OK, I’ve been umming and ahhhing about where to put this story but this seems as good a place as any.
GUINNESS IS NOT GOOD FOR YOU
A few years ago a good friend of mine, let’s call him Jamie (because that’s his name) was sat at home wondering what to do with himself when he received a phone call from a mutual friend of ours, Finn.
“Gecha good self over here ya fuckwit,” says Finn.
“Some complete loon has trusted yours truly with their Dublin flat for the weekend. All we have to do is feed the cat and not wreck the place. Happy days!”
Never one to pass up an opprtunity of a cheap flight , free lodgings and a major piss up, Jamie is soon over paying for a Ryan Air ham and cheese and safely on his way to the Emerald Isle.
Picked up from the airport in a smoky fiesta and driven back to the flat, Jamie is quite stunned by his abode for the weekend. Great location, wooden floors, luxury furnishings.
“Mate, this is shit hot.”
“Not all me friends are scum like yous,” says Finn.
So off they trot into town, meet up with a few of Finn’s mates and proceed to get completely and utterly shitfaced.
Jamie, always one to try and fit in with the locals, is knocking back pints of Guinness like wild horses are about to drag him away from the bar. It’s not too long before the idea of a few takeouts and a massive biffta seem appealing, so off they set, stragglers in tow, for their luxury digs.
Back at the flat, Jamie plonks himself on the sofa, opens a can of the black stuff and carries on where he left off.
A few hours later, slipping in and out of drug and drink fuelled haze, Jamie starts to feel a little queazy. But that lovely deep sofa proves difficult to get out of. He tries rocking back and forward but that just gets a swell on.
He knows it’s coming, it’s upchuck time.
He clamps his hand over his mouth. Even in his ridiculous state he doesn’t want to ruin the sofa.
And this is where some kind of weird physics takes hold.
He manages to stifle his puke but at the same time, farts, follows through, and blasts a runny shit into his pants.
At this point Finn comes back into the lounge to see Jamie shuffling towards the marble heavy bathroom, gripping the ankles of his jeans like a spastic AK-AK.
Always good in a crisis, Finn ushers him into the bathroom and helps him out of his shitty trousers.
At this point Jamie, after losing control of his bowels, seems to lose all control of his legs too and the pair of them are soon rolling around the slippery tiled floor covered in the brown stuff.
Eventually Finn manages to wedge Jamie up against a wall and after whipping his own shit stained clothes off, grabs the shower head, sets it to full blast and does the full prison hose down. He grabs a towel, nips to the kitchen, gets a binbag for all their shitty clothes and bags them up. Jamie, still propped up against the bathroom wall, is completely oblivious.
Job done, Finn thinks: “Now I’ve go to get this coont to bed.”
He grabs him by the shoulders and starts to haul him out of the bathroom. It’s like herding custard.
As soon as he moves him he realises he hasn’t finished his housework. A large brown smear adorns the wall where Jamie was propped. Shower on, wall cleaned. Job done.
Finn somehow manages to get Jamie in between some crisp white sheets. He’s snoring before he hits the pillow. And relax.
The next morning Finn is up early, the bacon is on, coffee made, everything clean and tidy as though nothing untoward has occurred. The flat is spotless and everything is rosy.
Jamie finally drags himself out of bed and, obviously not remembering too much from the night before, sheepishly enters the kitchen.
“Mate, I’m really sorry,” he says.
“Forget it ya cunt, no harm done. I cleaned up every spot of shit. All the clothes are in the dryer. They’ll never know anything happened.”
Jamie looks at Finn with a confused expression and says:
“I don’t quite know what you’re on about mate but I’ve pissed the bed.”