Firstly, just let me say Happy Birthday to "Your Brother" a mysterious visitor who leaves comments on this site on an irregular basis. He is, as you might suspect, my considerably more cosmopolitan, richer, younger brother, serial divorcee and official Butt Of All Jokes. He lives in Essex. Humour him.
Five stories to choose from this week:
* Father Abraham - special bus woe
* Barmy ‘Army - strange teacher woe
* Trench Warfare - Somme woe
* Buzzzzzz - Masturbatory woe
* Osama and I - Al-Qaeda woe
Don't just do something - sit there!
Meanwhile, Robber Rabbit's in a bit of trouble with the law.
Attack of the Stupids
Allow me to relate an incident on a recent train journey between Winchester and Weymouth.
Train Announcement (every five minutes after we left Southampton): "Passangers in the rear five coaches of this ten car train wishing to alight at New Milton should please move to the front portion of the train. This is because of the short platform at the station."
Got that? Good. Not wishing to alight at New Milton, I am in car six, so arriving there I am not getting all stupid and confused at not seeing the platform out of my window. I am calm. I've listened to the announcements.
Not so the confused and sweary gentleman sitting behind me. The train moves off, and he's just missed New Milton (an incredibly dull suburb of Bournemouth, where people go to die).
Git: "How do I get off this fucking train? I've got people waiting for me!"
Me: "You don't. Travel on to Bournemouth and take the next one back."
Git (getting more and more agitated): "But I've got people waiting for me here! I can't do that!
He reaches for the emergency stop handle.
Me (rather more menacing than I'm used to, but the train is already thirty minutes late as it is): "DON'T. The guard won't let you off anyway."
Git: "But I'm being met HERE! Get me off this fucking train!"
The mix of pleading and extreme profanity is almost comical. He is, in fact, Victor Meldrew. He made a final dive for the emergency handle, just as the train picks up speed and clears the station.
Me: "Make another move toward that handle and I rip both your arms off."
And I wasn't even drunk or anything, despite being breathed on my an intoxicated Scotsman for most of the journey.
He pulled the handle.
Me: "You... you... you... CUNT!"
There's not telling some people, is there? He was led away to a volley of abuse from my fellow passengers, and the guard didn't let him off until Bournemouth. He was met by people in Police uniform, making my train home the best part of an hour late. How we laughed.