Sunday, 1 March 2009

No One Fights the Naked Man...


As you all well know The Accountant took me and The Hunter on a small, yet epic road trip this weekend to Brighton. It was my first visit to the beautiful city so I was a bundle of nervous energy and excitement. I say nervous because hitting the road with these two manical womanizing binge drinking artistes brings only three words to mind: out-of-control.
We met up with another buddy of ours from high school (we all went to ********). Frosty was now living temporarily with his girlfriend in B-Town before heading back to Lille in two weeks. Needless to say he was very happy to see some old faces. 
After nestling into a few cold ones as we took the very boring England v Ireland game in, we headed back to our swanky hotel on the beach front to 'suit up' and prepare for the nights misadventures that ominously lay ahead.
We had embarked on a little bit of shopping at Sainsbury's before leaving London that morning and had decided that arming ourselves to the teeth with hard liquor was the only sensible thing to do. We succeded marvelously.
Our room was reminisent of something out of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas; bad house music rattling the paper thing walls, ice buckets and cooler boxes over flowing with any type of booze you wanted. A few very opaque Vodka & Cokes into our binge and a familiar sound penetrated the boring beige wall: the playful giggle of a no doubt young and nubile female member of the species. What's this? Had the ladies of Brighton kindly brought the party to us? How hospitable...
The Accountant rapped his fist playfully against the wall in an effort to communicate with them. Immediatley a response was returned, THUMP THUMP! Quickly diving in I announced to the posse, 

Me: Fear not lads, I'll investigate this disruption, wait here!
Frosty/TA/TH: Not a chance, you'll need back up!

Indeed there were a group of four or five uncomfortably young girls partying, even harder it seemed, in the next room. But alas, they were just a little too young (say 18 or 19) and irritatingly giggley so we quickly returned to the sanctity of our booze laden abode.
Frosty decided it was time to head out when 11pm rolled by. He took us to a chest pulsatingly loud dancefloor in the dark and grimy basement of a club called Audio. Things started to get blurry after the 3rd Jager-bomb. I managed to lose the others about 4 times and spill about a pints worth of lager on my gummed up canvas sneakers, and Frosty managed to get punched in the nose for reasons I'm not sure. The Accountant said it had to do with Frosty making room for himself on the dancefloor by pushing the people around him away. I guess the angry dude didn't really appreciate the fact that Frosty's dance style is somewhat erratic and unpredictable - in essence, Frosty was actually looking out of the other dancers... He is considerate like that...

We got back to hotel at about 4am and the giggle monsters from next door were still going at it; laughing, banging on the walls as though they hadn't left. I had lost the Shotgun Call for the beds so I was on the blow up mattress on the floor, under a paper thin little blanket - I was not happy. After about half an hour of the incessant laughing and giggling coming from the other room, The Hunter had had enough and flung his size 9 loafer furiously at the wall. Not two seconds later was there a knock on our door. I, wearing nothing at that time, decided that the best thing to do to scare these children into submission was to casually answer the door in my naked state, sending them quickly to bed and wet dreams.

I confidently opened the door, as if I hadn't a care in the world...

Me (very casually): Hello there ladies...

But it wasn't the ladies. It was a 6'4 overweight mountain of a (young) man. He had his fist clenthed, waving it at me in front of my face...

Fatty: Now you listen here mate...

It was at this moment he realised that I wasn't wearing a shred of clothing. I was leaning up against the door frame, one leg drawn behind the other, like James Bond at a bar about to order a martini... Fatty's eyes scanned my crotch area, obviously amazed at what he saw... His fury disappating to a gentle digruntlement as the seconds staggered by.

Fatty: Llll, Look mate... Could you just keep it down, we'z trying to get some sleep?

Me: No problem man (I brought my hand up to my face and casually inspected my cuticles). 
Fatty (turning): Thanks!
Me: You have a good evening now...

It was 4:30am

Moral of the Story: If you are about to get the sh*t beaten out of you, just take your clothes off. No one can fight a naked man.

2 comments:

  1. I'm going to try that! Next time somebody starts yelling at me I'm going to take my clothes off...I will let you know if this strategy works...

    ReplyDelete
  2. Well then, by that reasoning the opposite should also be true! So the next time i see a little piece of pulchritude i am going to start yelling...!

    HAhahaaaaa!

    ReplyDelete

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