Your most Mad Le Mans Memories?
Discussion
We had "the hot sauce incident" a couple of years back. One guy is t-total and came in a rusty E34 touring fitted with a police-type light bar and some similar accoutrements (important for later). One of our parties brought some of that terror-inducing hot-sauce to the campsite. This got passed about at about 11pm on the Friday night to some entertainment and then it went away and I retired about 01:00 leaving some of the team up. I get to sleep fairly reasonably and wake up at ~8am to find some of them looking haggard and one of the team with a massive bandage across his face.
Turns out that at about 2am, there'd been a kerfuffle in which someone had offered someone else hot-sauce rather insistently and, having refused, the proposed recipient pushed the sauce away quite strongly and it'd ended up in someone's eye. Cue our t-total guy who had to run him to the ER...down the Mulsanne at 5am of race day...with the light bar going.
Turns out that at about 2am, there'd been a kerfuffle in which someone had offered someone else hot-sauce rather insistently and, having refused, the proposed recipient pushed the sauce away quite strongly and it'd ended up in someone's eye. Cue our t-total guy who had to run him to the ER...down the Mulsanne at 5am of race day...with the light bar going.
Edited by JT3K on Thursday 17th May 11:16
Riding a 
s moped through huge camp fires late on Sunday night with a Mate on the back[with his jeans on fire] until it was completely fooked.
Driving a selection of exotic machinery through Indianapolis after the race on Sunday every year.
Repeatedly pissing on a frenchies tent who decided to pitch up with us overnight-whether he was in it or not.
Camping next to Drinking For Holland who bought a truck with 7000 litres of beer to give away-[but then we had loads of people piss up our tent so we burned it down].
Mad Friday at The Houx Annexe.
The Stranglers on stage.
Driving a Ford Raptor full of lads INTO the Guinness bar and going through their wooden floor.
s moped through huge camp fires late on Sunday night with a Mate on the back[with his jeans on fire] until it was completely fooked.Driving a selection of exotic machinery through Indianapolis after the race on Sunday every year.
Repeatedly pissing on a frenchies tent who decided to pitch up with us overnight-whether he was in it or not.
Camping next to Drinking For Holland who bought a truck with 7000 litres of beer to give away-[but then we had loads of people piss up our tent so we burned it down].
Mad Friday at The Houx Annexe.
The Stranglers on stage.
Driving a Ford Raptor full of lads INTO the Guinness bar and going through their wooden floor.
Geezer44 said:
Riding a s moped through huge camp fires late on Sunday night with a Mate on the back[with his jeans on fire] until it was completely fooked.
Repeatedly pissing on a frenchies tent who decided to pitch up with us overnight-whether he was in it or not.
Camping next to Drinking For Holland who bought a truck with 7000 litres of beer to give away-[but then we had loads of people piss up our tent so we burned it down].
Driving a Ford Raptor full of lads INTO the Guinness bar and going through their wooden floor.
And you wonder why so many people have binned this event off and opted for the Classic... s moped through huge camp fires late on Sunday night with a Mate on the back[with his jeans on fire] until it was completely fooked.Repeatedly pissing on a frenchies tent who decided to pitch up with us overnight-whether he was in it or not.
Camping next to Drinking For Holland who bought a truck with 7000 litres of beer to give away-[but then we had loads of people piss up our tent so we burned it down].
Driving a Ford Raptor full of lads INTO the Guinness bar and going through their wooden floor.
Not my memory but a great story for anyone who hasn't read it:
Red sausages
1998
Well, it all started with the choice of campsite I suppose. Expo. Opposite the pub, and just down the road from the main entrance and grandstand. It was my first time at le Mans, the atmosphere was great during qualifying, and I was really looking forward to watching the start from Tetre Rouge, one of the best places to watch it from according to Skipper.
We arrived on Wednesday afternoon, pitched the tents, got some food down our necks and proceeded to drink beer. After 8 or 9 of those crappy little French bottles, it was time to drop some off at the urinals, so I wandered off to the nearby toilet block. There was some strange French woman sitting outside with a plastic tin full of change, and a retard grin on her face. Must be a janitor type person I guessed, whilst noting the size of her arse, and figuring a massive dose of gene therapy would be the only way to breed it out of her family. I bet the midwife slapped her mother instead of the baby when she was born. Anyway, in I went. No urinals to be seen. Must have to piss in the bogs then, I guessed as I swung the door open on the first trap.
“Some has nicked the bog” was my first thought. Closer inspection however revealed a shower tray type thing with a 5 or 6 inch hole towards the back, and some mouldings towards the front on each side.
Slowly it dawned on me. These were the infamous “long drop” toilets that I had heard old people in pubs talking about when discussing their trips to “the continent” when they were young. Apparently you have to squat like a homesick muslim whilst trying to aim your turd down the hole, simultaneously doing your very best to not to piss on the shorts you didn’t have the foresight to remove.
'Well, I’m fked if I’m pissing in that' I thought to myself, even though the previous tenant had done a fine job of pissing all over the entire apparatus, (probably in a effort to wash some of the st off of it, in my considered opinion) so I moved on to the next door in search of a proper bog. No such luck, and a cursory inspection of all the other cubicles revealed that they were all long drops. Never being one to duck a challenge, I decided to have a piss in the last cubicle, being careful to adopt the Gallic custom of pissing all over it. No point in going abroad and not absorbing the local culture in my view.
Once relieved, I sauntered out of the toilet block, and even said “Bonjour Monsieur” in my most fluent French to the woman sitting outside, doing my bit for Anglo-French relations. She gave me a funny look, but I think it may have just been her face, as she looked like she had fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. I made a mental note not to s**t in that particular toilet block under any circumstances.
Thursday and Friday passed rather quickly, I think we went go-karting on Thursday, Friday night we had quite a few beers, and a really good barbeque, plenty of food. Skipper didn’t eat any of the spicy red sausages, so I had his share. There were even quite a few of the red sausages left over when everyone had finished eating, so I polished them off as I get hungry after a few pints. Not a lot of the people who had been to le Mans before ate the red sausages. Odd that, they were really tasty.
Saturday morning I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. Must be the excitement of being race day. We did breakfast, and went for a drive up the Mulsanne straight, which was quite good. We got back to the campsite at around 1pm, and settled down for a couple of pints before the planned 2:30 walk up to Tetre Rouge. The butterflies in my stomach had developed, and I was beginning to wonder if I might need a turd, as I hadn’t had one since Tuesday.
2:30 pm arrived, and I came to the conclusion that I actually did need a dump, but was forced to bake it for a while as everybody was getting ready to go to the track, and there was no way I was going to crap in the campsite toilets. No problem I thought, I’ll drop the kids off at the pool after watching the start, there was bound to be plenty of toilets at a place as famous as le Mans, and with any luck, they wouldn’t be long drops.
We set off at around 3:15. My arse was starting to get a bit twitchy, and was informing me that a long greasy turd would be forthcoming in approximately one hour, come what may. No problem, I thought : race starts at 4pm, we will watch ten laps or so, then we would wander off to a trackside bar, I would have a pint or two, then go to the toilets and unleash the beast, so to speak.
This turned out to be wishful thinking.
We made it to Tetre Rouge, and by five to four, I was developing an urgent knocking at the back door. Mr Brown and his children, wanted out, and he was letting me know in no uncertain terms. As this was my first le Mans, I was determined not to miss the start, and sent a message to the back door, informing it as to who was in charge. The contractions miraculously stopped, and thankfully nobody was aware of my predicament, the blazing sun giving me a perfect excuse for sweating like a pig and not moving a lot.
A helicopter flew overhead, in line with the cars on the parade lap. Absolutely amazing, couldn’t wait for the cars to come round on the first hot lap. Unfortunately this surge of enthusiasm seemed to motivate the manitou trapped within my bowels, causing it to surge towards the exit gate at top speed. Mission Control sent an urgent message to the sphincter, which slammed itself shut with only milliseconds to spare. A gust of fetid air managed to escape just before the doors slammed shut. Luckily a Panoz was going past at the time, hiding the noise of the fart, while the smell blended in nicely with rural France. Urban France too for that matter, but that is beside the point. At this point my brain went into survival mode, and I revised my original estimate down from ten laps and a couple of pints down to five laps and no pints. I was in serious and terminal danger of s*****g myself, and thirty degree heat at le Mans while wearing shorts was neither the time nor the place to do it in public for the first time since the age of six.
Thankfully 4 o’clock came, the race started, and all the cars came blasting past us. I managed to get seven or eight really good photos of the wire fence by the time they all went past for the first time. Unfortunately this lack of concentration on the major issue of the day had encouraged the beast within me, and it had now produced its “get out of jail free card” and was heading for the gate with renewed vigour.
“er, just going for a s**t, see you at the bar !” I shouted to the rest of our group. Nobody heard, as the leaders were just coming round for lap two.
I strode off purposefully towards the Dunlop bridge, confident of coming across a toilet block within five minutes. Ten yards later the demon turd made its presence felt again, and again I slammed my ahole shut, hoping that I hadn’t beheaded the fker in the process. Drastic times mean drastic measures, and I was forced to walk like Charlie Chaplin to keep the beast at bay. By this time I was sweating like Michael Jackson at a Primary School swimming gala, and was receiving some strange looks. fk ‘em, I was on a mission, and they were probably all French anyway.
Somehow I made it to the Dunlop Bridge without stting myself, and spotted what looked like a small toilet block in the not too far distance. I grabbed my shorts, pushed my arse cheeks together with some authority, and headed for the turd oasis.
As I got closer, there appeared to be a rather long queue outside it. A quick mental calculation of a maximum of two toilets inside, a thirty person queue outside it at 5 minutes average per dump would give me 45 minute wait. There was no choice, I had to head for the stters behind the main grandstand, from memory they were about 100 yards long, and would have a quick turnaround time. Charlie Chaplin took charge again, and off I went.
I arrived about fifteen minutes later, sweat pouring off me, and not sure if I had done a certain percentage of poo in my pants already. The queue wasn’t too bad, and it was moving forward at about one person every two minutes. After a while I got to the entrance, and saw another French woman with a bowl of change, and little mounds of two or three sheets of pink toilet paper on her desk. I figured she was selling posh toilet paper so the women could pat their delicate little beavers dry after a dainty girly pee, and that there would be some industrial waxy type paper in the men’s for some serious arse wiping. I smiled condescendingly on my way past. She smiled back, obviously noticing the six inch steps I was taking, the grey face, and the rapist-like sweating going on. bh.
The mental release of being in close proximity to a porcelain palace was having a detrimental affect on my ability to control the leviathan and potentially prize winning poo. I had a tortoise head that was more like an ostrich head, and it felt like it had Arnold Schwarzenegger's neck muscles. There were seven people in front of me, and by my calculations of previous st/piss ratios and timings, I had 8.4 minutes to go. Time stood still for what seemed like half an hour, but I suddenly found myself at the front of the queue. Ominously, I was starting to develop cramp in my left arse cheek, and my right leg was starting to tremble uncontrollably. A door opened about halfway down, and a skinny French t**t staggered out. The gene pool was obviously somewhat silted up when he was conceived.
Released from the starting blocks, I headed towards the cubicle like Ian Dury on speed. A five millisecond scan of the facilities revealed a proper toilet, no toilet seat though, and porcelain covered in the statutory French piss. Instantaneously I formed a plan of action : turn round, bolt the door, shorts down, and hover six inches above the bog.
I tentatively relaxed my arse muscles for the first time in approximately two hours, and felt a vacuum forming in my chest as the mother and father of all turds headed south and out quicker than Nelson Mandela on release day, and almost as smelly. After a couple of feet of steaming coil had fallen out, my arse closed with a loud fart of satisfaction, and all the stress and tension drained from my body. I smiled and awarded myself three pints of beer over and above what I felt capable of potentially drinking at any point during the next day, just like any proud father would. Mission accomplished, I looked around for the industrial toilet paper.
There were no toilet roll holders on the wall. There were no toilet rolls stacked nicely on the cistern. There was no toilet paper on the floor behind the bowl. There was a waste paper basket in the corner. Closer inspection revealed that it contained used pink toilet paper.
f**k.
I was faced with three options. 1: Not wipe my arse and wander around in the blazing sun back to the tent to get toilet paper, 2: Not wipe my arse, go to the back of the queue, queue up again and buy some pink toilet paper on the way past from the smirking inbred Frenchwoman, or 3: Improvise.
It was quite tricky getting my trainers off, then my socks, without standing on the piss on the floor in my socks and then bare feet with my shorts around my knees, but somehow I made it.
I pulled the first sock onto my hand, then pulled it tight up to my elbow, and held it there with my spare hand. The sweat in the sock from the two hour route march was particularly unpleasant so I ignored it. I then gave a gentle wipe to the overworked and stressed chocolate starfish with sock number one. When the first pass was complete, I rotated the sock through 180 degrees, then repeated the process more vigorously, and then did the same with sock number two. Pity I wasn’t born with four feet.
The rushed arse wiping with the socks had not entirely polished my ring to its normal standards, and I was beginning to think that maybe in the same way Scrapie jumped species from sheep and manifested itself as BSE in cows, I feared that I had developed “Athletes Arse” as there was a certain degree of itchiness going on. When we got back to camp at around six, I got my roll of as yet unused Andrex out of the bag and headed for the toilet block.
The swamp monster had been replaced by a younger version with an excellent pair of tits, but the leggings made her arse look like God had once stuffed a duvet into a pillow case, then replicated it in a human being just for a laugh. Must have been the other one’s daughter. “Bon Nuit” I said cheerily as I went in for a minor bum wiping session. She gave me a funny look, so I made a mental note to check for st on the back of my legs.
Minor bum wiping session my arse. Now I know why Andrex put toilet paper on rolls rather than socks. Whilst socks feel nice and soft on your feet, wiping them across your ahole four times in anger removes approximately thirty layers of skin from it. My fking ahole was in tatters. The Andrex wasn’t sure if it was mopping up a st or a period, and I was beginning to wonder myself. Beats me how poofters go on with all those funny condoms they stick up their arses. Anyway, half a roll of Andrex later, the old ringpeice was polished to an acceptable standard, so I lobbed the rest of the roll down the hole in the long drop, as statistically I wasn’t due for another dump until Thursday. Whilst doing so, I noted that the cubicle and toilet were remarkably clean. The janitor totty must have cleaned it just before I arrived. "Must remember to compliment her on the way out" I thoughtidly to myself. I flushed the toilet, and just made it out before the overflow got to the door. Janitor totty fluttered her eyelids at me, “la merdes sont tres bon” I remarked to her in perfect French. She looked at me oddly. Bugger, I had forgotten to check for st on the back of my legs.
Turdwise, the rest of the trip went without a hitch, although the Athletes Arse didn’t dissipate. Luckily the girlfriend at the time insisted on giving me thrush twice or so a week, so when I got home I went hunting for her canasten cream (found it right next to her anti-blowjob pills), applied it to the affected area and it cleared up in a couple of days.
1.If you eat the spicy red sausages, make sure you eat one immodium per red sausage without fail
2. If you need a dump, go for one immediately. There will never be a better time.
3. Never wipe your arse with your socks. Try your tee shirt instead, or :
4. Carry some toilet paper with you whenever you go to the track. At worst you wont use it, at best you will go home with the same number of clothes you came with and your ahole in one piece.
5.Use the cripple toilets wherever possible. They are pretty spacious and you don’t face butt the door when attempting to remove or replace your shorts.
Your second best option is to use the women’s toilets, as they tend not to piss all over the seats.
Third best is the pub opposite the expo campsite (BYO toilet paper) or Carre Four/ Macdonalds (BYO noseclip).
Fourth best is the toilets anywhere except Expo.
Red sausages
1998
Well, it all started with the choice of campsite I suppose. Expo. Opposite the pub, and just down the road from the main entrance and grandstand. It was my first time at le Mans, the atmosphere was great during qualifying, and I was really looking forward to watching the start from Tetre Rouge, one of the best places to watch it from according to Skipper.
We arrived on Wednesday afternoon, pitched the tents, got some food down our necks and proceeded to drink beer. After 8 or 9 of those crappy little French bottles, it was time to drop some off at the urinals, so I wandered off to the nearby toilet block. There was some strange French woman sitting outside with a plastic tin full of change, and a retard grin on her face. Must be a janitor type person I guessed, whilst noting the size of her arse, and figuring a massive dose of gene therapy would be the only way to breed it out of her family. I bet the midwife slapped her mother instead of the baby when she was born. Anyway, in I went. No urinals to be seen. Must have to piss in the bogs then, I guessed as I swung the door open on the first trap.
“Some has nicked the bog” was my first thought. Closer inspection however revealed a shower tray type thing with a 5 or 6 inch hole towards the back, and some mouldings towards the front on each side.
Slowly it dawned on me. These were the infamous “long drop” toilets that I had heard old people in pubs talking about when discussing their trips to “the continent” when they were young. Apparently you have to squat like a homesick muslim whilst trying to aim your turd down the hole, simultaneously doing your very best to not to piss on the shorts you didn’t have the foresight to remove.
'Well, I’m fked if I’m pissing in that' I thought to myself, even though the previous tenant had done a fine job of pissing all over the entire apparatus, (probably in a effort to wash some of the st off of it, in my considered opinion) so I moved on to the next door in search of a proper bog. No such luck, and a cursory inspection of all the other cubicles revealed that they were all long drops. Never being one to duck a challenge, I decided to have a piss in the last cubicle, being careful to adopt the Gallic custom of pissing all over it. No point in going abroad and not absorbing the local culture in my view.
Once relieved, I sauntered out of the toilet block, and even said “Bonjour Monsieur” in my most fluent French to the woman sitting outside, doing my bit for Anglo-French relations. She gave me a funny look, but I think it may have just been her face, as she looked like she had fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. I made a mental note not to s**t in that particular toilet block under any circumstances.
Thursday and Friday passed rather quickly, I think we went go-karting on Thursday, Friday night we had quite a few beers, and a really good barbeque, plenty of food. Skipper didn’t eat any of the spicy red sausages, so I had his share. There were even quite a few of the red sausages left over when everyone had finished eating, so I polished them off as I get hungry after a few pints. Not a lot of the people who had been to le Mans before ate the red sausages. Odd that, they were really tasty.
Saturday morning I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. Must be the excitement of being race day. We did breakfast, and went for a drive up the Mulsanne straight, which was quite good. We got back to the campsite at around 1pm, and settled down for a couple of pints before the planned 2:30 walk up to Tetre Rouge. The butterflies in my stomach had developed, and I was beginning to wonder if I might need a turd, as I hadn’t had one since Tuesday.
2:30 pm arrived, and I came to the conclusion that I actually did need a dump, but was forced to bake it for a while as everybody was getting ready to go to the track, and there was no way I was going to crap in the campsite toilets. No problem I thought, I’ll drop the kids off at the pool after watching the start, there was bound to be plenty of toilets at a place as famous as le Mans, and with any luck, they wouldn’t be long drops.
We set off at around 3:15. My arse was starting to get a bit twitchy, and was informing me that a long greasy turd would be forthcoming in approximately one hour, come what may. No problem, I thought : race starts at 4pm, we will watch ten laps or so, then we would wander off to a trackside bar, I would have a pint or two, then go to the toilets and unleash the beast, so to speak.
This turned out to be wishful thinking.
We made it to Tetre Rouge, and by five to four, I was developing an urgent knocking at the back door. Mr Brown and his children, wanted out, and he was letting me know in no uncertain terms. As this was my first le Mans, I was determined not to miss the start, and sent a message to the back door, informing it as to who was in charge. The contractions miraculously stopped, and thankfully nobody was aware of my predicament, the blazing sun giving me a perfect excuse for sweating like a pig and not moving a lot.
A helicopter flew overhead, in line with the cars on the parade lap. Absolutely amazing, couldn’t wait for the cars to come round on the first hot lap. Unfortunately this surge of enthusiasm seemed to motivate the manitou trapped within my bowels, causing it to surge towards the exit gate at top speed. Mission Control sent an urgent message to the sphincter, which slammed itself shut with only milliseconds to spare. A gust of fetid air managed to escape just before the doors slammed shut. Luckily a Panoz was going past at the time, hiding the noise of the fart, while the smell blended in nicely with rural France. Urban France too for that matter, but that is beside the point. At this point my brain went into survival mode, and I revised my original estimate down from ten laps and a couple of pints down to five laps and no pints. I was in serious and terminal danger of s*****g myself, and thirty degree heat at le Mans while wearing shorts was neither the time nor the place to do it in public for the first time since the age of six.
Thankfully 4 o’clock came, the race started, and all the cars came blasting past us. I managed to get seven or eight really good photos of the wire fence by the time they all went past for the first time. Unfortunately this lack of concentration on the major issue of the day had encouraged the beast within me, and it had now produced its “get out of jail free card” and was heading for the gate with renewed vigour.
“er, just going for a s**t, see you at the bar !” I shouted to the rest of our group. Nobody heard, as the leaders were just coming round for lap two.
I strode off purposefully towards the Dunlop bridge, confident of coming across a toilet block within five minutes. Ten yards later the demon turd made its presence felt again, and again I slammed my ahole shut, hoping that I hadn’t beheaded the fker in the process. Drastic times mean drastic measures, and I was forced to walk like Charlie Chaplin to keep the beast at bay. By this time I was sweating like Michael Jackson at a Primary School swimming gala, and was receiving some strange looks. fk ‘em, I was on a mission, and they were probably all French anyway.
Somehow I made it to the Dunlop Bridge without stting myself, and spotted what looked like a small toilet block in the not too far distance. I grabbed my shorts, pushed my arse cheeks together with some authority, and headed for the turd oasis.
As I got closer, there appeared to be a rather long queue outside it. A quick mental calculation of a maximum of two toilets inside, a thirty person queue outside it at 5 minutes average per dump would give me 45 minute wait. There was no choice, I had to head for the stters behind the main grandstand, from memory they were about 100 yards long, and would have a quick turnaround time. Charlie Chaplin took charge again, and off I went.
I arrived about fifteen minutes later, sweat pouring off me, and not sure if I had done a certain percentage of poo in my pants already. The queue wasn’t too bad, and it was moving forward at about one person every two minutes. After a while I got to the entrance, and saw another French woman with a bowl of change, and little mounds of two or three sheets of pink toilet paper on her desk. I figured she was selling posh toilet paper so the women could pat their delicate little beavers dry after a dainty girly pee, and that there would be some industrial waxy type paper in the men’s for some serious arse wiping. I smiled condescendingly on my way past. She smiled back, obviously noticing the six inch steps I was taking, the grey face, and the rapist-like sweating going on. b
h.The mental release of being in close proximity to a porcelain palace was having a detrimental affect on my ability to control the leviathan and potentially prize winning poo. I had a tortoise head that was more like an ostrich head, and it felt like it had Arnold Schwarzenegger's neck muscles. There were seven people in front of me, and by my calculations of previous st/piss ratios and timings, I had 8.4 minutes to go. Time stood still for what seemed like half an hour, but I suddenly found myself at the front of the queue. Ominously, I was starting to develop cramp in my left arse cheek, and my right leg was starting to tremble uncontrollably. A door opened about halfway down, and a skinny French t**t staggered out. The gene pool was obviously somewhat silted up when he was conceived.
Released from the starting blocks, I headed towards the cubicle like Ian Dury on speed. A five millisecond scan of the facilities revealed a proper toilet, no toilet seat though, and porcelain covered in the statutory French piss. Instantaneously I formed a plan of action : turn round, bolt the door, shorts down, and hover six inches above the bog.
I tentatively relaxed my arse muscles for the first time in approximately two hours, and felt a vacuum forming in my chest as the mother and father of all turds headed south and out quicker than Nelson Mandela on release day, and almost as smelly. After a couple of feet of steaming coil had fallen out, my arse closed with a loud fart of satisfaction, and all the stress and tension drained from my body. I smiled and awarded myself three pints of beer over and above what I felt capable of potentially drinking at any point during the next day, just like any proud father would. Mission accomplished, I looked around for the industrial toilet paper.
There were no toilet roll holders on the wall. There were no toilet rolls stacked nicely on the cistern. There was no toilet paper on the floor behind the bowl. There was a waste paper basket in the corner. Closer inspection revealed that it contained used pink toilet paper.
f**k.
I was faced with three options. 1: Not wipe my arse and wander around in the blazing sun back to the tent to get toilet paper, 2: Not wipe my arse, go to the back of the queue, queue up again and buy some pink toilet paper on the way past from the smirking inbred Frenchwoman, or 3: Improvise.
It was quite tricky getting my trainers off, then my socks, without standing on the piss on the floor in my socks and then bare feet with my shorts around my knees, but somehow I made it.
I pulled the first sock onto my hand, then pulled it tight up to my elbow, and held it there with my spare hand. The sweat in the sock from the two hour route march was particularly unpleasant so I ignored it. I then gave a gentle wipe to the overworked and stressed chocolate starfish with sock number one. When the first pass was complete, I rotated the sock through 180 degrees, then repeated the process more vigorously, and then did the same with sock number two. Pity I wasn’t born with four feet.
- ******************************
The rushed arse wiping with the socks had not entirely polished my ring to its normal standards, and I was beginning to think that maybe in the same way Scrapie jumped species from sheep and manifested itself as BSE in cows, I feared that I had developed “Athletes Arse” as there was a certain degree of itchiness going on. When we got back to camp at around six, I got my roll of as yet unused Andrex out of the bag and headed for the toilet block.
The swamp monster had been replaced by a younger version with an excellent pair of tits, but the leggings made her arse look like God had once stuffed a duvet into a pillow case, then replicated it in a human being just for a laugh. Must have been the other one’s daughter. “Bon Nuit” I said cheerily as I went in for a minor bum wiping session. She gave me a funny look, so I made a mental note to check for st on the back of my legs.
Minor bum wiping session my arse. Now I know why Andrex put toilet paper on rolls rather than socks. Whilst socks feel nice and soft on your feet, wiping them across your ahole four times in anger removes approximately thirty layers of skin from it. My fking ahole was in tatters. The Andrex wasn’t sure if it was mopping up a st or a period, and I was beginning to wonder myself. Beats me how poofters go on with all those funny condoms they stick up their arses. Anyway, half a roll of Andrex later, the old ringpeice was polished to an acceptable standard, so I lobbed the rest of the roll down the hole in the long drop, as statistically I wasn’t due for another dump until Thursday. Whilst doing so, I noted that the cubicle and toilet were remarkably clean. The janitor totty must have cleaned it just before I arrived. "Must remember to compliment her on the way out" I thoughtidly to myself. I flushed the toilet, and just made it out before the overflow got to the door. Janitor totty fluttered her eyelids at me, “la merdes sont tres bon” I remarked to her in perfect French. She looked at me oddly. Bugger, I had forgotten to check for st on the back of my legs.
Turdwise, the rest of the trip went without a hitch, although the Athletes Arse didn’t dissipate. Luckily the girlfriend at the time insisted on giving me thrush twice or so a week, so when I got home I went hunting for her canasten cream (found it right next to her anti-blowjob pills), applied it to the affected area and it cleared up in a couple of days.
- ******************************
1.If you eat the spicy red sausages, make sure you eat one immodium per red sausage without fail
2. If you need a dump, go for one immediately. There will never be a better time.
3. Never wipe your arse with your socks. Try your tee shirt instead, or :
4. Carry some toilet paper with you whenever you go to the track. At worst you wont use it, at best you will go home with the same number of clothes you came with and your ahole in one piece.
5.Use the cripple toilets wherever possible. They are pretty spacious and you don’t face butt the door when attempting to remove or replace your shorts.
Your second best option is to use the women’s toilets, as they tend not to piss all over the seats.
Third best is the pub opposite the expo campsite (BYO toilet paper) or Carre Four/ Macdonalds (BYO noseclip).
Fourth best is the toilets anywhere except Expo.
Potatoes said:
awesome story...brings back memories....... thanks for posting
Shame he didn't take a photo of the "lady of the Loo" as I remember her well 
alfie2244 said:
Any pics of the French woman that sat outside the toilet (hole in the floor) charging 5 Francs for a couple of strips of loo roll?
Potatoes said:
I'm not sure I'm ready to share this story yet, it happened in 2016 and I'm still coming to terms with it... but I'll give it a go.
So, the evening started as expected with us group of lads. Lots of beer, a poorly cooked BBQ and our neighbours being awesome and giving us shots of their various whiskeys. We moved on to see some lads who were struggling to pitch their tents because they were utterly fked, the most drunk I've ever seen anyone. So we thought we'd help but it turned we were just as drunk as them... so instead we all just wrestled one of them into an unpitched tent and locked him in. We laughed, he started snoring, we drank and forgot all about him until we saw him the next day and asked him where he got to the night before (another story).
One of the lads in the other group, not being good with names and being absolutely blotto just called everyone Tim, one of the lads in our group took great offence to being called Tim. That resulted initially in some aggressive posturing, a little animosity followed, then jovial pisstaking took place, followed by light flirting and then, finally, blowjob.
I can't believe Tim kissed Le Mans knob! Even togay, I am still unsure how it escalated so queerly. Fagrant homosexuality!
Disclaimer: This may or may not be factual, I and everyone involved don't have strong recollection of the evening... and Tim has blocked it from his memory!
'Timmy, Timmy, Timmy, Timmy.......'So, the evening started as expected with us group of lads. Lots of beer, a poorly cooked BBQ and our neighbours being awesome and giving us shots of their various whiskeys. We moved on to see some lads who were struggling to pitch their tents because they were utterly f
ked, the most drunk I've ever seen anyone. So we thought we'd help but it turned we were just as drunk as them... so instead we all just wrestled one of them into an unpitched tent and locked him in. We laughed, he started snoring, we drank and forgot all about him until we saw him the next day and asked him where he got to the night before (another story).One of the lads in the other group, not being good with names and being absolutely blotto just called everyone Tim, one of the lads in our group took great offence to being called Tim. That resulted initially in some aggressive posturing, a little animosity followed, then jovial pisstaking took place, followed by light flirting and then, finally, blowjob.
I can't believe Tim kissed Le Mans knob! Even togay, I am still unsure how it escalated so queerly. Fagrant homosexuality!
Disclaimer: This may or may not be factual, I and everyone involved don't have strong recollection of the evening... and Tim has blocked it from his memory!
Edited by Potatoes on Wednesday 16th May 21:09
Denzel75 said:
Potatoes said:
I'm not sure I'm ready to share this story yet, it happened in 2016 and I'm still coming to terms with it... but I'll give it a go.
So, the evening started as expected with us group of lads. Lots of beer, a poorly cooked BBQ and our neighbours being awesome and giving us shots of their various whiskeys. We moved on to see some lads who were struggling to pitch their tents because they were utterly fked, the most drunk I've ever seen anyone. So we thought we'd help but it turned we were just as drunk as them... so instead we all just wrestled one of them into an unpitched tent and locked him in. We laughed, he started snoring, we drank and forgot all about him until we saw him the next day and asked him where he got to the night before (another story).
One of the lads in the other group, not being good with names and being absolutely blotto just called everyone Tim, one of the lads in our group took great offence to being called Tim. That resulted initially in some aggressive posturing, a little animosity followed, then jovial pisstaking took place, followed by light flirting and then, finally, blowjob.
I can't believe Tim kissed Le Mans knob! Even togay, I am still unsure how it escalated so queerly. Fagrant homosexuality!
Disclaimer: This may or may not be factual, I and everyone involved don't have strong recollection of the evening... and Tim has blocked it from his memory!
'Timmy, Timmy, Timmy, Timmy.......'So, the evening started as expected with us group of lads. Lots of beer, a poorly cooked BBQ and our neighbours being awesome and giving us shots of their various whiskeys. We moved on to see some lads who were struggling to pitch their tents because they were utterly f
ked, the most drunk I've ever seen anyone. So we thought we'd help but it turned we were just as drunk as them... so instead we all just wrestled one of them into an unpitched tent and locked him in. We laughed, he started snoring, we drank and forgot all about him until we saw him the next day and asked him where he got to the night before (another story).One of the lads in the other group, not being good with names and being absolutely blotto just called everyone Tim, one of the lads in our group took great offence to being called Tim. That resulted initially in some aggressive posturing, a little animosity followed, then jovial pisstaking took place, followed by light flirting and then, finally, blowjob.
I can't believe Tim kissed Le Mans knob! Even togay, I am still unsure how it escalated so queerly. Fagrant homosexuality!
Disclaimer: This may or may not be factual, I and everyone involved don't have strong recollection of the evening... and Tim has blocked it from his memory!
Edited by Potatoes on Wednesday 16th May 21:09
JT3K said:
ellroy said:
Le_Mans said:
And you wonder why so many people have binned this event off and opted for the Classic...
Quite. Thankfully the last two or three years it seems to have calmed dowm a lot. Partly due to the Gendarmes stopping all the stupidity at Houx Annex roundabout. Does it still go on outside the Chinese on the Mulsanne on a Friday?
Been going for about 12 years now - not 100% sure as it's a bit of a blur! Here's a selection of the issues we've had, not all mine I hasten to add!
First year getting a blow out on the motorbike before even getting to Dover - £100 for a new tyre, £100 quid for recovery as I booked the AA for the wrong weekend & £40 for another ferry crossing. Last thing my other half said was try not to spend too much money. £240 down and not even left the country.
Next year brother getting fined for 900 euros for making progress in his Subaru
Removing the silencers from my 900 Hornet to have a sound off with a TVR at midnight in the campsite
Buying a £150 TR7 to go to Le Mans in
£150 TR7 blowing a spark plug out the head just outside Birmingham
£150 TR7 lunching it's diff on the way back from Le Mans at 2am on the M74
Getting so pissed I decided to run all the way from the town back to our campsite at the airport (you know how fast you think you can run when you're smashed) took hours!
Range Rover blowing a coolant hose just outside Calais
Getting fined 900 euros for making progress on my Aprilia
Having to change a wheel bearing on a different TR7 at the side of the road at one of the chicanes on the Mulsanne
Every year getting lost at some point despite having been going for over a decade
The most disastrous year had to be 3 years ago. Group of us, 2 bikes, a Stag that had been purchased about week before, DB9 & Nissan Navarra. All due to meet separately at the ferry as people coming from various locations. Me on Aprilia RSV R and Rich on Ducati 1098 with a yogurt pot size fuel tank.
Due to traffic and piss poor planning we were running late for the ferry & Rich was running on fumes. Last few miles dual carriageway into Dover was reduced to 40mph & we had to follow a police car so we missed the ferry.
Catch the later ferry and immediately have to find a fuel station for the Duc, predictably it runs out of fuel & I have to go off an find fuel. My phone wont work in France & I have no data for sat nav so I drive around for bit until I find fuel. Find fuel, buy fuel canister without nozzle, ride back to Rich balancing fuel can on my tank. Rich pours fuel mostly all over hot Ducati and himself in attempt to refuel without a nozzle in gusty conditions!
Finally get going by this time about 2 hours behind the rest of the group. Ride like the wind to catch group and finally meet up with them somewhere near Rouen. Take the wrong motorway which results in 40 mile diversion, in the process 2 bikes, Stag & Navarra get separated from DB9. Then 2 bikes get separated from Stag & Navarra , then 2 bikes get separated - starts to rain in biblical proportions!
Everyone trying to head to Cabourg for overnight stop although half the group don't even know where we're staying. My phone finally starting to work which meant I could find out directions to the hotel, prior to that I was just heading towards the coast as I knew it was somewhere near the sea.
Receiving a call to say the DB9 had lost power somewhere outside Rouen and was awaiting the AA. Parked up bike under a flyover trying to get out the rain and find the hotel as I hear the Duc roar past up above - jump on the bike and go after the Duc to arrive at the hotel about 15 minutes after Rich to find him sitting at the bar having a beer.
By this time it's about 7pm in the evening so we begin to drink heavily waiting for the others. Navarra & Stag have got lost numerous times and finally at about 10pm the Stag has a blowout, spins and collects the armco.
DB9 diagnosed as terminal so they head off to Rouen to spend the night & collect a Renault Scenic hire car!
Rich & I continue to drink heavily progressing to the most expensive Champagne on the menu, regularly texting pictures to the rest of the group.
Battered Stag & Navarra finally arrive around midnight to find Rich and I still in our leathers (as all our gear was in the Navarra) slaughtered and making friends with some Americans. All restaurant's were closed by this point the only food we had was Bombay mix and Pringles.
Wake up in the morning very hung over, drive around in searing heat trying to find new tyres for Stag as we discovered they we're about 20 years old - couldn't find any so carried on - all got separated again so all arrived at Le Mans at various points on throughout the afternoon.
Torrential rain on Sat night where we discovered the tent was not waterproof - completed flooded, all our kit. Various people sleeping in cars or just a puddle. Tent thrown in bin
To top it off Ducati almost runs out of fuel on the way home!
On return Stag written off by insurance but they pay out more than purchase price. Aston finally returned to Uk about 2 months later to run up the mother of all repair bills!
Best year ever!
First year getting a blow out on the motorbike before even getting to Dover - £100 for a new tyre, £100 quid for recovery as I booked the AA for the wrong weekend & £40 for another ferry crossing. Last thing my other half said was try not to spend too much money. £240 down and not even left the country.
Next year brother getting fined for 900 euros for making progress in his Subaru
Removing the silencers from my 900 Hornet to have a sound off with a TVR at midnight in the campsite
Buying a £150 TR7 to go to Le Mans in
£150 TR7 blowing a spark plug out the head just outside Birmingham
£150 TR7 lunching it's diff on the way back from Le Mans at 2am on the M74
Getting so pissed I decided to run all the way from the town back to our campsite at the airport (you know how fast you think you can run when you're smashed) took hours!
Range Rover blowing a coolant hose just outside Calais
Getting fined 900 euros for making progress on my Aprilia
Having to change a wheel bearing on a different TR7 at the side of the road at one of the chicanes on the Mulsanne
Every year getting lost at some point despite having been going for over a decade
The most disastrous year had to be 3 years ago. Group of us, 2 bikes, a Stag that had been purchased about week before, DB9 & Nissan Navarra. All due to meet separately at the ferry as people coming from various locations. Me on Aprilia RSV R and Rich on Ducati 1098 with a yogurt pot size fuel tank.
Due to traffic and piss poor planning we were running late for the ferry & Rich was running on fumes. Last few miles dual carriageway into Dover was reduced to 40mph & we had to follow a police car so we missed the ferry.
Catch the later ferry and immediately have to find a fuel station for the Duc, predictably it runs out of fuel & I have to go off an find fuel. My phone wont work in France & I have no data for sat nav so I drive around for bit until I find fuel. Find fuel, buy fuel canister without nozzle, ride back to Rich balancing fuel can on my tank. Rich pours fuel mostly all over hot Ducati and himself in attempt to refuel without a nozzle in gusty conditions!
Finally get going by this time about 2 hours behind the rest of the group. Ride like the wind to catch group and finally meet up with them somewhere near Rouen. Take the wrong motorway which results in 40 mile diversion, in the process 2 bikes, Stag & Navarra get separated from DB9. Then 2 bikes get separated from Stag & Navarra , then 2 bikes get separated - starts to rain in biblical proportions!
Everyone trying to head to Cabourg for overnight stop although half the group don't even know where we're staying. My phone finally starting to work which meant I could find out directions to the hotel, prior to that I was just heading towards the coast as I knew it was somewhere near the sea.
Receiving a call to say the DB9 had lost power somewhere outside Rouen and was awaiting the AA. Parked up bike under a flyover trying to get out the rain and find the hotel as I hear the Duc roar past up above - jump on the bike and go after the Duc to arrive at the hotel about 15 minutes after Rich to find him sitting at the bar having a beer.
By this time it's about 7pm in the evening so we begin to drink heavily waiting for the others. Navarra & Stag have got lost numerous times and finally at about 10pm the Stag has a blowout, spins and collects the armco.
DB9 diagnosed as terminal so they head off to Rouen to spend the night & collect a Renault Scenic hire car!
Rich & I continue to drink heavily progressing to the most expensive Champagne on the menu, regularly texting pictures to the rest of the group.
Battered Stag & Navarra finally arrive around midnight to find Rich and I still in our leathers (as all our gear was in the Navarra) slaughtered and making friends with some Americans. All restaurant's were closed by this point the only food we had was Bombay mix and Pringles.
Wake up in the morning very hung over, drive around in searing heat trying to find new tyres for Stag as we discovered they we're about 20 years old - couldn't find any so carried on - all got separated again so all arrived at Le Mans at various points on throughout the afternoon.
Torrential rain on Sat night where we discovered the tent was not waterproof - completed flooded, all our kit. Various people sleeping in cars or just a puddle. Tent thrown in bin
To top it off Ducati almost runs out of fuel on the way home!
On return Stag written off by insurance but they pay out more than purchase price. Aston finally returned to Uk about 2 months later to run up the mother of all repair bills!
Best year ever!
And if you have been to every one of the Classics you'll have noticed how it has been going down the same route. It is now one of those lifetime boxes to be ticked, not something for the enthusiast. The Revival has gone the way of all big money with people without the slightest knowledge of cars (but business clout and courtesy ticket packages) turn up in their fancy dress. I know; I was on the balcony of Goodwood House and listened to them as they voraciously downed their glasses of champagne. But by the same token we are all being royally screwed by the organizers nowadays.
1990, hooning round the Bugatti circuit at Musee on sportsbikes until Rob's GSXR clipped barrier and dumped all his oil out on the racing line. Cracking on to loads of hot French girls on Friday night until a boyfriend got pissed off and we got a kicking outside the nightclub. Picked out of the gutter and dusted off by huge African guy, then following him to Old Town opium den to score wrap of speed. Taking the whizz when the race started, meeting 2 of the girls from the previous night at the fair, then the next 23 hours a blur until waking up at race end laying in back seat of a random car, head out the door and a lake a multi-coloured vom below. Monday morning, hammering wooden dowel into hole in Suzuki's sump and trying to ride to Le Harve, got 20 miles until it flew out, then towing one bike behind another bike for 100 miles... Jags won, saw total of 30 mins racing all weekend, st year.
2006, punched a German who drenched me through the car window with a super soaker, only to have his boyfriend break a wooden chair across the back of my head... Diesels won, blinding headache all weekend, st year.
t year.2006, punched a German who drenched me through the car window with a super soaker, only to have his boyfriend break a wooden chair across the back of my head... Diesels won, blinding headache all weekend, s
t year.thanetspeedshop said:
1990, hooning round the Bugatti circuit at Musee on sportsbikes until Rob's GSXR clipped barrier and dumped all his oil out on the racing line. Cracking on to loads of hot French girls on Friday night until a boyfriend got pissed off and we got a kicking outside the nightclub. Picked out of the gutter and dusted off by huge African guy, then following him to Old Town opium den to score wrap of speed. Taking the whizz when the race started, meeting 2 of the girls from the previous night at the fair, then the next 23 hours a blur until waking up at race end laying in back seat of a random car, head out the door and a lake a multi-coloured vom below. Monday morning, hammering wooden dowel into hole in Suzuki's sump and trying to ride to Le Harve, got 20 miles until it flew out, then towing one bike behind another bike for 100 miles... Jags won, saw total of 30 mins racing all weekend, st year.
2006, punched a German who drenched me through the car window with a super soaker, only to have his boyfriend break a wooden chair across the back of my head... Diesels won, blinding headache all weekend, st year.
Makes you proud to be a British motorsport fan abroad. FFSt year.2006, punched a German who drenched me through the car window with a super soaker, only to have his boyfriend break a wooden chair across the back of my head... Diesels won, blinding headache all weekend, s
t year.
Tyre Smoke said:
JT3K said:
ellroy said:
Le_Mans said:
And you wonder why so many people have binned this event off and opted for the Classic...
Quite. Thankfully the last two or three years it seems to have calmed dowm a lot. Partly due to the Gendarmes stopping all the stupidity at Houx Annex roundabout. Does it still go on outside the Chinese on the Mulsanne on a Friday?
Our group had a self-enforced hiatus between 2008 (Euro Football tournament) and 2014, and the difference was stark. Gone were the Supersoakers, gone were the rampaging hoardes of shirtless drunks goading drivers, gone were the "Engerlund" massive with bulldog tattoos, gone were the enormous fireworks. And it was a much improved experience for all.
Our group love a drink, and we play loud music, and we might have had ~60 people in our marquee to watch the England rugby match a couple of years back, but we're all much happier now that the gendarmes have clamped down on the stupidity.
My 'mad' memories demonstrate that LM was home to a lot of selfish a
holes at times:- The chap on Houx Annexe (2005?) who decided to donut his Mercedes on gravel, breaking about 20 car windows in the progress
- The drunk driver of the Porsche 356 replica (think the owner is on here) who obliterated it at the entrance to Houx
- The time that a yacht-race starter was let off at head height by our (nameless) hosts, destroying the tent where a 10-year old had been sleeping 5min prior
- The S2000 spinning off the road and almost wiping out a group of spectators at Houx roundabout late on Friday night
- The drunk England fan falling off the roof of the bus, as he celebrated a football win
Frankly, I'm much happier without any of the 'mad' stuff.
C70R said:
Agreed!
Our group had a self-enforced hiatus between 2008 (Euro Football tournament) and 2014, and the difference was stark. Gone were the Supersoakers, gone were the rampaging hoardes of shirtless drunks goading drivers, gone were the "Engerlund" massive with bulldog tattoos, gone were the enormous fireworks. And it was a much improved experience for all.
Our group love a drink, and we play loud music, and we might have had ~60 people in our marquee to watch the England rugby match a couple of years back, but we're all much happier now that the gendarmes have clamped down on the stupidity.
My 'mad' memories demonstrate that LM was home to a lot of selfish aholes at times:
- The chap on Houx Annexe (2005?) who decided to donut his Mercedes on gravel, breaking about 20 car windows in the progress
- The drunk driver of the Porsche 356 replica (think the owner is on here) who obliterated it at the entrance to Houx
- The time that a yacht-race starter was let off at head height by our (nameless) hosts, destroying the tent where a 10-year old had been sleeping 5min prior
- The S2000 spinning off the road and almost wiping out a group of spectators at Houx roundabout late on Friday night
- The drunk England fan falling off the roof of the bus, as he celebrated a football win
Frankly, I'm much happier without any of the 'mad' stuff.
If we're recalling that sort of idiocy:Our group had a self-enforced hiatus between 2008 (Euro Football tournament) and 2014, and the difference was stark. Gone were the Supersoakers, gone were the rampaging hoardes of shirtless drunks goading drivers, gone were the "Engerlund" massive with bulldog tattoos, gone were the enormous fireworks. And it was a much improved experience for all.
Our group love a drink, and we play loud music, and we might have had ~60 people in our marquee to watch the England rugby match a couple of years back, but we're all much happier now that the gendarmes have clamped down on the stupidity.
My 'mad' memories demonstrate that LM was home to a lot of selfish a
holes at times:- The chap on Houx Annexe (2005?) who decided to donut his Mercedes on gravel, breaking about 20 car windows in the progress
- The drunk driver of the Porsche 356 replica (think the owner is on here) who obliterated it at the entrance to Houx
- The time that a yacht-race starter was let off at head height by our (nameless) hosts, destroying the tent where a 10-year old had been sleeping 5min prior
- The S2000 spinning off the road and almost wiping out a group of spectators at Houx roundabout late on Friday night
- The drunk England fan falling off the roof of the bus, as he celebrated a football win
Frankly, I'm much happier without any of the 'mad' stuff.
- The muppet in the brand new (delivery mileage before leaving) Range Rover that decided he would be fine ragging through the gravel trap on Maison Blanche, entered it at 40mph and barely crawled out with stones stuck in his callipers making hideous noises from the suspension
- Watching some random guys jump on the back of a caravan for a brief ride as it went past on Mad Friday, then soon after scare the life out of a family with some attractive 20-something girls in the back of a 90's Jag coming the other way by banging on the windows in traffic and trying to get them to roll the windows down for quite some time
- The clowns with the Evo that ragged it so hard around the campsite they blew the gearbox, and having planned this in advance, brought a spare that they changed with hand tools in the campsite
- The gimp that threw a large gas canister on to a fire on Sunday night because why not?
- The guy drifting the Alfa around MB at 40-50mph who spectacularly ran out of talent when he nearly hit a guy driving out to the exit as he "hadn't been there last time he'd come round" and nearly ran over some tents
- The brainless blokes with the water balloon slingshot that broke a guy's window and tried to not pay for it even though everyone knew they'd been launching them from just outside their own camp
- The firework rocket that someone set off out of their hand that hit a tent and burned it to the ground
- The guys throwing water balloons in open windows that ruined the back seat of my e46 when I went on an unplanned Carrefour trip
- The "mad Friday" brigade that refused to let a new 4wd Lamborghini past until he did a burnout (?) and the drunkards sat on the banking spraying the driver and his interior with water pistols (that probably weren't filled with water) when he refused
- "Mad Fridayers" who unprovoked threw water balloons in the face of someone going past on a scooter who came off it and went in to one of those nasty maintenance ditches and got a nasty scratch up their leg, and continued throwing them for the rest of the afternoon
- The guys on Sunday night who decided they didn't want to take their sofa home and towed it around Maison Blanche at 20mph with guys sat on it
- The tool that refused to let a Ferrari past without a burnout, even though the Police were two cars ahead and the police had to take him away for a brief discussion because he continued trying to get the guy to do it even as he watched them walk up to him
Frankly I can't say it's that bad a thing it's calmed down a bit
Geezer44]Riding a s moped through huge camp fires late on Sunday night with a Mate on the back[with his jeans on fire said:
s moped through huge camp fires late on Sunday night with a Mate on the back[with his jeans on fire said: until it was completely fooked.
Driving a selection of exotic machinery through Indianapolis after the race on Sunday every year.
Repeatedly pissing on a frenchies tent who decided to pitch up with us overnight-whether he was in it or not.
Camping next to Drinking For Holland who bought a truck with 7000 litres of beer to give away-[but then we had loads of people piss up our tent so we burned it down].
Mad Friday at The Houx Annexe.
The Stranglers on stage.
Driving a Ford Raptor full of lads INTO the Guinness bar and going through their wooden floor.
Jesus Christ. Makes you feel proud doesn’t it...? Driving a selection of exotic machinery through Indianapolis after the race on Sunday every year.
Repeatedly pissing on a frenchies tent who decided to pitch up with us overnight-whether he was in it or not.
Camping next to Drinking For Holland who bought a truck with 7000 litres of beer to give away-[but then we had loads of people piss up our tent so we burned it down].
Mad Friday at The Houx Annexe.
The Stranglers on stage.
Driving a Ford Raptor full of lads INTO the Guinness bar and going through their wooden floor.
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