bollocks

quiffsamazingworld:notbollocks

I thought that writing a report was nigh-on impossible, but I have had a little inspiration. Lets see whether I can make this work.

Stupid Is, As Stupid Does
By Quiff

I sit here, waiting for the phone to ring with the news that Assinder has returned from his holiday in the outer reaches of Zanzibar. Actually, sitting is quite difficult today, as I did something very stupid last night.

So, sitting here, my chest feeling as if its had a chance-meeting with a speeding train; I shall now tell you all what happened, and then for those of you who actually pay any attention, there will be a short question at the end. Kapisch?

It was a beautiful late-August day, the sun was shining (sometimes), the wind was blowing my short locks of hair out of place and it generally felt like a good day. I met up with Matt, Richie and Ben in Bangor, as I had been to the JobCentre looking for general dogsbody work (did I get any work? Did I fu....). It was the first time I had seen these three for about a week, as the Reading/Leeds festival weekend had just been; so we were spread out all over the UK.
A greasy-spoon cafe was the next stop. The sounds of flies meeting their maker with the warm blue glowing bug-zapping machine was a welcome sound. True Greasy Spoon. Here, the stories of which bands were great, the crazy antics of the campsite and general banter were mixed with the smell of a burger, a chicken and coleslaw sandwhich and several cans of Full-Fat Coke (Hardcore). Anyway, Myself, Matt and Richie left for Littlewoods Carpark, where Richie graciously gave me and Matt a lift to Matts house. Where did Ben go I hear you ask? Don't ask, you should know better than to ask what Ben goes. Thanks to my lovely portrayal of Ben in 'Peeps', everyone now agrees that he is 'indestructible'. He seems as willing as everyone else to test my theory to the limit. Obviously, the limit being death. Or just hospitalisation.

After a cup of tea at Matts (The equivalent of finding a Gideons Bible in a hotel room), Ben arrived. Looking out of breath, with a spring in his step, and a white plastic bag in his hand. Where have you been, Ben? The Gun-Shop. What have you bought, Ben? A CO2 Powered Paintball Gun. Can you see where this is heading?
Ben took the Gun out of the vacuum-formed plastic box, and also took out 10 CO2 canisters and a bottle of about a hundred .68 caliber orange paintballs. Myself, Matt and Clive were already looking worried. Warnings of 'Don't Shoot That In Here/At Me/Near Me' echoed Matts kitchen. I took these warnings and raised them a 'Crim Won't Let You Shoot Them In His House'. Aha, something I forgot to mention. Crims parents had taken a small holiday to some hot, far-away country, and had left Crim by himself for a week. Obviously, wanting to create a little havoc, Crim decided to hold a small party. The party was the night after Bens Paintball Buying Day.
I'm noticing that this is becoming tedious reading. I'm just going to skip the long walk from Matts house to Crims, and we'll get back into the story after my first drink. Fosters Ice, quite nice, but looks like piss; was my first drink. It didn't take me long for me to dive into the Vodka and Coke, Green Square and several more Lagers. I was quite drunk. Lets say as drunk as an Irishman (Thats a quote from The Simpsons. If you're Irish, I'm sorry.).
Now, I don't know who was supposed to be watching Ben that night, but he somehow managed to get the Paintball gun out of his bag. He was now showing it off, and eventually he asked the question 'Who wants to get shot?'. Why, Dear Me, Why did I say 'I will'?
I took my shirt off as it was my favourite Guiness shirt. Thinking back, I should've kept it on. The first round of shots were by Ben, and they were only two shots to my right side. Just above the ass. Riding on the crest of adrenaline fuelled waves, I somehow thought it wasn't too bad, and that maybe I should get shot a few more times. Ben had already refilled, and put a brand new canister in (Apparently that makes it go faster or something). This time, Ben or Price (Can't remember who, way too drunk by then) was standing at technically point-blank range. Whoever it was who fired it, I was hit, two inches below my right-nipple. This one, as they say, was a bleeder. It still fucking hurts.
Out came the Dettol. Matt was saying things such as 'Thats the most hardcore thing i've ever seen you do'. Did this encourage me to get shot a few more times? Yes, probably. So, back outside I went, topless, bleeding, dettol... My back was the target this time. I counted 12 bruises on my back the day after, including one at the bit of your head which connects to your neck. We pissed Crims neighbours off a bit with the sound of live-fire next door. That was it. The pain ended. Well, not exactly.
Someone thought it would be a good idea to cover my chest-wound with a bottle of vinegar. Great, how much would mild-Acid hurt in an open wound, I thought to myself. It hurt like a bitch. And I also smelled of Vinegar. And Dettol.

After the humiliation of being shot countless times and smelling like a cross between a chip-shop and a public lavatory, I decided to call it a night, and go to sleep. That was probably the best decision I have ever made.

The moral of the story? Err...well there isn't exactly one. There are a few things I just want to warn you about, young Jedi...