Corny Crotch and the bicyle incident

I was sat in the pub, waiting for my brother and sister to show up…
Just kidding Su…

I was sitting in the pub; having a pint of prime Heinken lager; waiting for my brother and sister to appear, when I started chatting with a lad from England.
He’d worked in Hellevoetsluis last year and his boss had failed to pay him the finest of sums of 2.000 pounds!
“So, you’ve come back to get your money?” I asked, slightly worried that he’d waited a year. I mean, 2.000 pounds is a three month stay in Bangkok.
“Na,” he answered, “I don’t care about the money anymore, I just want to beat him up.”
I raised my eyebrows slightly: “You’ve come all the way over from England just to beat someone up?”
“Yeah. If I can find him.”
Yes. There was a bit of bonding going on by now.
“Oh. You’re looking for someone! So am I!” I said, hoping he would ask about my writing ambitions and my blog.
“Yeah. And then when I find him, I’m gonna beat the crap outta him and go home.”
He didn’t appear to interested in my search.

Before I could return to the more important subjects at hand: like why on earth he’d want to beat the man up instead of trying to retrieve his 2.000 pounds, or my blog, my brother and sister showed up with lovers and we retreated to a corner of the pub to discuss the merits of the A-team. My sister’s boyfriend showed his total lack of understanding of any serious subject by suggesting that the whole A-team were gay and that was why BA kept saying: “Sucker.”

Anyways, to get to one of the points at hand, at a certain point friends of my brother turned up. One of them was new to me and he introduced himself as such: “Hi, I’m Corny Crotch.”
I looked at my sister, who’s very sharp on certain subjects (she doesn’t believe the A-team were gay) to make sure I’d heard correctly. Her eyes narrowed into what can only be called ‘inquisitorial position’ and I turned back to Corny and said: “Pardon?”
“My name is Corny Crotch.” He repeated.
It’s not like me to be rude and I’m sure the fourth pint of prime Heineken lager had something to do with it, but I burst out laughing. “You’re pulling my leg!”
But he wasn’t. His name was Corny Crotch and there was not a thing in the world he, me or the inquisition could do about it.
His parents should probably be reprimanded or something though.

After another couple of pints my brother, sister and their lovers retreated to their separate abodes; They are far more calculous than I when it comes to matters of future importance. I decided to join Corny Crotch and my brother’s friends as they wondered off to another pub, for another couple of beers.
Once I was suitably drunk, I said my goodbyes, wrote down Corny Crotch’s name on my hand (for I have a habit of forgetting things and this was one name that I did not want to forget) and headed off to my sister’s bicycle, which I had lent for the occasion. It saves having to take a taxi home, or a long, long walk.

Far be it for me to lose my temper, but for some reason I just couldn’t open the bloody lock. I’m sure someone had tampered with it. So with much cursing and muttering I decided to kick the bike and shout at it. I have a history of talking to bicycles and dustbins, they just tend to piss me off, and sometimes need a bloody good seeing to! That’s my opinion on the matter anyway.

I tried to get the lock open for a full ten minutes and eventually gave up. Either I was so drunk I could no longer open a bike lock (some of them can be quite dodgy, it’s not the first time I’ve not been able to open a lock. One time one of my ex’s told me to use the proper key instead of kicking the door…) or someone had tried to steal the bike and had buggered up the lock.

I didn’t want to leave the bike in the town centre though, because theft is always on the increase (Holland has one of the highest theft rates in Europe, because of stolen bicycles) and luckily my brother lives in the town centre, so I lifted the bike over my shoulder and carted it to his backyard. And took a taxi home…

The next day I phoned up my sister and told her of the lock tragedy and she came and picked me up to drive me to my brother’s. I was pretty hungover by now; sweaty, smelly and unshaven. And my sister was not amused. I was receiving her cold Gestapo like treatment, which she reserves for various occasions, most of which have to do with me, drugs and broken things.

And so we arrived at my brother’s house and went to the backyard.
Her bike wasn’t there!
I swear to God that sweat comes in various amounts and I was sweating like a Scotsman in Hampi.

There was a purple bike there though.
“So who’s bike’s that then?” asked my sister.
“Huh?” I’m not very articulate when hungover.
“Well it’s not your brother’s. It’s not his lover’s. Do you think it is the cook’s or the thief’s?”
“Well…”
“Mark,” she said, sounding awfully like Herr Flick, “That’s not my bike. My bike is white. You’ve taken someone else’s bike.”
“Yah…”

I was ordered to carry the purple bike back through the town centre (in the middle of the day…can you believe the embarassement I suffered? All the fingers pointing at me and people whispering to each other: “He’s stealing that bike in broad daylight”).
It did, however, explain why the lock wouldn’t open.
I replaced the bike where I reckon I’d found it and cycled away on my sister’s. Her lock wasn’t tampered with after all.

Rest assured, I will no longer be going to the town centre, it’s joined the list of other embarassing places I have to avoid.