Some weekend retardedness.
Discussion
Well, time for the latest Monday morning posting of truly moronic behaviour at the weekend, so that I can properly rue the depths of ineptitude I have once again fallen to.
My weekend started with the Festival of Speed on Friday which was, truth be told, a fantastic day. My companion for the day was a delight, being fun, pretty, a petrolhead and happily an ex-girlfriend, and therefore presenting no danger. A great day, followed by blatting home to London on some choice roads.
The evening, of course, is where it all goes wrong. I am having a few quiet ales in Spitalfields, when I get the phonecall. It is from one of my best friends, who is a great chap, but has a talent for carnage which surpasses even mine. It takes the form of a voicemail, left hurriedly, and a message that I need to get there immediately. Now this is a man that I have saved from being beaten up by gang members in New York, whom I have picked up from jail in Spain, and whom I have taken to the hospital in Berlin. So I worry about him. He’s a disaster. So I make my excuses, find the nearest cab, and hare over to Chelsea to find this liability of a man.
I get to the club. No entry, as I am wearing a polo shirt (I sodding hate the King’s Road – I really do). Bouncer says that if I can find a shirt, I can come in. No answer from my friend when I attempt to phone, who is in there somewhere. So I flag down some bloke in the street, offer him my polo shirt and some money for his shirt. He accepts. Yes, I bought a used shirt from a complete stranger in order to get into a club I don’t like in order to find out what the hell has happened to my friend (in the meantime I get another text message from him telling me to get in there quickly). I am by this stage a little suspicious, as there seems to be no trouble, bouncers don’t think there is any problem inside, but I’m here now so I may as well go in. Talk my way to the front of the queue by collaring some random girl who was waiting on her own, go in there. Buy the girl a drink to say thank you for getting me in, leave her with her friends, go and find my chum.
Who is standing at the bar with two women, animatedly gesticulating at them. Drinks on the bar, etc. He’s absolutely fine. I wander over and, through gritted teeth, ask him what was so important that I had to haul arse from the opposite end of London, change my clothes, sweet talk both bouncers and randoms in the queue to get into this dreadful, overpriced, pretentious hellhole.
“Well these girls are French, and I’m having trouble understanding them, so I could use you to translate - I think I'm in!”
We were thrown out because at that point, I put him in a headlock. Crappy King’s Road club and French coquettes 1, Flashman nil.
This is without Saturday’s special needs instalment, which saw me chased down the road by the hostess of the barbecue I was at, chucking bits of watermelon at me, calling me every name under the sun. Never mix with an angry American woman armed with chunks of vodka watermelon. That’s a top tip, that is. Getting a cab can prove difficult when covered in the stuff.
My weekend started with the Festival of Speed on Friday which was, truth be told, a fantastic day. My companion for the day was a delight, being fun, pretty, a petrolhead and happily an ex-girlfriend, and therefore presenting no danger. A great day, followed by blatting home to London on some choice roads.
The evening, of course, is where it all goes wrong. I am having a few quiet ales in Spitalfields, when I get the phonecall. It is from one of my best friends, who is a great chap, but has a talent for carnage which surpasses even mine. It takes the form of a voicemail, left hurriedly, and a message that I need to get there immediately. Now this is a man that I have saved from being beaten up by gang members in New York, whom I have picked up from jail in Spain, and whom I have taken to the hospital in Berlin. So I worry about him. He’s a disaster. So I make my excuses, find the nearest cab, and hare over to Chelsea to find this liability of a man.
I get to the club. No entry, as I am wearing a polo shirt (I sodding hate the King’s Road – I really do). Bouncer says that if I can find a shirt, I can come in. No answer from my friend when I attempt to phone, who is in there somewhere. So I flag down some bloke in the street, offer him my polo shirt and some money for his shirt. He accepts. Yes, I bought a used shirt from a complete stranger in order to get into a club I don’t like in order to find out what the hell has happened to my friend (in the meantime I get another text message from him telling me to get in there quickly). I am by this stage a little suspicious, as there seems to be no trouble, bouncers don’t think there is any problem inside, but I’m here now so I may as well go in. Talk my way to the front of the queue by collaring some random girl who was waiting on her own, go in there. Buy the girl a drink to say thank you for getting me in, leave her with her friends, go and find my chum.
Who is standing at the bar with two women, animatedly gesticulating at them. Drinks on the bar, etc. He’s absolutely fine. I wander over and, through gritted teeth, ask him what was so important that I had to haul arse from the opposite end of London, change my clothes, sweet talk both bouncers and randoms in the queue to get into this dreadful, overpriced, pretentious hellhole.
“Well these girls are French, and I’m having trouble understanding them, so I could use you to translate - I think I'm in!”
We were thrown out because at that point, I put him in a headlock. Crappy King’s Road club and French coquettes 1, Flashman nil.
This is without Saturday’s special needs instalment, which saw me chased down the road by the hostess of the barbecue I was at, chucking bits of watermelon at me, calling me every name under the sun. Never mix with an angry American woman armed with chunks of vodka watermelon. That’s a top tip, that is. Getting a cab can prove difficult when covered in the stuff.
Edited by Harry Flashman on Monday 5th July 10:43
Harry Flashman said:
stuff about my pants mate plus this:
This is without Saturday’s special needs instalment, which saw me chased down the road by the hostess of the barbecue I was at, chucking bits of watermelon at me, calling me every name under the sun. Never mix with an angry American woman armed with chunks of vodka watermelon. That’s a top tip, that is. Getting a cab can prove difficult when covered in the stuff.
Wtf did you try to do to her?This is without Saturday’s special needs instalment, which saw me chased down the road by the hostess of the barbecue I was at, chucking bits of watermelon at me, calling me every name under the sun. Never mix with an angry American woman armed with chunks of vodka watermelon. That’s a top tip, that is. Getting a cab can prove difficult when covered in the stuff.
alfa pint said:
Harry Flashman said:
stuff about my pants mate plus this:
This is without Saturday’s special needs instalment, which saw me chased down the road by the hostess of the barbecue I was at, chucking bits of watermelon at me, calling me every name under the sun. Never mix with an angry American woman armed with chunks of vodka watermelon. That’s a top tip, that is. Getting a cab can prove difficult when covered in the stuff.
Wtf did you try to do to her?This is without Saturday’s special needs instalment, which saw me chased down the road by the hostess of the barbecue I was at, chucking bits of watermelon at me, calling me every name under the sun. Never mix with an angry American woman armed with chunks of vodka watermelon. That’s a top tip, that is. Getting a cab can prove difficult when covered in the stuff.
This went down like a lead baloon, and I was forced to flee. And now they both detest me. Yet more fantastically inept work from yours truly.
alfa pint said:
Harry Flashman said:
This after telling her housemate, in front of everyone that she had "biblically epic tits".
I really don't help myself, sometimes
Biblically epic tits. What, proportioned like watermelons filled with vodka?I really don't help myself, sometimes
This is the housemate, not the melon lady. So you can see why this similarly went down poorly.
The thing is that after our chance encounter a couple of weeks back, I took her out to lunch, we talked it all through, all sorted, parted as friends.
So, in my view, her reaction to my involvement with one of her friends was unnecessary, disproportionate and wholly bonkers.
I was always taught not to laugh at other peoples misfortunes. But I can't help myself when I read your (rather regular) tales of woe!
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