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Gam for a Laugh 

 

by Bernie Bostik

 

The parents had disappeared on there yearly jaunt to the sun, during the Fords two week shutdown. With clear instructions NO parties this year, especially after the mishap the other New Year. Thirty of us stood off at the corner of JC's street waiting for his mum to go out. JC comes back with the bad news that his mum will be staying in tonight. FUCK! The gang all carrying an assortment of cans of lager, QC sherrie,  wine and small flasks of Pernod in plastic carrier bags all looking despondent. No party, no fun to be had. Then some bright spark (me) with more than just a bit of dutch courage inside him suggests going back to his parent-free house around the corner.CUE CARNAGE..... After stashing me old mans cans of bitter in the washing machine, where I proceeded to flog them off, I cannot remember much. It must of been about three in the morning when I was rudely awoken, by first the fist of my old man in the face and then the heel of my mums high heel shoe on the top of my head. The house was wrecked. One of the neighbours grassed to the parents about hearing loud music and seeing people dancing in the garden. 

 

In the cold light of day and after being dragged round the house by the neck, I seen the full extent of the damage. Tables, ornaments, carpets wrecked, the usual things that happen at a party. But it was the next day when all hell broke loose. The old man woke up looked out of the window and noticed with the help of the frost, all the dents on the roof of his Escort MK3. He was later told by another neighbour that the gang had indulged in a bit of conga-car-carnage. When we eventually sat down to eat a roast dinner that day we were faced with a de-faced chicken (Scot & Sav had carved there names in it). I retreated to my room and never seen the light of day until my sister had the film developed from her new for christmas camera. The old man burst in with a fist full off snaps from the party, one of which was me attempting some break dance gymnastic type manourve in the middle of the front room (on later inspection it looks as though i'm trying to suck meself off) and I received another dig. So the parents were away but no bail-ins, but I did have use of their other commodity, yep thats right, the Mk3. I had passed my test but was not insured, but that didn't stop me. Trip one - a smokie drive into Manchester on a shopping trip with Oggy and Tez. 

 

We wanted to see what the record shops of Manc had to offer. After a stoned nervous shuffle around Eastern Bloc we retreated to Picadilly Record to pick up a Gong album. On the 602 on the way in, a cotton mouthed, red eyed me asked if anyone knew the way. Oggy gave this "Yeah mate know manc like back of 'and" shout in an accent which leaned on Bolton more then Burnage. It had us in stitches. Well that was it for the rest of the day we traipsed around the town centre engaging with anyone we could in the worst Lancastrian Ecky-Thump voices, finding it hilarious. The day ended with us stopping at a bus stop on the way out of the city (on the left near the Salford Boys club) to confront a local gang of lads with a volley of "YEAH MATE KNOW MANC LIKE BACK OF 'AND" before driving off into the sunset leaving them bemused....(.we'd be on the receiving end,  of blast from a micro- uzi if you tried a similar stunt these days!) Trip two - Stone Roses empress ballroom Blackpool. I had two MBS and watched from the balcony and thought I'd just witnessed the greatest band ever, (them drugs deffo clouded your judgment back in them days, - i won't tell you what I was wearing!!!!) that was in-between pulling my mate Bren back, from falling off the balcony every two seconds. 

 

We were gone, both of us. The night ended with me booting him out the car on the golden mile in the early hours. He was doing my head in by hanging out the window shouting "I am the resurrection and I am the life" He got jibbed and I had a horrendous fear and loathing drive home on the M6, with only bats, ghouls, other assorted horrendous images for company and Alan Beswick drifting in and out on the radio Trip three - Canning Place to pick up a brass. "I'll give ya a gam fora tenner" I had to ask what a gam was. Upon completion she opened the door and spat out the spunk. I drove off into the dusk and straight into the hands of pc plod and got a caution for curb-crawling and other motoring wrong doings.

 




 

 

 

 

 

 
   
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