Written by Monochrome
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Monday, 4 April 2005

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Many years ago when I was young and single I would go out with some friends each Friday night and drink. We were a mix of ages from early twenties to late thirties, some married, some not, generally skilled blue collar workers and all male. We would gravitate towards pubs with live music; preferably loud rock and when the pubs closed we would maybe go to a club or back to someone’s place and drink some more. Often we would get hungry at some stage and find somewhere to eat or get takeaway food.
On this particular occasion, the evening had taken its usual course; drinking and listening to a band in The Romany. We got Chinese food to take back to a friend’s small flat over a parade of shops and played loud rock on the stereo while we drunkenly consumed our food.
One of the friends who shared the flat fell asleep on the floor. The music was loud and the conversation louder but still he managed to sleep and try as we might we could not wake him. It didn’t occur to any of us there present that he may be ill, just that he was asleep. Our attempts to wake him, from screaming in his ear to throwing water over him or standing him up and walking him around the room proved futile and resulted in increasing hilarity until we were reduced to helpless laughter.
The atmosphere calmed and our friend remained snoring on the floor when one of his flatmates jumped from his chair exclaiming, “I’ll wake the fucker up!” He returned to the room with four “Bangers” in his hand. For those of you who don’t know, Bangers were a firework; now illegal in the UK, favoured by small boys because, as the name suggests, they made a very loud bang. These were to be used outside only and well away from any living being and it is a measure of our inebriation that we did nothing but laugh as he stretched out our friend’s right hand and placed each of the Bangers between his comatose fingers and proceeded to light them.
The noise of the four bangs was deafening. The small room filled with choking smoke and still crying with laughter we rushed to open the windows and hung our heads out gasping in the fresh winter night air.
We left our friend on the floor still asleep and in the care of his flatmates. I didn’t see my soporific acquaintance until the following Friday and when I did I asked him how his hand was. “It’s been a bit sore, like a burn, for about week.” He said, “Why do you ask?”

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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