I love my hometown.
It's probably got something to do with the fact that I was relocated to some satellite town, suburban concrete and cardboard monstrosity at the tender age of five. Nevertheless, nights out still involved a short (err... 1hour) bus trip to the city.

Nights out were never dull though - I fondly recall playing mince pie rugby on the bowling green one evening, and the time a random stranger decided to start wafting some amyl nitrate under my highly drunk nose. The real draw, though, was the nutters that you'd meet out and about. Most had become fairly well known over the years and the usual drink and drug addled crazies would come up with ever more inventive, and alarming ways to provide for a little more chemical companionship.

One particular evening I was in one of my favourite drinking establishments, partaking in a refreshing pint of alcoholic apple juice with my friends, when 'Ted' rolled up to our table.

I somehow doubt that Ted was his real name, but everyone has met, and probably backed away nervously from, a 'Ted'. He was relatively harmless, and well known locally so the bar staff took no real heed. On this particular occasion he had this massive, slightly bumpy-looking bag with him. Wearily, heading no thought for the phrase that would eventually be drilled into me by my wife - "Do not engage" - I asked Ted what on earth he had in the bag.

"Well," he growled, "arr bin lookin' fer somefin' in'erestin' an' arr 'appen to fine meself rand the back-er-the-docks din' arr?"

"Riiiiiiiiiiight..."

"Well you know aww vem fancy shops vey bin buildin' - 'ey've bin chuckin' loads of stock, right? So I fand meself 'iss grea' big box full of loads of brass por' 'oles an' stuff!"

"You found it...? Round the back of a new shop...? And they were chucking it out?"

"'Onest mush, arr even checked wivva manager din' arr - an' 'ee sez arr' c'n 'ave i'!"*

At which point, with almost perfect timing, a police car rolls past the window. Ted jumps like he's had a cattle prod rammed into his spinal column, drops the bag with a resounding THUNK-CLINK-clink! and is gone quicker than you can say "Errr... They've gone now."

Curious as to what dubious wares Ted has 'found' my drinking companions and I opened the bag to see what we had inadvertently won... Ships in bottles. Hundreds of the fuckers. Perfect scale models of some of Portsmouth's finest historic fleet. Quite what the barmy old wolfhound thought he was going to do with them I've got no idea, but we made sure we kept a few each and left the bag for him to find when he eventually crawled back.

And that, dear reader, is the story of my little Victories.

*I should stress that it is extremely difficult to type a Portsmouth accent accurately.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Fri 11 Feb 2011, 0:44, 4 replies)

has portsmouth moved to zommerzett?

still, makes oi larrrffff
(weaselinajetengine, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 1:00, closed)

As an accent it's somewhere between zommerzett and laaahndaan
and almost impossible to recreate...
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Fri 11 Feb 2011, 1:03, closed)

the time a random stranger decided to start wafting some amyl nitrate under my highly drunk nose
You were selected as the target for a gay-bumsex-date-rape!

Also spang and all that. Good story
(tubeman trousers, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 11:16, closed)

Well what can I say...
It's that kind of a place!

Very much easy come, burning itch and unable to go.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Fri 11 Feb 2011, 12:41, closed)