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Karl's birthday was on Wednesday, but like the fucking responsible adult he is, he didn't invite his mates for a piss up in the middle of the week. He saves that for Friday. So, the 'Riddermark', an establishment that cannot quite decide whether to be a pub, an 80s disco or indeed an indoor go-cart track, has the questionable honour to host Karl's big birthday bash on June, 9th. These are nine things that happen over the course of said evening:

With the help of Beth Karl wins in an arm wrestling match against his buddy Dwayne who resembles a human tank. Technically, flashing one of the opponents with your breasts could be reason for disqualification or at least a rematch. Dwayne doesn't really insist on it, though.

Craig makes Bernard and several other people snort beer through their noses when he rehashes this morning's German lesson in lower sixth form. He grants that it was maybe a bit naive of him that his kids would appreciate a song about one of the biggest coal mining cities in Germany after their trip to York's Coal Mining Museum yesterday. Whilst one of Germany's greatest poets of the late 20th century in Craig's humble opinion, Herbert Grönemeyer's Ruhrpott accent is a little hard to understand. The collective beer snorting incident happens, when Craig tells his audience that three of the more enthusiastic lower sixers sang along, mistaking Grönemeyer's heartfelt 'Oho, Glück auf!' for 'Oho, Schluckauf!'. The song loses some of its working man pride impact if you accidentally turn the traditional coal miners well wishes into hickups.

Bernard recites a poem for Karl that he wrote for the occasion. This sounds rather sweet, but it should be added that Bernard wrote that poem only minutes before on a napkin on the Gents. Also, it is less of a poem and more of a very filthy limerick.

About three hours after Bernard's creative ejaculation on the gents, Orlando happens to be there for a piss and so happens to be a dark haired tall stranger. Said stranger is not staying anonymous to protect his privacy or to increase his mysteriousness. He has no name because Orlando really has better things to do than asking for someone's personal details when he fucks them in a stall of the Gents. Might have been Dick, which, yes, is fucking hilarious, considering.

Miranda patiently explains to Gerry that only because you can technically get a condom over your head if you're only trying hard enough, it doesn't mean you should. Surprisingly to everyone present, it actually stops Gerry from trying.

Tom and Gerry get into a very heated argument about – well, no one knows exactly. Might have been Russian strippers. Might have been a bank robbery. Might have been the state of the housing market in London.

The owner of the Riddermark seriously reconsiders his 'free chicken wing buffet' business plan after a horde of sports teachers annihilated it in under half an hour.

When it's gift giving time, Beth surprises not only Karl but also about half the people present with her present since it consists of a frightening amount of wallets she nicked from Karl's mates over the course of the evening.

While Sean does not believe in singing congratulatory songs whilst standing in a circle around the birthday boy , what he does believe, once the hour progressed, in is standing on top of one of the tables, hollering footie songs that grossly exaggerate Sheffied United's prowess on the green. Until Orlando drags him down again, that is.

on 2017-06-09 10:08 pm (UTC)
noalinnea: (Default)
Posted by [personal profile] noalinnea
Aha, mysterious, tall, dark haired stranger and maybe named Dick! :) I think you only forgot 'handsome' ;)

on 2017-06-09 10:28 pm (UTC)
noalinnea: (Default)
Posted by [personal profile] noalinnea
He should have picked a stall with better lighting!!! ;)

on 2017-06-10 05:26 am (UTC)
openidwouldwork: (muuh)
Posted by [personal profile] openidwouldwork
Grönemeyer in class?!? Dear me, JC DOES traumatise it's children...

Go Orlando!

Ducktape Sean!

and *bows to Miranda*

on 2017-06-10 08:50 am (UTC)
gattodoro: (Default)
Posted by [personal profile] gattodoro
Dear Betty, I cannot help but think that without your ever patient colleagues your inevitable demise would be both imminent and worthy of a Darwin Award. Orlando will piss himself laughing; you will only have yourself to blame. http://www.darwinawards.com/

Dear Orlando, *wolf whistles* get in there my son! (Yes I am channelling Sean).

Dear Craig, good to see you again.Bonus points for the beer snorting.

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