Balls!
I was barred for life, at the age of seventeen, from the kiddies' play zone in the Coral Island (giant, hideous amusement arcade on Blackpool front) twice in one evening.

I'm not clear how it began, but it was back in the days when i still wore heels occasionally, so I suspect the bright and squashy foam bench things had proved a sight too tempting for my whisky-addled, swollen-footed self as my friend and I took a short cut through the arcade on the route round town. So sat we did, and in our sparkly be-trannyed finery, we caught the attention of a couple of the dwarfish ADHD-addled chavspawn who had been chucked in the play area while their parents downed blue WKDs at the bar. The next thing I knew, I was knee-deep in balls, laughing manically and lobbing the coloured projectiles with as much force and accuracy as half a bottle of scotch will allow at the tiny ASBOs. Very soon after, me and my friend were being escorted off the premises by some spotty herbert in a polo shirt and informed that we had earned ourselves a life ban. He took our photos. He took our details "for the manager's record." I have just remembered that I tried to give my name as "Mrs Crabstick", but was unable to keep from snorting with laughter at my own joke.

Now for some reason, I decided to take umbrage at this, and according to said poor friend, after howling wildly about "civil rights" at the glass door, and stamping about for ten minutes in a sniffy fit of "how dare they ban ME,"-style pique, I INSISTED that we should strike a blow against the evil profiteering scumbag corporate rat-bastards by trying to sneak back in through the other door and "staging a protest." And, by the old but infallible disguise method of switching coats and practically crawling along the floor under thr reception counter, we made it. We were there. And, once again, I made a wavering but determined line for the ball pool. My halfling adversaries were waiting, already beginning to shriek, balls firmly in hand.

"Right, you shysty wee crotch-pheasants," thought I, "prepare yourselves for Ballageddon." I strode on up. I clambered in. The barrage began, but as I grabbed my first round of assault grenades, a blurry shape appeared at the corner of my vision. It was the herbert. Once again, I was reprimanded, shouted at, and re-banned, or rather, "Mrs Crabstick" was. It was all pretty ridiculous. I don't know what had got into me that night. Or rather, I do, and so do the employees of the Coral Island circa '99, for as the herbert lunged to grab my arm and pull me out of the ball pool, I stumbled forward, swayed dramatically, gave a hearty belch, and puked all over my own legs.


Cock, etc.
(jennymnemonic, Mon 4 Sep 2006, 20:58, Reply)