Save Yourselves…

17 Nov

My mates and I went through a stage of baring our backsides to passing cars despite being in our late teens. I called it ‘revisiting my youth’. My mother, when she caught us doing it one night, called it ‘being a stupid prat’. Predictably, we always got our bums out after a few drinks and it ensured that a night was rounded off with a good laugh. After a couple of weekends of ‘pulling moonies’ we got bored with the traditional approach of simply waiting for a car to near before we dropped our trousers, so one Friday night after the pub closed, we tried out a new technique.


At one end of the high street there was a large roundabout which had four turnings off of it; one obviously going into the centre of town, two headed off in different directions out of town and one led to the car park of a major supermarket. The shrubbery in the middle of the roundabout was quite unkempt and we decided that it would make an excellent hiding place for us to leap out at traffic from. Six of us took up our positions behind various bushes and trees on the roundabout and waited for the first car to approach. As it was late on a Friday night, cars were few and far between, but we were getting one every five to ten minutes.  I’d hear someone shout out excitedly from their hiding position, “Here’s one!”and then the road would be illuminated with the glow from the vehicles headlights.  This was our nod to emerge from the bushes and gather as a group with our arses out, surprising the poor driver. Most of them ignored us, a few laughed and there was the odd driver that would erupt into a fit of rage and circle the roundabout numerous times before we all managed to scarper in various directions.


On this particular night, we had been pulling moonies for about forty minutes and decided that the next car would be our last victim of the night. Once again we all got into our hiding positions and waited for the next car, giggling with drunken excitement. A few minutes later, we heard a car approaching. First out of the bushes was one of our friends Ben, a rotund chap who had been kicked out of the pub earlier that evening, not for being drunk, but for being hyper on Coca Cola. As he reached the edge of the roundabout, he dropped his trousers and bent over. The rest of us were making our way over to join him when suddenly someone shouted, “Shit, it’s the police!”


A quick look beyond the headlights of the car confirmed that the shout was correct and Ben was now in full mooney position, his crinkled scrotum dangling like a hypnotists chain in front of two bemused coppers who were in the car. Ben heard the shout and peered over his shoulder to see them looking back at him, and then to his right saw the five of us sprinting full pelt towards a retirement home across the road. He tried to pull up his trousers and follow, but he was in such a rush, he could only succeed in getting them halfway up before he started on a pathetic waddle towards us. Trying not to laugh, we made our way into the gardens of the retirement home. Previous escapades had seen us use this as an escape route as you could either climb a fence at one end of the gardens and get onto a little back road, hide behind one of the numerous fruit trees in the ground, or jump over a high hedge which took you into the garden of the house next door. From here, it was possible to leap a few more fences and make a clean getaway.


By now, the two coppers were out of the car and in pursuit of us. To his credit, Ben had picked up quite a pace for someone who only had their trousers half on and as we jumped over the fence one by one, he was almost up with the rest of our group, charging like a demented rhino. The two coppers were slightly further back, but gaining ground fast.


“Quick Ben you fat fuck”, shouted Mike, the fifth person to drop over the fence. Ben placed one foot on the fence ready to climb, but as he did so, his trousers slipped down once more. Struggling to regain composure, he saw that the coppers were now very close. Every time he went to place his hands on the top of the fence, his trousers would slip down and he’d stop and try and pull them back up again.


“Lads, save yourselves! Run, run, run” he shouted, and we pegged it without hesitation as fast as we could, leaving Ben to explain his actions to the police.


We all hid in a nearby park for a while, laughing over the events beforehand when my phone suddenly rang. It was Ben.


“I’m not answering it” I declared, “It’s probably the police”.


One by one, each phone went off until Warren plucked up some courage and answered his. On the other end was Ben, now alone. We arranged to meet.


Ben was greeted not with thanks, but with abuse. ‘Gutted you fat wanker’, ‘Ha ha, you retard’ and ‘Nice one, Braveheart’ were a few of the insults I remember. Ben did see the funny side eventually and was grateful that he’d only received a mild ticking off for his ‘immature and quite frankly, disturbing’ behavior, but he still reminds us from time to time about when he put his neck on the line for the rest of us. We in turn respond as you’d expect, by calling him a fat wanker.


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