The Bootnapper

Back in the nineties I lived quite the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. I played rhythm guitar in a band and I had long hair and I partied hard most weekends.

One Friday night I was at the flat of my mate Nige, who had a dozen or so people round after the pubs shut. We swigged to the sound of Mudhoney until the neighbour banged on the wall to signal last orders and most people went home, but I hung about. Nige had gone to bed and I was lying at full stretch on the settee with a quilt. The only other person in the room was my mate Graeme, who was curled up on the armchair with a blanket. He told me that he couldn’t get comfortable and asked me if I fancied swapping. I laughed and gave him a two-word reply, accompanied by a two-fingered salute. Then I gave an exaggerated account of how wonderfully comfortable Nige’s settee was.

Soon after this though my bursting bladder began demanding my attention. I couldn’t hold it in any longer so I pulled the blanket aside. Graeme appeared to be asleep so I crept off the settee and made stealthily towards the door that led to the bathroom. No sooner had I reached this door than I heard a yell of triumph and I saw Graeme leap from the armchair to the settee. I was gutted.

I curled up on the armchair with the blanket but it was too uncomfortable to sleep properly. I woke up before it was light (this was in summertime) and I decided to go home. Graeme really was asleep by this time and so I decided to have me some revenge. I left the flat a few minutes later.

In the morning Graeme and Nige were drinking tea and chatting about the party. Graeme had laced up one of his Doc Marten boots but he couldn’t find the other one. Then Nige found the note I had left on the fireplace, which read:

If you want to see your boot again bring a packet of hob-nobs to ** Marine Terrace on Saturday morning.

No tricks

No police

 There was nothing he could do but walk round to my flat, which was about a quarter of a mile away, wearing only one boot. This was no mean feat as it was a busy Saturday morning and on the way he bumped into his cousin and his family who were going shopping. They asked him what on earth he was doing walking around the town centre with one boot on. He showed them the note.

He got to my flat soon after this but he took it in good humour. We had quite a laugh about it over a cup of tea and some hob-nobs.

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About Joe Young

Supposed writer from the north-east coast of England.
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One Response to The Bootnapper

  1. ckandrew says:

    I just LOVE that one, Joe! vengeance they say is a dish best taken cold. very cold for the left foot (or was it the right?)
    Thanks for the giggle

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