Otter spleen kebab

A few years ago, sometime in the six form I think, a few of us had spent our Wednesday ‘activity’ afternoon in the pub.  We were hungry on the way home, so we ducked into a kebab shop for the necessary food fix. For some inexplicable reason, and despite the fact it was about 6pm, one of my mate’s younger brothers was coming up on a very harsh acid tab at the time.  He’d been holding it together pretty well in the pub – at 16 this geezer had already done 20+ trips, so either his sanity was already dispensed with or he could really handle it.

After a few moments of telling foot-shuffling and smirk-surpression, Dave lost it. We were all in the queue, about 5 of us in total, and there was already a family of chunks in front of us, ordering their delights from the miscellaneous menk stick.  The laughter erupted with a noisy ‘phhhhhhhhsssssssssst’, and bubbles of saliva were born and exploded over several of our backs.  It was the really crippling laughter that only narcotics can bring.  We took him outside and sat down with him.  Once the laughter had subsided to a level that would allow him to speak, Dave said, “That meat, that thing on a stick…..it could be…..fucking…..ANYTHING!” Then he lost it again and began convulsing on the floor with laughter, which brought us more attention than we wanted.  Once he’d calmed down a bit again, he coninued his explanation..”and you……you……pay money for it……and, him, the kebab dude, he’s…..fucking evil!” It was too much to take for poor Dave, and yet again he cracked up.

All was ok from then on until we got to the Esso garage a the top of my road. Dave needed Rizlas. Full credit to him, he didn’t ask anyone to go in for him, or perhaps he did and we refused, I can’t remember.  What I do remember is Dave staggering out, laughing his tits off and trying to explain that ‘that cunt’s beard kept flashing ON and OFF!’.