The past was a foreign land. We did things differently there.
A friend and I once shared the last half pint of some incredibly potent home-brewed ale whilst sat in the garden one long ago summer. (Bear in mind that we were both in our early to mid twenties and considered ourselves to be - normally - quite mighty drinkers. Quarter of a pint each wasnât going to do anything to us, was it?)
Never had my friendâs stories seemed so funny, and apparently my own words were equally hilarious. He was telling me a rather gruesome tale about a workmate who had managed to get a fine chisel stuck through his hand and for some reason it seemed screamingly funny. He kept telling me âIt wasnât funnyâ but he was semi-convulsed himself by then. It was only later that I realised falling out of the chair as he demonstrated the accident with much arm waving and cursing wasnât part of the tale.
I vaguely recall getting to my own feet - although knees would probably be more accurate - and attempting to get him back into his chair before his Missus came home from shopping. I donât know why it felt so important, but after the first failed attempt it became an obsession. I nearly managed it, but each time he slumped and just lay there giggling, which did nothing to alleviate my own merriment at his plight. And frustration at his drunken inability to co-operate.
I crawled down his garden - by God it was a long way - and came back with a scaffolding plank intending to âUse Physics, Old Chapâ to get him back into his chair. My plan, such as it was, was to lever him off the ground and swing him into his chair. (Look, it made sense at the timeâŚ)
For a pivot I had to use my own chair. I rolled him onto the canted plank to cries of âAre you sure this is a good idea?â and then tried to lever the other end down. Back then I was built like a whippet (six feet and 9 stone) and my mate was about four stone heavier, so it was never going to be a very fruitful exercise.
I eventually got him to sit - perhaps slump would be more honest - âsidesaddleâ on his end of the plank and rearranged the pivot so I had a longer lever to work with. The analytical side of my brain was still working fine at this point and I figured he would be able to stagger into his chair when I lifted his arse high enough.
I couldnât walk up the steeply canted plank so I cunningly approached it from underneath, and hung below it, arms and legs wrapped tightly around it like a monkey on a stick, and felt myself sinking towards the ground as my mate rose about two feet off the ground and then fell off sideways.
My end of the plank smacked me one across the forehead as it hit the ground, the pivot/chair slid out from underneath, and after rearing skywards and looking absolutely huge against the sky the other end slammed back down and smacked my mate in the bollocks.
And that was how his wife found us. My mate curled in a ball, clutching his groin but still giggling uncontrollably, and me semi-stunned with a fresh red bruise on my forehead, also giggling.
After ascertaining that neither of us was seriously injured she went back indoors and made us coffee. Whilst doing so she came to the conclusion that I must have hit her husband in the bollocks for some reason and he had then retaliated by smacking me one with the plank. When we eventually calmed down enough to explain things she started laughing like one of those âlaughing bagâ toys and set us off all over again.
So, whilst alcohol can provoke all kinds of things, and a good memory will recall most of them, there was no way I could have written about it whilst still under the affluence of incohol.
Gyppo