King of Excellent (according to Scaryduck)

Thursday, August 6


Wilf and I were up to mischief. The drinks cabinet of the house my father and I shared in Reading had a few unsavoury spirits, and after my previous experiences of spirits, I should have known better. You just know this is going to be stupid.
Inside the cabinet there was a large 1.5litre (about 3 pints Dad) of Absolute Vodka, from the land of the blonde hair and nocturnal sun. I was 18, we were bored, and basically with a few friends we tucked in. This vodka might as well have been meths, because it was a particularly nasty 90% blend. It also tasted like meths. Not having much in the way of mixers in the house, we brought a cheap bottle of Lemonade from the local Patel's and tucked into pints of the vile concoction. After an hour or so, we found that we didn't care any more, and went out to see what was going on. We didn't want to carry both bottles, so we emptied the Vodka into the lemonade bottle, and to our joy it all fitted. (Yes, we'd had over half the bottle already)
Being a teenager, I found myself sitting outside the deserted supermarkets of Caversham, on a bench, and sharing a now warm bottle of Vodka and Lemonade, and giggling uncontrollably. I'm not sure, but I think at one point I was chatting up the girls from the local chippy as they left to go home about midnight. I also remember, I was full of fail. To be honest, I think that even if they had wanted me to buzz their brillo, no amount of scaffolding or special effects could have helped. I was well and truly under the influence. The action didn't stop there however. We went down to the kebab van, a well known late night eatery in a bus stop in the middle of Caversham. £2.50 of wedge would get you manna from heaven in the form of dead roadkill and chopped lettuce in a pitta bread with sulphuric acid disguised loosely as chilli sauce. What munched merrily away whilst chatting to the chap (Carmicheal Hunt we called him) about anything and everything, before heading home.
Near where I lived was a shortcut across a park. Like homing pigeons, the now very very drunk three of us staggered up Hemdean Road, past the now deserted Patel's on the corner, and turned right into the car park of the local doctor's surgery.
"Hang on Lads," says Ollie, "I think I need to paint a hedge," and off he disappeared with a noise akin to "Blerk."
Wilf and I slumped down onto the floor, and missed. Straightening ourselves up, as I sat there swaying in the wind, Wilf had a bright idea.
"Wre bythe doc'or's" he slurred. "They'll have prescrips *hic*, prescrips *hic*, them things with drugs on."
Outside the door of the doctors was an external letter box, clearly labeled "Repeat Prescriptions Only." Wilf put his arm into the letterbox, whilst I protested that this really wasn't a good idea. Meanwhile, Ollie returned, looking a lot better then he had for hours.
"What you doin'? Are yous fking mad? *hic*"
Wilf was up to his elbow in letterbox, when suddenly I became aware of a bright light. The great Lord himself hadn't felt the need to intervene, but the darkness of the car park was lit up by some car headlights as someone used it to turn around.
"Smeg" says I. "It's the rozzers. Scarper!" Wanting to avoid the delights of the two local Scottish inmates "Ben Doon" and "Phil McAvity," off I set as quickly as possible for the safety of the park next door, now a delightful shade of yellowy ooze from Ollie's excursion. Unfortunately, the flatness of the car park and the kerb were all disguised by the darkness that had returned, and over I went, hitting the deck hard. The alcohol meant that anaesthetic wasn't needed, and I picked myself up and continued on into the park. Wilf and Ollie appeared seconds later.
"Shit mate! You alright? You've got blood everywhere."
I looked at my hands. Bloody. I looked at my legs. Bloody. My chin had a chunk missing and was bleeding profusely. Still unable to feel anything, I said it was only a scratch and we returned to my house.
The next morning, the hangover hit hard. The pounding in my head was so loud, it actually woke me up. As I laid there, looking at the ceiling, I remembered what had happened the night before. I tried to move my arms, but they were set in concrete. Ditto with my legs. "Wiiiilf!!" I cried, as I tried to move. Wilf appeared at the bedroom door, and burst into laughter. "Fuck me mate, you look like a bizarre bacon slicing accident." He helped me onto my feet, where I looked into the mirror. I was a mess. I had a deep gash in my chin (I still have the scar), both my arms were like I'd lost a battle with a sander, and my left knee had seen better days. In fact, the hole just above my knee was so bad, I had to bandage it so I could bend my leg again. It was about 4 inches across, and looked like the sort of graze you get as a child, only a lot bigger.
We took a walk (or limp, in my case) down the the scene of the crime. The nearly empty bottle of Lemonade was still there.
"I'm having that," said Wilf, collecting it for presumably hair of the dog.
The only other evidence of any ongoings was the long pink smear across the car park and up onto the pavement.
"What's that?" says Wilf.
"My knee, I think" says I.

Think Once. Think Twice. Think Don't Get Pissed and Steal Prescriptions and Get a Large Chunk of Your Leg Spread Along the Pavement*. It's just stupid.

*courtesy of the excellent duck