Paul Masson And The Case of Wine

Myself and SB lived together in the Pikey stronghold of Clifton once. We were surrounded by people stealing cars, fathering (or mothering) illegitimate children in Co-op car park, and drinking White Lightning on street corners. One day a perfect opportunity came to us to right at least one wrong. An opportunity so tempting that we were reduced to spectators on the ensuing events.

It was a quiet Saturday evening and myself and SB were recovering from the previous nights adventures with a few refreshing bottles of wine (SB) and some Vodka Red Bull (myself). By around 9pm it was quite dark, we were fairly drunk and there was, as always on a Saturday night, little entertainment on the televisual horizon. We put on a video. I vaguely remember watching Predator in that flat, so let's assume that this is what we watched.

Part way through the video, SB needed a piss. Not wanting to miss any part of a film he had doubtless seen many times before, he decided on an unusual solution. Instead of pausing the video, he decided that the empty bottle of Paul Masson wine sitting in front of him would be a perfect piss-catcher. Some discussion ensued as to whether this was a good idea. My side of the argument lost, however I did get him to concede that he would piss behind a sofa instead of in plain sight.

The image of SB's grimacing head, coupled to the sounds of piss flowing into a rapidly filling wine bottle were too hilarious to describe, so I won't attempt it. Suffice to say I missed a substantial part of the film laughing at SB's antics.

For those who don't know, a Paul Masson bottle has a screw / clip-on lid as well as tapering sides which allow easy access for piss as well as convenient replacement of the cap for those stupid enough to drink wine by the glass rather than the bottle. See here. The bottle sat on the table, fermenting both chemically and in a more abstract way - bubbling up ideas in my fertile mind.

The bottle, filled as it was with urine, looked exactly the same as when it was first purchased. Myself and SB settled on a plan. There was a bus stop 10 metres from our flat which was often populated by Pikeys. A full bottle of a "classy" wine like Paul Masson would be a supreme treat for them. We put the full bottle on the wall next to the bus stop and retired to the flat to drink further and wait for our trap to be sprung.

The next day we left the flat for supplies and walked past the bottle we had managed to forget about in fits of laughter. It was still proudly displayed on the wall, something that amazed us both. A brief (2 hour) stint at the pub later we returned with snacks and drinks ready to settle in. The bottle was gone.

It had not travelled far and was located upside down, empty, in the bin next to the bus stop. Using the empirical evidence at our disposal, we formed the following conclusions:

> At least one person had touched a bottle full of SB's piss.

- the bottle being moved was a dead giveaway.

> At least one person had opened this bottle

- the lid was on the floor by the bus stop.

We also made the following, fairly sound assumptions:

> At least one person thought that the contents were a gift of wine.

- why else would they open the bottle?

> At least one person smelled the contents of this bottle, or otherwise discovered its contents.

- the bottle was upside down, a sure sign of disgust with the contents.

> This person was most likely a Pikey, or Pikette.

- there are only Pikeys in Clifton.

Obvious, unsubstantiated conclusions could also be drawn, such as some Pikey having a drink of this "wine". This would certainly not be outside the realms of possibility - an average Pikey would share intelligence levels with an amoeba and therefore drink down the gift with little thought for consequence. However, myself and SB were more than happy with the sound assertions we could make and no further conjecture was required to leave us crying happy tears of justice at the suffering of at least one Pikey.

Peter Gets Retarded

Although I am a reasonably intelligent young man (I can tie my own shoelaces and count to ten in my head), I am often prone to substantial lapses of judgement when pressed with practical issues to solve. I make judgement errors even a Foetal Alcoholic Down's Syndrome kid who'd been dropped out of a tree would consider borderline retarded.

I lived in Croydon for around a year once. I grew weary of the only supermarket near to me, Aldi - serving up pikey food for the kind of pikey people you find leaving in West Croydon. I hate Aldi. They do everything in their power to drain the life out of their customers - you even have to pay for carrier bags.

I knew there was an ASDA somewhere in Croydon. Its promise of decent, edible food lured me constantly. Sadly, I didn't know where exactly the store was and Croydon's traffic system was deliberately designed to cause confusion based aneurisms to any motorists unwise enough to attempt to use it.

One Saturday afternoon I happened to be driving in the general area I knew my hidden treasure to be. Fate provided me with a perfect opportunity to end my quest - an ASDA lorry pulled out from traffic lights in front of me. I gave chase, ran a couple of pedestrian crossings and tucked myself up behind the lorry. At the worst, I reasoned, I would find myself at the goods entrance to the store - it would be within my grasp. I would eat like a king.

I cruised happily along in my beaten up Escort, dreaming of the wealth of steak, chicken and steak I would buy when I reached my destination. The sun shone down on me, my car and my happy, food based thoughts. All was good with the world.

The truck took my usual journey to work - through Purley and past a Safeways I hadn't noticed in the two months I had been driving that route. I didn't care, Safeways sucks compared to ASDA. Up the hill by the big model plane and then through Coulsdon I went. ASDA was a lot further away than I thought.

45 minutes after first sighting, when the lorry pulled onto the M23 I realised I had been wildly mislead as to the positioning of ASDA within Croydon's limits. Still no problem, I was still on track and could stop in after work without trouble.

Shortly after this, my quarry turned West onto the M25 and my error sank in. I had been following the truck away from ASDA for the last 15 miles. I turned around at the next junction and headed home. It started to rain.

I found ASDA around three months later. The one in Croydon sucks. I pledged allegiance to Safeway for the remainder of my stay in Croydon, then returned to Nottingham a wiser, unhealthier man. In fairness I was less healthy thanks to a years worth of constant drinking rather than malnutrition but I at least partly blame the drinking on ASDA, and now Wal-Mart. I knew it was the fucking Americans fault from day one.

Female Loathing in Las Midlands 2

Our second study of FDI (Female Drink Insanity) takes place as usual, late at night in some late bar.

This particular evening, we had some unusual accomplices in our drinking mission - DW, a colleague of GB and his flatmates. DW quickly grew bored of our incessant drink-and-bullshit-fest, instead opting to wander drunkenly round the bar, chatting up females. This behaviour being somewhat outside our social norms, we kept an eye on him for the trouble that would undoubtedly ensue. Strangely, DW is largely capable of behaving himself and no unpleasantness ensued.

Sometime into the session, we became aware that DW had been talking to one particular female without rejection for some time. Unwisely, we decided our assistance would be a bonus to him. We approached.

Within 15 seconds of our introductions the mood had changed somewhat - I had again let myself down and made some smart comment, then instantly forgotten it. This had roused female A's anger to a surprising degree. All she was capable of doing was shouting at me. I tried to calm the situation down, but unsurprisingly made matters worse. The situation was rapidly going downhill. I had to act, and quickly.

I found inspiration at the bottom of my drink - if this slut was so wound up at something I had said, maybe she should....hit me. I flew back into the confrontation with her, picking my words carefully as I knew I had precious few seconds before she interrupted with further shouted insults.

PO'P: If you're so pissed off, hit me.
FA: ?

This strange comment had finally silenced the woman. I thanked my fertile imagination silently, then pressed home the conversational advantage.

PO'P: Come on - hit me, it'll make you feel better.
MA: ?
PO'P: I won't hit you back, look just do it.
MA: ?
PO'P: Hit me, and we'll call it quits. Come on, as hard as you can.
MA: ...
PO'P: Do it. Come on. What's the matter with you?
MA: Ok, fine.

She wound up, and threw a left jab at my face, connecting fairly well for a girl. I fought the urge to laugh.

PO'P: Ok, we're all friends now. Good.

At this point, something made me turn 90 degrees to my right. The picture to this side was not such a happy one. Female A's accomplice, Female B was approaching the end of a decent left hook, aimed at me. To quickly describe Female B, she had at least 4 inches and five stones on me - making her a decent amount over 6 feet tall, and around 15 stone. She was a big girl in all measurable factors. I had clearly made this psycho angry as well, then inflamed her passions further by ignoring her.

As I wondered what I had done, the left hook reached its terminus - my right cheek. Time returned to normal as I fell straight down onto my ass, laughing mainly from surprise. There was no pain as I was heavily sedated by alcohol but I was aware I had been hit pretty hard.

Almost immediately the bouncer arrived - he wisely pays our group fairly close attention and was not far away. I convinced him that all was well and returned to the bar to ponder my future fate. I had, after all been knocked down by member of the weaker sex, albeit a much stronger member of this sex than myself. This would not put me in a good position for future banter with those present to witness this. I decided to kill them all and start again, possibly in the circus. Sadly, I was served with a refreshing vokda red bull and forgot all about my plans until the next day, when I was too hungover to do anything about them.

PO'P Note: Yes, this is not much of an example of FDI - after all, the women in question were strongly provoked by myself. Still, I got knocked down by a bitch, and I'm strangely proud of it.

PO'P Note: Female A exchanged numbers with SB later that night, then called him the next day to ask if he was coming to fix her curtains. It transpired she had her numbers mixed up and thought SB was another person she had met that night, thus allowing her entry into the FDI vaults. SB declined the curtain invitation, obvious euphemism as it may have been. The poor dumb fuck.