Two or Three Birds and 12 Lads…In which what happens in the Fete after Midnight is disclosed.

We packed our loot and of whiskey, Beer and Waragi and repaired to a discreet room.  The room had a bed and several mattresses spewed on the floor and imbibing continued in earnest.  Bawdy rugby songs were sung and lewd jokes made. All the lessons of Sunday school well forgotten and hidden under an avalanche of alcoholic stimulant.

The girls were comely with big wide eyes. They partook in the revelry in a spirit that spoke well of them.  Debauchery.

The pace of these chaps when it came to downing liquor  was unparallelled. Trips to the room saw a continued tendency towards zero of the beer stocks.  Come One O’clock we started witnessing others take to the fetal position. Then one comrade asked to go and take a leak. We waited for twenty minutes and the chap was not coming.  Thirty minutes and we feared the worst.  A team was dispatched to investigate and it failed to find him.  We mobilized more numbers and it was at that opportune time that one of the fellas who was standing fell from vertical to horizontal before our very eyes.  Fortunately the mattresses earlier alluded to proved sturdy.

Back to the missing fellow.  He was found at the foot of a massive anthill. And follow me closely here, his leg from knee to ankle, to our utter consternation and profound disbelief, was completely built over by the hard working ants.  (Many of my acquaintances choose to disbelieve this aspect but witnesses are there to this day who will attest to it).  Horror of horrors the idiot was fast asleep.  What we asked ourselves would have happened if the ants had applied their efforts on the man’s head.

Anyway spades were sought and obtained and if you have never seen a drunk chap spading away you have not lived.