out party week.

You know the scene from the Inbetweeners film, when they arrive at their hotel and they are the only people getting off the bus, at the complete shit hole. We had the opposite. It looked lovely. Clean, tidy, busy bar, clean corridors. Thing was, it was about 4am when we arrived.

But the rooms, dear God the rooms.

We'd paid for all inclusive, 3* hotel with everything including bedding and towels in the price. 3 * Twin rooms, one double for the couple. 2 of the twins had no running water, the double and 2 of the twins had bathrooms that could only be described as "smeared in shit". The air-con in all rooms seemed to function, but we soon realised that there were more cockroaches coming out of the vents than cool air. The beds had no mattress, just one of those camping matts over the wooden slats. Sheets? Nope. On investigation, in the small print, we saw the surcharge of £40 per person for a sheet and a towel. According to the hotel, the camping mattress was enough for most people.

We got through the first night sitting in reception and complained to the manager. We were told that they were the only available rooms and as we had stayed one night, we had forgone any chance of a refund. We had stayed about 30 mins in the room taking pictures but this was deemed enough.

We had breakfast before leaving, and this turned out to be the worst mistake. 3 of the party had the rotten shits about an hour after eating, which lasted a day, but Emma's ham omelette ended with a two day stay in hospital.

Camping and tents for the rest of the holiday meant the last 5 days were just peachy, but Hotel Palma, now a gigantic apartment block, you nearly did for us.
(Sun 30th Nov 2014, 22:30, More)
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