After the mighty bantams victory, El Grande Queso, Crespo, myself and the Rt Hon Shouty ended up in the backwaters of Wilsden, via the Black Bull in Clayton, at the old bender haunt the Villager. Helen was also there, and after a few Carlsbergs, Queso broke out the JD chasers. After two or three of Lynchburgs finest exports, young Helen suggested Jagermeister and red bull chasers. Nasty! I can still taste that shit two days later. After two or three of these bad boys, someone broke out a bottle of black absinthe. This made the Jagermeister taste like nectar from heaven. Queso reckons he could run his motor on this foul drink from Hell. After two or three of these MoFo's, I am afraid my tale ends. The next thing I remember was waking up at Crespo's house, with absolutely no recollection of anything that happened in the previous two or three hours. Helen rolled in at around six, after going to Lingards with the Right Honourable Shouty, who is probably not allowed to play out with us any more.
2 comments:
It has since been reported back to me that I blew chunks outside the boozer. Oh dear.....
wuss
Post a Comment