Tuesday Night Tomfoolery

What do you get if you cross myself, the Boy Dazzler, El Grande Queso, the Shoutster and several post match pints? Buffoonery, that's what. After watching the Bantams dispose of Rotherham, we strolled into town to sink a few post match pints at the City Vaults. The good ideas at the time syndrome started almost immediately, when to warm us up after our chilly walk, we chased down the first pints with a test tube of Jagermeister. Half a gallon of lager later, Stevie mentioned the Casino for a night cap, and we all agreed, as long as no one bought any Tequila. Alas, on arrival at the Gala casino, Dazzler noticed Bullet bourbon, and things began to get slightly messy. Several whiskey late, including a Johnny Walker Gold, £6.90 a pop, we hit the tables. El Queso had no luck on the roulette, but I was making decent headway at Black jack when disaster struck for the Boy. Sat watching the games unfold, some fuckwit jumped from his seat, and knocked the Boys drink flying. He then sat there, no apology, gormless look on face, and then unbelievably, refused point blank to go and buy another one. Well in my books this is one of the biggest sins a fella can commit, and I gave him a piece of my mind big time. As he sat there, cowering under the torrent of obscenity filled abuse I heaped upon his worthless carcass, his bint decided to chime in with her two pence worth. Unlucky for her, I had held back some of my choicest swear words, and decided to giver this stupid old slapper the benefit of my expansive catalogue of swear words that relate to the milder sex. The clumsy fuckwit who had caused all the commotion in the first place, took this opportunity to leg it, and his stupid cum bucket bitch, decided to complain to the management. But Stevie was losing to much brass for us to be shown the door, so she went off in a huff, as I calmed down to carry on with the cards. The next major talking point, at around half one I think was the earthquake. I must admit, I felt nowt, I thought Dazzlers swaying was down to the bourbon. Everything went along fairly smoothly till, about four, when Dazzlers drunkenness proved to much for the staff. He wasn't causing any harm as such, but he was getting louder and not playing any of the tables, so he was shown the door. I went to round up the troops to go with him, but by the time we made the entrance, he was gone, on his way home in a cab. Stevie wouldn't hear of going home, and announced we were to go back in to take the house down. Inside we met a geezer called Kevin, and bolstered with yet more whiskey, we went for the kill. Stevie finally admitted defeat at around five thirty, and we left for good, properly pissed by now. I have no idea how much Shouty and Steve won or lost, but the fact neither had a shirt on their back, didn't bode well. I broke a personal duck though, and managed to leave £50 up, a first on these shores. The next problem to surmount though was one we hadn't planned on. At 5:45 Wednesday a.m. in Bradford city centre, there ain't much call for taxi's, so we were stood around freezing our knackers off wondering how to get home. At this point Stevie and Shouty thought spit roasting a statue would be the answer(see right). I on the other hand, and with a moment of lucidity realising work was a mere two hours hence, decided to ring Girlington cabs, which proved more fruitful than humping an inanimate object. The next morning I awoke at 10:30 a.m., a massive two and a half hours late for work, stinking of booze. Dazzler somehow made to Leeds, as did Shouty. The problem for the Right Honourable was the small matter that he works in Bradford. Numb nuts had got on the wrong train. Queso, who professes to be a captain of industry, didn't have no gaffer to answer to, so stayed in bed. He did however awaken to find himself covered in stickers with the words "You are a wanker" written on them. He had rung his missus on the way home, saying he was late because of the earthquake, and when told to stop talking nonsense, told the truth as he stood there a pleased as punch. He isn't allowed out with me now for three months. And what of the Elsters reaction? I opened the door to try and sneak upstairs, only to be felled by the sleeping dog, which made a right racket. She was not impressed in the slightest, and when I pointed out to her that she liked it when Tony Soprano does it, I was informed in no certain terms that I was NOT the fictional New Jersey mob boss. Safe to say for me and the Shoutster, it wasn't the most fun filled of days, but everything comes at a price, and it was worth it. As a footnote, on my way to football later that day, I drove past the Boy Dazzler out on the lash again. Legend.