French Cycling Trip
It must have been about 1986 or thereabouts. 25 or so fifteen year old hooligans cycling down the Cherbourg peninsula to St Malo for the best part of a week. Glorious carefree sunny days, camping and staying in Youth Hostels, you get the picture. There were two teachers with us (one cycling, one driving the school minibus with all our bags, etc in) who were fairly happy to turn a blind eye to the occasional fag smoked or bottle of cheap frogplonk being passed around.
Late one hot afternoon myself and a mate of mine called John were ambling along a typical Normandy country road on our racers, and as far as we were concerned we were bringing up the rear, so to speak. We couldn't see the rest of the lads or the van up front, so on noticing the rotting corpse of a poor run-over cat on the grass verge a very wicked plot was hatched between us. As any veteran of any childhood trip to France knows, explosive bangers are (or at least were) freely available at most newsagents/toy shops, and all of our group, without exception had a small arsenal of them about their person ready to let off as soon as the teachers were out of sight and earshot. Dangerous fireworks and teenage boys. What a winning combination that is.
John pulled out one of the biggest bangers imaginable (it looked like a small stick of dynamite) and gently inserted it into the cat's gaping mouth. The stench up close was fucking awful, and you could see maggots crawling around everywhere.
John then took the fuses from two other smaller bangers and joined them to the original one, in order to allow us time to cycle out of the "blast zone".
He lit the fuse. We ran like fuck to our bikes, got on them and pedalled away. Twenty seconds or so later we were further down the road and stopped to witness the spectacle. Two seconds after that Mr Pell rounded the corner in the minibus. One second after that the minibus was re-decorated in putrid, decaying cat.
We fucking pissed ourselves.
Mr Pell (who had been driving with the windows open) took a very different view.
All the other lads' bangers were confiscated that evening, and myself and John were therefore not all that popular for the rest of the trip, but hey - it was worth it.
Shoplifting crap aftershave became the next holiday pastime by the way. To this day, even the faintest whiff of "Hai Karate" takes me back to rural France.

No apologies for length. The cat loved it.
( BobbyParadise, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 14:01, Reply)