Chris Pascoe’s Fun Tales
Chris seems rather proud of his ability to wreck a flat with no assistance at all…
Iheard a funny thing on the radio the other day that mirrored an incident of my own to an almost uncanny extent. Though it was also nothing like my incident. That makes no sense at all. I’ll explain…
The radio story involved a young couple who were living abroad in one of those big Italian apartment blocks with a multitude of balconies, as often seen on TV.
The young lady’s parents were coming to visit, so while she went off to collect them, her partner was charged with thoroughly cleaning and tidying the apartment in readiness for their arrival.
It took him a long time but he carried out his task perfectly, and finally went out onto his balcony for a rest, noting a colourful carnival procession passing by in the street below.
Suddenly, one of the floats fired a huge confetti cannon. Virtually the whole lot went straight through his wideopen balcony doors, covering his entire living room in confetti. Within moments his partner and her parents walked through the door, and stopped in their tracks, staring in total disbelief at the state of the place. Poor bloke!
Well, I say “poor bloke” but as I mentioned, something very similar happened to me, in my very first flat with the very first girl
who felt she could bear living with me. So my empathy comes from a sincere place.
As above, she too had invited her parents to visit. Her parents were a straightlaced, tee-total pair who were not at all sure about their daughter moving in with me. So she was keen that the flat, and me, looked perfect for their first visit. Again as above, she went off to collect them while I had a tidy up.
This I achieved to a mediocre standard, but with seconds to go, I realised I’d probably better hide the big case of Heineken sitting right beside the front door. Tee-totallers probably wouldn’t like that.
What I didn’t realise was that one bottle had broken, soaking the box’s cardboard base. As I picked it up, the box virtually disintegrated in my hands, sending 24 bottles of lager, not to mention broken glass, tumbling in all directions. Stepping back in surprise, I trod on a rolling bottle which sent me crashing down onto my backside.
As you’ve no doubt guessed, the door opened at that very moment. My girlfriend’s jaw dropped as she tried to comprehend the scene of devastation greeting her – beer bottles absolutely everywhere, broken glass on the doormat, the place smelling like a brewery, and her boyfriend lying flat on his back among the debris, looking to all intents and purposes to be as drunk as a skunk. She wasn’t impressed, I could tell. Neither were her parents I suspect, though I can’t be sure because they didn’t stick around to tell me.
So you can see the comparisons. Very different messes, but virtually the same end result and level of parental disapproval.
The big difference of course, was that wrecking his flat required a cannon, while I wrecked ours unassisted. Man, I’m good…
The box disintegrated, sending 24 bottles tumbling