My mate Tony just emailed me a picture of an old friend of mine that I used to share a house with in Stafford, back in the dim and distant past.
Ladies and gentlemen I present Julie!
Now I’ve got plenty of stories to tell you about Julie, like the time she tried to force me to give her a piggy back when walking back from the pub one night? Suffice to say her attempt lead to her scraping her face along the pavement, which in turn lead to some severe facial abrasions.
Of course being a resilient kind of bird, this didn’t phase Julie for one second, she merely continued wandering up the street shouting ‘He hit me! He hit me!’ at the top of her voice and pointing at me
That’s not the best story though. Oh, no.
I lived in a house with Julie and a couple of other friends, Shaggy and Sam. I had the smallest room in the house and it was right above the front door, which meant I heard all the comings and goings.
Late one Friday night I was awoken by the sound of mumbling and a key being scraped repeatedly across the front door. I sat up in bed and listened to this noise for at least five minutes, before the key finally found its home in the lock.
The noise that followed, of the now unlocked door slamming against the wall in the hallway, probably woke Shaggy, who had the downstairs bedroom beside the front door. If it hadn’t I’m pretty certain the noise of it being shut afterwards would have. The whole house shook. For a diminutive piss head she had some strength.
Anyway, now safely in the house it was Julie’s mission to get to bed. This involved stairs. Actually it only involved six stairs, as half way up Julie must have lost her balance which lead to another almighty crash.
This time Sam and I rushed out of our rooms to see what had happened. The scene that met us was amazing.
Julie lay at the bottom of the stairs one of her legs twisted up behind her back at a most unnatural angle, her right arm stretched out behind her head, a portion of chips in its hand, most of which remarkably had managed to remain in the tray during her stunt.
She was alive but looked pretty fucked up it must be said.
What was most amazing however was the perfect arc of curry sauce on the wall that described beautifully, her rapid, and one imagines unexpected, descent from stair six.
So, the now prostate Julie, lying at the foot of the stairs chuckling to her self, could for all we knew be paralysed. It was with concern that Sam and I stood at the top of the stairs only to witness Shaggy, the worlds thinnest man at the time, appear from his room and enquire as to Julie’s well being.
Her response?
‘Fugg ovv, ya fat bashtad!’. Fantastic!
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