Sunday, 26 February 2012

Another 24 Hours I'd Rather Forget

We've just returned to London, after having spent a lively twenty-four hours on the south coast with our friend, Kevin.
Personally, I wasn't in the mood for a trip to the seaside, but after Tony insisted that "the smell of the sea can do wonders for city boys like us", how could I have possibly refused.
Needless to say, our time on the coast was a complete and utter disaster, with Kevin's volatile behaviour causing us countless problems, which even Tony would have found hard to match.
Kevin peels potatoes for a living, and lives above a pub, so he's hardly the sort of man who has women knocking at his door. But, despite his status in life - which is lower than scum - he still thinks that he's the sort of man who women see as their ideal partner.
So, there we were in a rather downmarket nightclub, last night, when Kevin decided to try and charm his way into an attractive girl's underwear, by buying her a pint of lager, and telling her that he owns a string of property, and several vineyards in the south of France.
Of course, the poor girl saw our friend for what he really is, and after telling him that she found him as attractive as a dose of radiation poisoning, she thought that she had freed herself from the human potato peeler from hell.
But Kevin doesn't take rejection lightly, and insisted on clinging to his target - rather like a fly sticks to shit - hoping that the girl would eventually give in, and agree to his sordid demands.
Unfortunately, for our friend, the girl was with her boyfriend, who on seeing Kevin making a nuisance of himself, wasted no time in laying into him, and giving him the sort of beating that he won't forget in a hurry.
Tony said that he would have liked to have helped Kevin in his hour of need, but because the boyfriend looked like he got a kick out of making men bleed, and had more muscles than the entire British Olympic weightlifting team, he wisely abandoned our companion in his hour of need.

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