widg‧et /ˈwɪdʒɪt/ [wij-it] -noun: Pointless ramblings from the New Forest. Obviously complete & utter Rubbish. Why must I contibute to all this endless talk about me? My self-indulgent knees, spilling themselves all over the internet. Obviously i am Jon and his hair, I AM HIM!

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Tora! Tora! Tora!

Just as we least expected it, a weekend of drunken debauchery, Abba The Movie & rampant Frida ogling was brought to an abrupt end late last night. The wind was whistling through the rustling lampposts, the local wildlife were picking through the remnants of fallen kebab. We had sacrificed both 'Dancing On Ice' & 'Making Your Mind Up' at the altar of booze. The scene was set for a relaxing 30 second amble home from the pub, but as we rounded the corner, our paths were crossed with scum. Glaze-eyed & mouth-foamy as they were, Rat-Boy & his appendage seemed to take exception to the style of our eyebrows and suddenly proceeded to release wave after wave of high-pitched noise & flailing fists.

Hoorah, my first proper fight had begun; although it wasn't a really a proper fight, more of a slow-motion skirmish with commercial breaks. But still. You can't take it away from me. Please don't take it away from me. No, I beg you, just leave me with this one small glimmer of fight.

Another set of assailants emerged from our right flank and adjusted their Burberry, before joining in the fun. My little kangaroo jig failed to lighten the mood and I was rewarded with a sovereign-ring-assisted bloody nose for my effort. There was lots of shrugging & staring in disbelief in between the bouts of hair pulling & nipple tweaking. All too soon it was over. The rozzers were called, but they just marched on past us and towards a more juicy conflict around the corner.

So we scarpered for home in order to enjoy some hot, sweet tea; lukewarm, sweet cider; soothing Guinness Marmite, in honour of St. Paddy; and a debriefing session to debate the merits of our evening's tactics, until the sinister lure of Abba & Bagpuss could be resisted no longer.

This morning, whilst catering to the whims of misbegotten offspring, hoping a can of tramp juice would suffice as a gift for their most holy mothers, we encountered the remnants of last night's opponents. They were strangely unwilling to acknowledge our existence, short of a quick expletive or two, and waddled off down the street with our hollow, empty laughter ringing through their hollow, empty heads.

Currently listening: If The Ocean Gets Rough by Willy Mason


Blogger Si said...

No fair... while the kangaroo bobbing and girl on lady throttling was going on I was on the floor orally oozing O positive. I missed the best bits. Thank frak for Bagpuss tho.

10:19 pm

Blogger AlphIANo said...

Eh? What the fuck? Hockey mentioned something about a fight but I assmued it was drunken troll ramblings and miss-flinged beer cans.

An actual fight, with blood and everything? Wowsers! And I missed it. Seriously, do you guys save up these uber-exciting events for nights I'm not there?

PS: Which rat-boy was it?

4:46 am

Blogger Jennie-Dee said...

The rat-skirmish was truly worth it, purely to read this blog, which had me snorking with mirth into my hefty, three-day-old potato! (Much to Perky's annoyance... I hope)

1:58 pm


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