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» The Police II
Yes...in Holland.
For having a bag of weed, if you can believe that! And it wasn't even mine!
However, I must elucidate 'pon the circumstances.
I, and my usual smoking-buddy/drinking partner/getaway driver, were on a 'Dutch Dash'. Organised by my company, I might add.
The ferry trip from Hell, sorry Hull, sorry, 'Ull, went as expected. Much merriment, and drinking, and dancing, and attempting to cop off with the fit girl from accounts ensued.
The next morning also went to plan. Kip on the bus from Rotterdam to Amsterdam, find a decent brekkie somewhere and then have a smoke. Pretty simple, yes?
It was.
Too simple, as it happens!
My erstwhile friend had decided (unbeknownst to me, of course) to bring back a biggish bag of the oh-so-goovy greenery. He smuggled it on board the ferry back (past all the dogs - for what it's worth, they are sniffing for explosives and not drugs).
Imagine my delight when we retire to our cabin for the return crossing, and he pulls out of his man-bag the aforementioned smoke (AK-47 from The Grey Area, much recommended). I was not so delighted when he started to roll up an admittedly impressive spliff in the cabin.
'For Christ's sake,' says I, 'at least smoke it on the top deck in the open. Like everyone else!'
'Nay,' sayeth he. 'It's fucking freezing.'
Seeing he has a point, but not wishing to be a part of what's coming next (remember the excursion is work organised!), I stumbled to the bar and proceeded to have a pint with my colleagues.
Until, that is, the large, hairy and frankfully scary security officer came and dragged me to my cabin.
'Sniff!' he bellows, unnecessarily, as the sweet smell has drifted outwards from our cabin, to a radius of possibly several yards.
Sensing the game was up, I did what every single person here would have done.
Squealed like a little girl. This did me no favours, as I'm sure you can imagine.
I was reunited with my mate in the main cabin of the ferry, right next to the walkway back to land. Looking down this tunnel I could see what looked like the entire Dutch Anti-Terrorism force storming up to the boat (OK, it was two gay dutch police, but I'm not about to ruin a frankly aweseome tale).
These police then arrested us and MARCHED US OFF THE FUCKING BOAT AND CHUCKED US INTO A JAIL CELL. IN THE PORT!
However, thinks I, it's not all bad, For starters, they didn't separate us, which has me thinking they know I haven't been involved in the incident on ship. For second, they haven't searched *my* bags, just those of my now battered companion.
Two hours later, after the two of us repeatedly thinking we can get out of this, followed by the thought we might not and voiding our bowels over the thought, the police come back.
My mate's bag of green was .03g under the limit for prosecution.
He got a hearty fine and a bollocking. My mate was a big type of chap, and the sight of a 6'2" rugby player getting a telling of from the campest policeman ever was a sight to behold.
After paying his fine, the security officer escorted us back onto the ship, where we received a hearty cheer, the offer of several beers and the fit girl from accounts was much more interested in me.
As for me?
I only got a tale to tell. And a release form from Dutch police for carrying half a gram of Blueberry.
(Sat 7th May 2011, 16:13, More)
Yes...in Holland.
For having a bag of weed, if you can believe that! And it wasn't even mine!
However, I must elucidate 'pon the circumstances.
I, and my usual smoking-buddy/drinking partner/getaway driver, were on a 'Dutch Dash'. Organised by my company, I might add.
The ferry trip from Hell, sorry Hull, sorry, 'Ull, went as expected. Much merriment, and drinking, and dancing, and attempting to cop off with the fit girl from accounts ensued.
The next morning also went to plan. Kip on the bus from Rotterdam to Amsterdam, find a decent brekkie somewhere and then have a smoke. Pretty simple, yes?
It was.
Too simple, as it happens!
My erstwhile friend had decided (unbeknownst to me, of course) to bring back a biggish bag of the oh-so-goovy greenery. He smuggled it on board the ferry back (past all the dogs - for what it's worth, they are sniffing for explosives and not drugs).
Imagine my delight when we retire to our cabin for the return crossing, and he pulls out of his man-bag the aforementioned smoke (AK-47 from The Grey Area, much recommended). I was not so delighted when he started to roll up an admittedly impressive spliff in the cabin.
'For Christ's sake,' says I, 'at least smoke it on the top deck in the open. Like everyone else!'
'Nay,' sayeth he. 'It's fucking freezing.'
Seeing he has a point, but not wishing to be a part of what's coming next (remember the excursion is work organised!), I stumbled to the bar and proceeded to have a pint with my colleagues.
Until, that is, the large, hairy and frankfully scary security officer came and dragged me to my cabin.
'Sniff!' he bellows, unnecessarily, as the sweet smell has drifted outwards from our cabin, to a radius of possibly several yards.
Sensing the game was up, I did what every single person here would have done.
Squealed like a little girl. This did me no favours, as I'm sure you can imagine.
I was reunited with my mate in the main cabin of the ferry, right next to the walkway back to land. Looking down this tunnel I could see what looked like the entire Dutch Anti-Terrorism force storming up to the boat (OK, it was two gay dutch police, but I'm not about to ruin a frankly aweseome tale).
These police then arrested us and MARCHED US OFF THE FUCKING BOAT AND CHUCKED US INTO A JAIL CELL. IN THE PORT!
However, thinks I, it's not all bad, For starters, they didn't separate us, which has me thinking they know I haven't been involved in the incident on ship. For second, they haven't searched *my* bags, just those of my now battered companion.
Two hours later, after the two of us repeatedly thinking we can get out of this, followed by the thought we might not and voiding our bowels over the thought, the police come back.
My mate's bag of green was .03g under the limit for prosecution.
He got a hearty fine and a bollocking. My mate was a big type of chap, and the sight of a 6'2" rugby player getting a telling of from the campest policeman ever was a sight to behold.
After paying his fine, the security officer escorted us back onto the ship, where we received a hearty cheer, the offer of several beers and the fit girl from accounts was much more interested in me.
As for me?
I only got a tale to tell. And a release form from Dutch police for carrying half a gram of Blueberry.
(Sat 7th May 2011, 16:13, More)
» Awesome teachers
Too many to mention really.
I had a great time at school (when I caould be arsed to show up) and always tried to get a lot from whatever lesson I was in. Woodworking teacher caught me smoking one time, shouted 'YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG!!!' an proceeded to show me advanced smoke-ring techniques. During a fire practice.
My favourite teacher, though, was Mr B. He taught music (the only lesson I religously turned up to, if I ever missed a music lesson it was kind of like Frank Gallagher going missing on Giro day). He gave me tips on arranging, composing, playing, conducting...you name it.
The best thing I can remember is when the school swing band was picked to play in the Daily Telegraph Jazz Musician of the Year, meaning a trip down to London. Wahey! A bunch of 14-17 year olds, all good mates, down in the big smoke for a weekend.
First night there, he got us all lost in Chinatown. Decent experience, condsidering we had all had a glass of wine or two at the restaurant we had gone to.
On the way back to the hotel, he collared me and said 'Look, General, I've had to put you in a room on your own, that OK?' Which was fucking fine by me. And the bottle of wine I'd brought. Unknown to me, he'd put the fit as fuck lead sax player in the room next door. By herself. And everyone else was on the floor below.
As a 15 year old that's pretty much awesome.
Next morning (after my first ever BJ and sexual experience) he collared me and said 'All relaxed for the big day then?' with a massive conspiratorial wink.
We went on to win an award and was asked to do loads of stuff after that. Unfortunately I've not seen the sax player since I left school but I wonder what she's up to now...
But as for the teacher, Mr. B: Awesome, inspirational and up for a beer at any time. What more do you want from a teacher?
(Thu 17th Mar 2011, 13:30, More)
Too many to mention really.
I had a great time at school (when I caould be arsed to show up) and always tried to get a lot from whatever lesson I was in. Woodworking teacher caught me smoking one time, shouted 'YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG!!!' an proceeded to show me advanced smoke-ring techniques. During a fire practice.
My favourite teacher, though, was Mr B. He taught music (the only lesson I religously turned up to, if I ever missed a music lesson it was kind of like Frank Gallagher going missing on Giro day). He gave me tips on arranging, composing, playing, conducting...you name it.
The best thing I can remember is when the school swing band was picked to play in the Daily Telegraph Jazz Musician of the Year, meaning a trip down to London. Wahey! A bunch of 14-17 year olds, all good mates, down in the big smoke for a weekend.
First night there, he got us all lost in Chinatown. Decent experience, condsidering we had all had a glass of wine or two at the restaurant we had gone to.
On the way back to the hotel, he collared me and said 'Look, General, I've had to put you in a room on your own, that OK?' Which was fucking fine by me. And the bottle of wine I'd brought. Unknown to me, he'd put the fit as fuck lead sax player in the room next door. By herself. And everyone else was on the floor below.
As a 15 year old that's pretty much awesome.
Next morning (after my first ever BJ and sexual experience) he collared me and said 'All relaxed for the big day then?' with a massive conspiratorial wink.
We went on to win an award and was asked to do loads of stuff after that. Unfortunately I've not seen the sax player since I left school but I wonder what she's up to now...
But as for the teacher, Mr. B: Awesome, inspirational and up for a beer at any time. What more do you want from a teacher?
(Thu 17th Mar 2011, 13:30, More)
» Get Rich Quick
I was on the receiving end of a get rich quick scheme...
...namely identity fraud. A good 10 years ago, I had a housemate who turned out to be a complete bastard. He had loans, credit cards in my name to the tune of 36,000.
I'm still paying it off now and will be for anther 5 years.
HOWEVER
As I am in need of a get rich quick scheme I propose I attempt the stupidist scheme you b3tan's can come up with. After all, I *really* have nothing to lose.
(Thu 31st Jul 2008, 19:07, More)
I was on the receiving end of a get rich quick scheme...
...namely identity fraud. A good 10 years ago, I had a housemate who turned out to be a complete bastard. He had loans, credit cards in my name to the tune of 36,000.
I'm still paying it off now and will be for anther 5 years.
HOWEVER
As I am in need of a get rich quick scheme I propose I attempt the stupidist scheme you b3tan's can come up with. After all, I *really* have nothing to lose.
(Thu 31st Jul 2008, 19:07, More)