It was a cold and blustery Friday evening, one in which THE Jap wished the skies would open up and his love surf shack van rollercoaster up insight of heaven then plummet into the depths of hell. Where he’d have a quick cuppa with Beelzebub, and still make it home for Emmerdale Farm.
With only Emily Watson’s breasts to look forward to THE Jap decided to go on an adventure, an adventure that in the end cost him dearly, losing not only his girlfriend trust, his dignity, his money (swapped for some liquid thing called Guinness? Who’d have known!), but most importantly those few brain cells left that worked.
It was on the lonely drive home that the devil on his left-hand shoulder spoke with such vehement and wisdom that he turned to the angel on his right shoulder and bitch slapped her out the driver side window. Along with all his hopes of a quiet Easter break with Mrs. Jap.
Under the devils direction and a possessed hand THE Jap began to dial up the devils number 2, otherwise known as the Fergitron. Within minutes THE Jap had convinced himself a weekend of alcohol was the way forward, and sod everything and anyone else. THE Jap thinks the Fergitron’s to blame for that imbecilic thought process, in hindsight.
So with cloths packed, hair shaved, wallet bulging and the devil grinning, THE Jap set off to the Big City and depravity.
Upon reaching the Fergitron’s 10 minutes late THE Jap was in a rush and his alcohol blinkers were on, like a Hippopotamus and water, never stand in between him and his first Guinness, or prepare to be run over. Totally oblivious to his surrounding and drooling with anxiety, THE Jap swung his BMW into the nearest place to park, it could have been the Fergitron’s front room for all he cared.
Like a man possessed he thundered down the road into the nearest taxi. The strangest event ever witness was seconds away, in the background THE Jap could here some foreign old lady, maybe Greek, German or Italian calling out. The ‘CooooWeeeee’ing’ was getting closer and closer and at the loudness I would put money on the old lady being from Italy (what with all that olive oil they drink!), she was shifting some. You can imagine the horror on THE Japs face when he recognised the cooing of a 90 year old Italian virgin to be none other than a 45 year old (sorry Spen) Wirral Viking virgin. Under such confusion THE Jap did the only thing he could and told the driver to put her foot down.
As the taxi pulled off (without the Wirral Viking virgin) THE Jap had the feeling that he wished he could time travel, what with that first pint be so far off but yet so close.
As the Eli Jenkins approached and his brethren waiting inside the sudden warmth of being home arose in his stomach, much like the Fergitron’s two pints later when he drunk the nectar that is Jap’s urine at a forty quid loss to the social hand-grenade. Things were going down hill so fast. Mrs. Jap had rung 53 times to both Fergitron’s and Fat Jamie Oliver’s phone, she was looking for Mr. Jap! That devil on his shoulder loved it!
He was at home in Kiwi’s that night, even though THE Jap’s head was cleaning the floor, Beelzebub himself was his eyes and ears.
Back at the Fergitron’s after, how THE Jap got there he still does not know, but, for one things sure the devil had grown, and taken the form of Skibar, who continued to ply red wine into THE Jap’s mouth. It had gotten bad, THE Jap knew it had when he awoke next morning in a double bed with Pablo. I think his names Pablo, never was good with names, never bothered me THE Jap in his uni days, waking up next to girls he’d never met, never mind knowing their names.
THE Jap did wake however with a hope in his heart within the next hour he was to see the rugbying skills of the Fergitron and his bunch of merry assembly men.
The game kicked off at 11am with many a lovechicken still in the bar. Having missed the rules and shouting abuse for three quarters of the match the brood finally realised you was only allowed to run ten metres with the ball. Apoligies go out to all those abused. Apoligies also to the Fergitron who’s opening try was missed by all. The Jap is sure you have all heard about it by know.
And so to the big game Wales verses England, the pinnacle of a great day. What a win. THE Jap doesn’t know which shocked him most the win or the Morgitron. Every lovechicken was shouting and hugging and kissing and pumping their pint glass when THE Jap glanced across. Whereby he heard Morgatron whisper softly into his Mocha Choca-latte,
“Dear Lord: The gods have been good to me. For the first time in my life, everything is absolutely perfect just the way it is. So here's the deal: You freeze everything the way it is, and I won't ask for anything more. If that is OK, please give me absolutely no sign. OK, deal. In gratitude, I present you this offering of cookies and milk. If you want me to eat them for you, give me no sign. Thy will be done.”
In confusion THE Jap sat back down and stared into the bottom of his pint thinking he’d been spiked by some 1980’s acid tab, and was in the set of the ‘Simpsons’!
After leaving the Tavistock at 8pm his night does get a little hazy and he cant quiet remember what happens next can anyone help? He knows the places we went but who he spoke to was a blur. Top shout to the Flopsy Lloyd ‘brothers’ who managed to speak in Scottish accents the whole night. THE Jap could only manage the word ‘Guinness’ oh and ‘vodka and tonic’ not good when yoor stood by the bar all night!
It is only now three weeks later that MRS. Jap is finally speaking to THE Jap. He has lost his jeans and pants, and has gone to pick up the angel from the side of the road and has put her back on his right shoulder.
The moral he has learnt on this weekend is never lose the Fat Jamie Oliver, although he is boring and one toned, you always need him when alcohol takes over at the end of the night to look and laugh at! Here to you Fat Mike, you odd looking bastard!
