I thought I was going to see someone die today.
Been quite an eventful day all in all. I was sitting at my desk in the office, and this is an open plan office shared by six blokes. The company makes Precast Concrete, so we are obviously all rufty-tufty construction type manly men. So guess what the conversation was (NOT by me, I hasten to add)? It was about fucking Emmerdale Farm.
Emmerdale bastard Farm, I mean, come on. What a load of shite. They will be talking about manbags and guyliner next. Fuckmegently, what a bunch of QSs, no wonder this country is in such a state.
Now the Ultra Death is mine, and I thought this was a scary fucking sauce, but I tried a dollop of the Mad Dog and, fuck me, does that stuff blow you away. Blairs first, alot of heat, followed by Mad Dog. At first there was nothing, just the remnants of the Ultra Death lingering in my throat and on the end of my tongue. Then, all of a sudden, there was an almighty fucking explosion and I had fountains of sweat coming out of my head.
Milk was a must.
Not many colleagues were prepared to taste any of the array of bottles of molten lava, but one man did.
And my god did he feel it.
He put quite a lot of the stuff onto the oatcake.
One of the Emmerdale loving QSs was heard to say "I'm washing my hands of THIS one".
I told him he had too much.
He ate half of it and then looked around, as if to say "What's all the fuss about, this aint so bad."
And then it hit him.
He jumped up, glasses came off, gasping for breath, eyes bulging.
When asked if was OK he merely shook his head, grasping the table, struggling to breath in or out.
His head was red, very red. He looked very very ill.
I gave him some milk and watched as he sort of got his breath back and looked like he was going to throw up.
I really didn't know whether to laugh and say 'Well I fucking told you so, you stupid twat,' or feel sorry for him. So I laughed inwardly.
I had Fajitas for tea. More sauce. Stomach feels it now and arse is a bit sore.