††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† SHORT FUN BITS AND BOBS.


Odd short description silly events and observations that donít generally fit in anywhere else. †††††




I was in Manchester City Centre recently, where two girls had put up a kissing booth to promote coffee brands that they were marketing. If you
took the coffee samples, you got a snog - sadly I don't drink coffee - annoying enough for me in itself.

I sat down in the Gardens at Piccadilly to read a book. - Five minutes later, the booth itself, about the size of a Punch and Judy booth, which hadn't been tied down at all, got picked up in the gentlest of breezes and hit me on the back of the head before it, the booth, not my head, fell to bits
on the ground behind me. I wasn't hurt. It was. Still never got a kiss.

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† **********************

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† DRUNK.


††††††††††† Iíve been known to enjoy the odd tipple, as many know. Generally once drunk I just fall asleep. I am not one for picking fights or arguments. The drunkest I ever got was during a holiday in Sussex in about 1987. Iíd been involved in a lethal drinking game with other guests. Staggering back to my chalet I decided to take my usual short cut instead of walking round a long hedgerow. It was quicker to cut through a little gap in the hedgerow itself. However, on this occasion, it seemed to take forever instead of being a few quick strides.

††††††††††† The next morning, I woke up to find myself aching all over and covered in cuts and scratches. My tee shirt was in rags on the floor. Leaves were everywhere. I only realised what I had done when I stepped outside. The hedgerow had been flattened. I hadnít cut through the gap at all. I had crushed my way down the line of the hedges trampling them down as I went.


††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† ANOTHER DRUNK

One day I in 1978 I arrived home from school to find a local alcoholic lying in his own puke on my doorstep. I recognised him as he had been to parties at my house at my invitation in the past. This time his arrival was neither by invitation or welcome. He had got smashed out of his skull on someoneís whiskey, as our school term had ended. Denied more booze, he had staggered round to see me because he knew I had some in from the parties.


I wanted rid of him before my Mother got home, so I tried shouting to him to wake up. He didnít. I started throwing buckets of water over him 9filled from the house). Again, the effect was non-existent. Only his breathing told me that he wasnít dead. Eventually, neighbours and friends arrived to help; and we realised collectively that he had to go. I had a vague idea that he lived a few streets away from me, but not at which house. The trouble was that he was very heavy and it took three of us to lift him into my Fatherís old rusty wheelbarrow. I then wheeled him round the streets asking startled passers by if they knew which house he lived in. We eventually found the right one, and knocked on the door. My friends fled as a woman built like Mike Tyson opened the door. She saw him in his pitiful soaked state in the barrow, picked him up with one hand and threw him into the house like a rag-doll. She offered no explanation or apology to me. Her only words were ďChrist, not again!Ē as she slammed the door in my face. I took the wheelbarrow home again.

© Copyright. Arthur Chappell