It was a long and scary night that one. Almost had two of me bollocks off it.

We were at Bolton on Tippser on Danswey on Swale-lee ‘avin a good ‘ol game of pick the terns (snatching up some bobby blue-foots or whatever we could find and throwin’ them at each other. Highly wrong I know but if you give ’em a lil peck of the ‘ol seven-day yeast (bread to you Yankee jacks) they come right up to you in your hands.

So we been playin this game of mindless abandon for about seven to sixty minutes right, and it startin to get dark out. Now in the ‘ol northern parts for you Yankee Jacks this ain’t no piss n’ playdate. The sky is always a bum tint and we were near forest and mountains that didn’t give up much light.

I had thrown my last blue boobie when I heard a thunderous almost other-wordly growl off to the left of me mate’s shoulder to the right. It was worse than the best Chelsea club bell when they score (you know the song about the ol common-girl from the pub named CHelsea or what ‘ave you?). In fact it was worse than hearing a Chelsea score with a bloody hangover of Guinness and some snogging happening off to the right of the pitch.

Anyways, we both look a bit concerned at each other like “ey chap, has this thing gone mental?”

He look at me, “the b-boobies?”

“No no, the giant gargle we been hearing behind you?”

His face went paler than his usual pale and I could feel mine numb up a good bit meeself. We noticed the boobies had all cocked up and it was a real nice silence for a moment.

We packed up our camping equipment as best we could, ‘cept we couldn’ make the tent and the beanbag in time. Just then there was a huge crackin’ noise close by where me m8 was standing, that had to have been the sound of a switch against a tree trunk, or a nun’s ruler gainst your willy for misbehavin’. I turned to check on me m8 but all me ears heard was a swift-

“RUN!”

Me m8 was being dragged willy-first through the brush. I could not make out what be touchin’ him but I shouldn’t ponder more than a minute or two before I launched me handful of kit in the van and started that Ol Maid up like I was lookin for love in all the wrong commonhouses m8 and shoved off.

I felt a pit in my stomach m8 I really did and to this day. Explainin’ it to his mum was the hardest of all. The authorities nearly had me in the nick for 5 years thinkin’ I’d donnit and had the body stashed somewhere real nice.

I don’t go much in any woods now let alone Bolton on Tippser on Danswey on Swale-lee NNRs. I swear I heard that dreaded sound again on a main line up that ways not too long ago. Still haunts but could’ve been a steam horn I suppose.

tl;dr believe you me there were ghost in them woods and throwin boobies won’t the only crime m8. RIP in peace my m9.