E
Eggy
Guest
Last Tuesday, sitting with my good friend Mike (Jilson), wondering what on earth we could do that evening. Alas, we were stuck for ideas, and the cinema seemed the only viable option...but nay! With a small shriek.... *pop* Dave (Yog) dings onto IRC accompanied with Jonny boy (Sol).
After conversing for what seemed like years, we agreed that there really is only one thing to do on a Tuesday night - get pissed. So we set off, bottle of vodka in hand and a gleam in our eyes, to Jon's new house (impressed he could afford it, but soon discovered his mum sponsors him etc). Approaching his humble abode, we were excited and curious about the obviously very lush and rich furnishings that we thought must linger within. Knocking on the door with a few hard taps, a noise, nay a crash, is heard within, a shout of "fuck" and scraping of metal on the door. Had we unleashed a madman? No, it was just dave cranking the door open with a Philips screwdriver.
After short inspection of the property, myself and Mike were soon to discover the history of the establishment, and learned that the previous inhabitant had been a psycho. This was further brought to our attention by the fact that there were Nazi icons covering the walls, a rotting slug hiding next to the bath, and black paint covering the TV set. We sat infront of the TV, which required some sort of maintenance, brought forward by Dave, who made the effort to bash the TV with his foot every three minutes. After many-a-vodka we decided to trek out into the wilderness that is Canterbury city centre. Waiting outside for Jon to show up, it was obvious that the screwdriver was nay to be found, and he was locked inside. The remaining team considered departing without him, but alas the door opening after a huge kickbox-style thump. Jon was set free.
The first spot on our adventure was a local Wetherspoons. By the time we arrived at this location, David had appeared to start his regular flashbacks, and could not speaking French. This acted as a blemish to the evening, as the Wetherspoon's bar staff were both miffed and some considerably angry with the short balding cock that was spouting French shite in front of them. But did David back down? Nay, he admitted he was half French, and that the bar staff could all "fuck off". Cigars and many a vodka and red bull followed, Jon obviously unaware that we were putting cigar ash in his beverage whenever he left his seat. Many a fun time was had, and picture evidence was created to prove it!
After stumbling out of the pub, where to next we thought? A gay bar. The only place where Dave would truly feel at home. So off to Westbar we went, followed by a short man called "Brian", and his friend "Terreh". More vodka passed between us (not literally) and after a couple of exciting events, not to be discussed here, we set off for the club.
Arriving at the establishment we noticed a few things. a) it was free to get in and b) there was nobody there. Perfect. Did we stop to get a drink? No. Straight to the dancefloor we hopped, and boogeyed to many-a-cheese-stricken track, even though the DJ appeared to be naff. Mike gave his inspiration to the chap, who proceeded to play his requests, including the best of S Club, and Blue shortly following. Upon the strike of midnight, the club became a hunting ground for young single men. Who were the predators you ask? Fat ugly women. And lo, it came to pass, that Dave got his fair share of fat ugly beef, and headed home with nothing but a smile on his face.
After discussing where we would eat at 2am, Dave and Mike headed to a local fried chicken and pizza shop, whereas me and Jon decided that a kebabby would be more appropriate. I can't say what happned in the chicken shop, but I can say that the sounds were heard from miles around. Assisted by the acrobatic cartwheeling skills of Mike throughout the streets of Canterbury, Jon, Dave and myself stumbled home, munching donner meat and telling tales of woe. After arriving home through the back entrance, with the added benefit that there is no lock, we stumbled into our seats, and alas fell straight asleep.
The morning came, along with the aftermath of the night before, Dave's hand firmly down his trousers, dribble oozing from his mouth like a young child, cornflakes, half eaten, with donner meat for added texture, empty vodka bottles, the stench of...Jon, and memories to last a lifetime.
I ask you - does Yog really deserve a bad name on BW? Yes - he eats shit, looks worse, and rags fat mingers.
I bed yee farewell.
After conversing for what seemed like years, we agreed that there really is only one thing to do on a Tuesday night - get pissed. So we set off, bottle of vodka in hand and a gleam in our eyes, to Jon's new house (impressed he could afford it, but soon discovered his mum sponsors him etc). Approaching his humble abode, we were excited and curious about the obviously very lush and rich furnishings that we thought must linger within. Knocking on the door with a few hard taps, a noise, nay a crash, is heard within, a shout of "fuck" and scraping of metal on the door. Had we unleashed a madman? No, it was just dave cranking the door open with a Philips screwdriver.
After short inspection of the property, myself and Mike were soon to discover the history of the establishment, and learned that the previous inhabitant had been a psycho. This was further brought to our attention by the fact that there were Nazi icons covering the walls, a rotting slug hiding next to the bath, and black paint covering the TV set. We sat infront of the TV, which required some sort of maintenance, brought forward by Dave, who made the effort to bash the TV with his foot every three minutes. After many-a-vodka we decided to trek out into the wilderness that is Canterbury city centre. Waiting outside for Jon to show up, it was obvious that the screwdriver was nay to be found, and he was locked inside. The remaining team considered departing without him, but alas the door opening after a huge kickbox-style thump. Jon was set free.
The first spot on our adventure was a local Wetherspoons. By the time we arrived at this location, David had appeared to start his regular flashbacks, and could not speaking French. This acted as a blemish to the evening, as the Wetherspoon's bar staff were both miffed and some considerably angry with the short balding cock that was spouting French shite in front of them. But did David back down? Nay, he admitted he was half French, and that the bar staff could all "fuck off". Cigars and many a vodka and red bull followed, Jon obviously unaware that we were putting cigar ash in his beverage whenever he left his seat. Many a fun time was had, and picture evidence was created to prove it!
After stumbling out of the pub, where to next we thought? A gay bar. The only place where Dave would truly feel at home. So off to Westbar we went, followed by a short man called "Brian", and his friend "Terreh". More vodka passed between us (not literally) and after a couple of exciting events, not to be discussed here, we set off for the club.
Arriving at the establishment we noticed a few things. a) it was free to get in and b) there was nobody there. Perfect. Did we stop to get a drink? No. Straight to the dancefloor we hopped, and boogeyed to many-a-cheese-stricken track, even though the DJ appeared to be naff. Mike gave his inspiration to the chap, who proceeded to play his requests, including the best of S Club, and Blue shortly following. Upon the strike of midnight, the club became a hunting ground for young single men. Who were the predators you ask? Fat ugly women. And lo, it came to pass, that Dave got his fair share of fat ugly beef, and headed home with nothing but a smile on his face.
After discussing where we would eat at 2am, Dave and Mike headed to a local fried chicken and pizza shop, whereas me and Jon decided that a kebabby would be more appropriate. I can't say what happned in the chicken shop, but I can say that the sounds were heard from miles around. Assisted by the acrobatic cartwheeling skills of Mike throughout the streets of Canterbury, Jon, Dave and myself stumbled home, munching donner meat and telling tales of woe. After arriving home through the back entrance, with the added benefit that there is no lock, we stumbled into our seats, and alas fell straight asleep.
The morning came, along with the aftermath of the night before, Dave's hand firmly down his trousers, dribble oozing from his mouth like a young child, cornflakes, half eaten, with donner meat for added texture, empty vodka bottles, the stench of...Jon, and memories to last a lifetime.
I ask you - does Yog really deserve a bad name on BW? Yes - he eats shit, looks worse, and rags fat mingers.
I bed yee farewell.
