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» War
Make love, not war
Or, failing love, a quick shag. Office Christmas night out in Newcastle upon Tyne a few years ago...
All four of us are worse for wear by about 11. My business partner (not a big drinker) is passed out on a bar stool, but me and the two guys we had working for us at the time are still upright and drinking.
So, it gets to that point in the night where sambuca seems like a fantastic idea, and I order 4 shots. Thinking my balance is currently somewhat impaired by alcohol, I decide to take the shots back to our corner in relays of 2 to prevent flavouring the carpet again.
On returning to the bar, there are 2 empty sambuca shot glasses left, and 3 rather smug, lanky bastards standing next to them. I ask the barman who drank them (I was gone for a maximum of 30 seconds), and he just shrugs and walks off. So, I decide the next course of action is to challenge them. They all flat out deny it, and there follows a heated argument including frequent claims from both sides about the marital status of the respective parents.
After much heated discussion and threats to "take this outside" (it's OK, I think I could run faster than they could), we get talking, and find they're apprentice joiners from Sunderland, and we end up playing pool with them.
This point would be a good one to say that one of the guys - we'll call him Noah for comedy value - we had working for us was gay. Noah was 35, shortish but fairly muscle-bound.
As the game of pool descended in to swearing at the quiz machine, we glanced back to see Noah snogging this 18 year old apprentice like a leaky dishwasher. I happened to lived with Noah at the time, and as they disappeared home to make sweet, sweet manly love at the flat, I stayed out for a few more hours to give my flatmate some space.
Funniest thing of it all was the gay apprentice's mates locked in stunned silence for 10 minutes after the snog, after which they only seemed to be able to say "we never knew he was gay"!
And yes, it probably was them who drank the shots, the thieving Mackem scumbags ;)
tl;dr: a half-arsed bar argument turned in to a night of man-on-man passion right before my very eyes.
(Fri 1st Jun 2012, 15:22, More)
Make love, not war
Or, failing love, a quick shag. Office Christmas night out in Newcastle upon Tyne a few years ago...
All four of us are worse for wear by about 11. My business partner (not a big drinker) is passed out on a bar stool, but me and the two guys we had working for us at the time are still upright and drinking.
So, it gets to that point in the night where sambuca seems like a fantastic idea, and I order 4 shots. Thinking my balance is currently somewhat impaired by alcohol, I decide to take the shots back to our corner in relays of 2 to prevent flavouring the carpet again.
On returning to the bar, there are 2 empty sambuca shot glasses left, and 3 rather smug, lanky bastards standing next to them. I ask the barman who drank them (I was gone for a maximum of 30 seconds), and he just shrugs and walks off. So, I decide the next course of action is to challenge them. They all flat out deny it, and there follows a heated argument including frequent claims from both sides about the marital status of the respective parents.
After much heated discussion and threats to "take this outside" (it's OK, I think I could run faster than they could), we get talking, and find they're apprentice joiners from Sunderland, and we end up playing pool with them.
This point would be a good one to say that one of the guys - we'll call him Noah for comedy value - we had working for us was gay. Noah was 35, shortish but fairly muscle-bound.
As the game of pool descended in to swearing at the quiz machine, we glanced back to see Noah snogging this 18 year old apprentice like a leaky dishwasher. I happened to lived with Noah at the time, and as they disappeared home to make sweet, sweet manly love at the flat, I stayed out for a few more hours to give my flatmate some space.
Funniest thing of it all was the gay apprentice's mates locked in stunned silence for 10 minutes after the snog, after which they only seemed to be able to say "we never knew he was gay"!
And yes, it probably was them who drank the shots, the thieving Mackem scumbags ;)
tl;dr: a half-arsed bar argument turned in to a night of man-on-man passion right before my very eyes.
(Fri 1st Jun 2012, 15:22, More)
» The Great Outdoors
Being a tight bastard
a friend of mine had developed a novel way of getting home without paying for a taxi.
After spending all of his night-out money in Newcastle on beer, and living 15 to 20 miles away in the 'wilds' of Northumberland, he'd start walking home along the dual carriageway after calling the police from a phonebox to inform them there was a 'very drunk guy walking on the main road'.
This seemed to work a few times - the police would turn up, see he was drunk (and assume he was more drunk than he actually was - only a manic would walk 20 miles on the dual carriageway at night, after all) and drive him home.
He's since given this in after the police got wise to this trick, and told him he'd have to get off the dual carriageway and walk it by another route, or get a taxi.
Queue him waking up in a hedgerow 10 miles from his house last summer, probably thankful there wasn't 6 inches of snow around him!
(Mon 2nd Apr 2012, 12:43, More)
Being a tight bastard
a friend of mine had developed a novel way of getting home without paying for a taxi.
After spending all of his night-out money in Newcastle on beer, and living 15 to 20 miles away in the 'wilds' of Northumberland, he'd start walking home along the dual carriageway after calling the police from a phonebox to inform them there was a 'very drunk guy walking on the main road'.
This seemed to work a few times - the police would turn up, see he was drunk (and assume he was more drunk than he actually was - only a manic would walk 20 miles on the dual carriageway at night, after all) and drive him home.
He's since given this in after the police got wise to this trick, and told him he'd have to get off the dual carriageway and walk it by another route, or get a taxi.
Queue him waking up in a hedgerow 10 miles from his house last summer, probably thankful there wasn't 6 inches of snow around him!
(Mon 2nd Apr 2012, 12:43, More)
» Ignorance
Some classics from work
"Which one is the homepage?"
"Can you optimise my website for the word 'porn' so I get more traffic?"
"The website doesn't work."
(After a brief conversation, we found out BT had cut their office Internet/phone off for non-payment and NO websites worked!)
(Fri 31st Aug 2012, 16:33, More)
Some classics from work
"Which one is the homepage?"
"Can you optimise my website for the word 'porn' so I get more traffic?"
"The website doesn't work."
(After a brief conversation, we found out BT had cut their office Internet/phone off for non-payment and NO websites worked!)
(Fri 31st Aug 2012, 16:33, More)
» Training courses, seminars and conferences
A Polish MacDonalds, smashed shot glasses and hookers
I got invited to speak at an industry conference in Krakow (awesome city, visit if you can) last year. Fancying a bit of a jolly, I accepted and it happened that quite a few other Brits were there too, either speaking or attending.
As speakers, the conference organisers fed us and paid the majority of our bar tab every night, and what the organisers didn't cover, the locals and attendees were more than happy to chip in, despite my protests. In 6 days, I spent a grand total of £80 there, and most of that was at the airport on my way back.
Anyway, I digress. The conference itself was 2 days long; I was there for 5 nights, as were the rest of the Brits (EasyJet flights are awkward and infrequent from my local airport in t'north).
After one particularly heavy night (3rd night in, I think) - where the locals in this beautiful underground bar had spent all night buying shots and smashing the empty glasses against the wall, with the bar staff not batting an eyelid - we left the bar bleary-eyed in to the evening/very early morning. Poland does not seem to have any real licensing laws; the bars just close when people have finished drinking, or when the bar men want to go home.
There is one 24 hour MacDonalds in Krakow; we knew it was close to the bar we'd just left, but could not remember where. Drunken munchies pushed us to walk around the city in search of this for an hour and a half, before we walked down a rather dark alley.
Here, many scantily clad ladies of the night were leaning against walls, lampposts and other cliche street furniture, overlooked by bulky skinheads, in the hope of doing some/the business. A particular young lady (I use 'lady' lightly; she could well have been a cross-dressing body builder from what my mind allows me to recall from that night) took such a liking to me she thought it prudent to grab my genitalia and entice me in.
I managed to de-engage my testicles from her hands fairly swiftly (well, as fast as I could without tearing vital tissue and spilling my 'nads over the street), took one look at the other Brit who hadn't given in for our MacD quest, and hastily beat a retreat (no euphemism) in the direction of a more brightly lit street.
When the missus asked how my trip had gone on my return, I may have negated to mention the street of professional ladies. After all, I quite like my testicles where they are.
tl;dr: Poland; booze, propositioned by the local professionals.
(Fri 16th Mar 2012, 17:41, More)
A Polish MacDonalds, smashed shot glasses and hookers
I got invited to speak at an industry conference in Krakow (awesome city, visit if you can) last year. Fancying a bit of a jolly, I accepted and it happened that quite a few other Brits were there too, either speaking or attending.
As speakers, the conference organisers fed us and paid the majority of our bar tab every night, and what the organisers didn't cover, the locals and attendees were more than happy to chip in, despite my protests. In 6 days, I spent a grand total of £80 there, and most of that was at the airport on my way back.
Anyway, I digress. The conference itself was 2 days long; I was there for 5 nights, as were the rest of the Brits (EasyJet flights are awkward and infrequent from my local airport in t'north).
After one particularly heavy night (3rd night in, I think) - where the locals in this beautiful underground bar had spent all night buying shots and smashing the empty glasses against the wall, with the bar staff not batting an eyelid - we left the bar bleary-eyed in to the evening/very early morning. Poland does not seem to have any real licensing laws; the bars just close when people have finished drinking, or when the bar men want to go home.
There is one 24 hour MacDonalds in Krakow; we knew it was close to the bar we'd just left, but could not remember where. Drunken munchies pushed us to walk around the city in search of this for an hour and a half, before we walked down a rather dark alley.
Here, many scantily clad ladies of the night were leaning against walls, lampposts and other cliche street furniture, overlooked by bulky skinheads, in the hope of doing some/the business. A particular young lady (I use 'lady' lightly; she could well have been a cross-dressing body builder from what my mind allows me to recall from that night) took such a liking to me she thought it prudent to grab my genitalia and entice me in.
I managed to de-engage my testicles from her hands fairly swiftly (well, as fast as I could without tearing vital tissue and spilling my 'nads over the street), took one look at the other Brit who hadn't given in for our MacD quest, and hastily beat a retreat (no euphemism) in the direction of a more brightly lit street.
When the missus asked how my trip had gone on my return, I may have negated to mention the street of professional ladies. After all, I quite like my testicles where they are.
tl;dr: Poland; booze, propositioned by the local professionals.
(Fri 16th Mar 2012, 17:41, More)