Happy Birthday Chrissy,
Chrissy it's your birthday!

Let's all wish Christopher Light a happy 22nd birthday. WELL IT"S A BIT FUCKING LATE NOW! HIS BIRTHDAY WAS ON 12TH MAY! Ah well, who goes a shit, I bet he didn't buy you a present for his last Birthday, tight bastard. Luckily, I think Jebus (Bit like Jesus but he's black and wears a correctional shoe as one leg is shorter than the other. I think it's the left leg, but don't hold me to that) knows that Chris didn't buy enough presents for other people this year. So, what did Jebus do? Well he punished him, that's what he did. The town; Byron Bay. The Hostel; The Arts Factory. The room-mates; Hot German Girls and a couple of their superfluous guy friends. At this juncture, I should also point out that in the room next to us was Lisa and Natalie (the one Simon was sticking it to and her mate with the left booby). Remember them? Course you do. Well, up they popped again. Like a bad bloody smell they were (If you happen to be reading, Natalie and Lisa, I should point out that you did not actually smell, much. More to do with the lingering around us, but can't blame you really). I digress, Much goon was drunk. Chris was picked on in all the drinking games, as was to be expected. This led to Chris getting slightly excitable. He spent much of his birthday night running around Cheeky Monkey's (The club/bar that every backpacker went to) with the speed of that runner woman who got done for drugs (Christina Oglaourar, or something like that) and the drunkard stylings only seen on the Christmas specials of ''Booze Britain'. For anyone who hasn't experienced one of these backpackers bars, it should be noted that every drunk middle-class-18-year-old-skins-wannabe-traveller-girl dances on the wooden tables that are around. Now, Chris decided that he should definitely get involved with some of this action. So he knelt down, pulled up his socks, retied his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, tightened his belt, done some warm up stretches and took about 10 paces back for his run up. Head down and breathing synchronised, Chris saw his target; a table by the bar, and focused his mind upon achieving his goal. He later described how his single-mindedness allows him to gain a unique tunnel vision and that he is much the same as a lion stalking it's pray. He is at one with his surroundings. Well this night was no different, and he put his head down and began to run. Witnesses likened the events that followed as being comparable to the fateful night that Martin mowed down Jamie in Eastenders. It began so well, Martin was getting a lovely text at the wheel of his car, flying through Albert square without a care in the world, the BLAM! Just the same as Jamie, Chris' night took a turn for the worse. He approached the table at top speed (roughly 5.5mph), arms swinging, face gritted with determination and legs pumping. He leapt. And then he fell. It was not a case of Chris flying full whack over the table or maybe pumping onto the table then maybe being knocked off by a careless reveller. He made it as far as the seat of bench. Not even as far as the top of the table, how pathetic. The drunk prat got one foot onto the seat, slipped and twisted his ankle on the floor. Oh dear. He then refused to accept that he should probably go home or get off his foot but soldiered on and stumbled round for another good two hours. Well done, Squire. As an epilogue to this story, Chris woke up the following morning and couldn't walk properly for a good two weeks and three months later his left ankle is still a bit gammy, he can't kick a football with his left foot. I suspect that Athletico Scope's medical team will be very busy when he returns from his season abroad.

Also, here's a question for everyone;

Would you rather be fisted by the Incredible Hulk or fingered by Edward Scissorhands?
Answers to be sent to the usual address and please enclose a self-addressed envelope so that we can send the prize to the lucky winner.