haister

I wrote this as a comment inspired by manko's hillarious journal entery about cider-based debauchery, but decided that I was quite pleased with it so I thought i'd regurgitate it as my journal entery. You know, two chipmonks and one rock or whatever the saying is...

Its a "Tale o' Punkin" and tis a true yarn me hearties

Hmmmm...
Exploration is the key to an eventful night out on the sauce, especially when couped up in a Roysten-Vasey style villiage on the outskirts of nowhere. So we got drunk out in the countryside in Northampton where my parents live. As we were all forced to play rugby as children in sleet hail and snow, I have developed a deep seeded hatred for Rugby and all symbols of Rugby as have my old school chums. So half cut and 3 sheets to the wind after a cocktail of substance similar to the one you described above we came across a country junior school's rugby fields. My friend Dan Ridgwell then developed a sport that would later become known as 'punking', which basically involved swaying the rugby posts in the ground until they snap, or topple.

Now the paranoia element was kicking in from the absinthe previously quaffed we noticed lights come on in one of the nearby houses on the hill from whenche we came. We could only jump to the conclusion that this must be what ever passed its self for law enforcement out here in the styx, and probaly manifest itself as a shotgun-toting inbred unreasoning landstalker farming machine.

We ran further away from civilisation, hoping that we could seek cover amongst the lowing cattle and vegitation by the brook. After many of us drawing blood during a somewhat tricky leap accross brook, directly into barbed wire fence manouever, it was unanimously decided that return was not an option and foward accross the boggy horse crowded field was our only hope to somehow intersect civilisation again.

Halfway accross the field we became aware of the quicksand like properties of hoof churned, sodden mud. As the nimble footed elf like member of the group, and bravely considering only my own safety i started to hot-foot it accross the islands of mud. Traveling at incredible speed I managed to glide across the surface of the mud to safety, somewhat like it was done in biblical times, or chinese mythology.

Upon looking back however, I realised that my friends posessed no such super human skills and now knee deep in mud they found themselves sinking. One of my friends Dan was trying to verbally coax one of the horses to tracker him out of the mud and bare back ride him to safety. Not having had any prior experiance at dealing with horses, we soon found that a clear set of instructions and a well reasoned argument as to why the animals should help us was not enough to buy their co-operation.Meanwhile while John had managed to pivot himself out ot the mud with the aid of absynthe filled, art-deco tea pot stolen from said parents house.

Shoeless, haggared, bruised and yet still in surprisingly high spirits the group re-convined on the otherside of the field. I was offered some 'delicious coctail' by John which upon tasting I realised was little more then 57 percent proof silt.

An evening well spent