One good turn deserves another
I arrived home in Weymouth last Friday evening on one of South West Train's finest railway services which was only 45 minutes late. Out of the kindness of my heart, I woke up some chap who was sleeping peacefully amongst the detritus of several empty Stella cans, a trail of silvery drool running down the window.
"Wake up, we're there!" says I.
"Where are we?"
"Fucking hell, I got *on* at Weymouth..."
He'd been all the way to Waterloo and back again. The plastic carrier bag marked "HM Prisons" said all I needed to know.
Blogger was borked yesterday, so I only published at a quarter to nine of the evening. You may wish to catch up with yesterday's work of genius along with today's (mercifully short) offerings
Another limited choice for this week's Thursday vote-o in an attempt to clear the boards for future mankiness:
* Glider - "Dave managed to acquire a ball of string bigger than my head. Laughing like a maniac, I doused it in lighter fuel and warmed my toes by the roaring flames"
* Paint - "It's no good," he said, "I'm going to start collecting my wee in a whisky bottle, and when it's full I'm going to leave it on a bus."
* Ceiling - "I started getting up at five in the morning just to flash at the milkman," he told the doctor, "There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"
Standard disclaimer: Quotes attributed to these titles may not actually appear in the stories unless offers of cold, hard cash are forthcoming. I take paypal.