University had some quite animated moments. I had an interesting time with a guy called Paul C. We had two things in common – well, three if you count practical joking. We both loved hang gliding and getting stoned. Not at the same time, I hasten to add.
We lived together in a farmhouse on the outskirts of Swansea in sunny Wales. It was an extremely basic place – no heating, but we did have running water. In the summer it was fine, but in the winter it was cold, and I mean cold. Some nights, if you left a glass of water by the window, it would have ice in it by the morning. Paul had some sort of heating. I had none. But he did have lots of hash!
Paul was in his final year (I can’t remember what he studied), and I was in my first year studying Biology. I was mainly focused on cell biology and pathology. I was drawn to him because he knew how and where to fly hang gliders. In fact, he was the only one who knew anything about hang gliding at uni.
Swansea University is in South Wales, an ugly town surrounded by amazing hills and small mountains – perfect for hang gliding, and I wanted to learn. I’d done a bit before – I had an idea of taking off and landing on little baby slopes, but I could never call myself a real hang glider pilot. More like a guy willing to try.
So, Paul was a great one to follow. The first problem was that there were no members left in the university’s hang gliding club – the old ones had graduated, and the instructor had gotten a real job, so no more training new students. Swansea did have a great and active hang gliding club, but as luck would have it, there were no active members left. But there were a bunch of hang gliders. I then took care of said hang gliders – as they needed to be looked after – and got my hands on them.
Back to my need for Paul: he knew where to fly. He had no time or inclination to take me to the sites himself, as he was busy preparing for his finals. Knowing how to fly is one thing, but where to fly is quite another. Hills suitable for takeoff need to face into the wind of the day. In South Wales, there are a lot of hills, but few that are actually good for hang gliding – and fewer still where you’re allowed to fly. You have to go to the appropriate site for the wind speed and direction. Paul knew all the places. A very useful friend.
He’d point to a hang gliding site on a map, and I’d go fly it. It’s more normal to be introduced to a flying site and have someone explain the dangers, pitfalls, and where to catch the best lift. I was super inexperienced. I could hardly fly. Takeoffs and landings from a tiny training slope were about my level. These were big hills. They seemed massive to me. But I followed his directions and had quite a few near misses – but that’s a different story. Or stories.
This is about two individuals who tried to out-practical-joke each other, to the other’s extreme detriment. Paul started the ball rolling.
One freezing night, Paul and I were up in his room getting nicely stoned. It got to that time when more smoking wouldn’t get you any higher, so I bid my fellow stoners – Paul among them – good night and went down the rickety stairs to my glacial bedroom.
Getting in and out of bed: I had it all worked out. I had a system to stay as warm as possible. I always put my slippers at the head end of the bed, positioned so I could swing my legs straight into them and avoid the ice-cold floor. I had three or maybe four quilts on the bed – it was thick with them. When I got into bed that night, I lay motionless under feet of duvet, trying to warm up. I had a light switch on a string that hung down by my head.
After 20 or 30 minutes, I felt the burgeoning need to pee. Fuck, that meant I had to get out into the freezer box. So I began my perfectly choreographed routine: pulled the string – click, lights on – swung my feet into my slippers – bullseye, feet perfectly found their marks. Now off to the toilet.
But then – I stared at the duvets, which had been dislodged by my movements – and there it was: a PIG’S HEAD. Yes, a fucking dead pig’s head, staring at me. For a moment, I did nothing but stare back. It seemed to be staring at me, and I at it.
I had been sharing my bed with a pig. Disbelief and confusion filled my head – shortly followed by panic. That feeling was quickly replaced by irrational fear. Still stoned, and in total disbelief, I ran out of my room, up the rickety stairs, and banged on Paul’s door.
He calmly opened it, and I said the stupidest thing ever:
“You’ll never guess what? I just found a pig’s head in my bed!!!”
Stop and think for a second. We lived in an isolated farmhouse. No one else knew where we lived. No one else would think to do this. Of course it was Paul. There was no one else. He just smiled wryly at me.
I ran back down to my room, bundled Miss Piggy’s head into some sheets, hurled it out the door, and sped off in my car. I ended up crashing on a mate’s floor in a halls of residence. But I said to myself, revenge will be sweet. I just didn’t know how – but as sure as the sun rises in the morning, and politicians are full of shit, it was going to happen.
⸻
The Amphibian Revenge
Revenge came in an unexpected, opportunistic form.
It started in one of our huge first-year biology practicals. I was in a giant open-plan lab, with about 40 workstations on big benches. That day, we were dissecting frogs. I can’t remember why we were cutting up these poor beasts – but we were. At the end of the practical, I noticed a bunch of frogs that hadn’t been eviscerated, and I pinched about eight of them, slipping the carcasses surreptitiously into my pocket.
I took them home to the farmhouse and proceeded to secrete them around Paul’s bedroom.
I started under his pillow – put one there. Then two in his sock drawer. One or two behind the curtains. Some I can’t even remember. He found the first one that night. It took him ten days to find the last one – located only by its rotting stench.
Revenge is a dish best served cold. Really cold.
Paul was in his final year, and I was in my first. So he left, and I resurrected the hang gliding club. I continued with hang gliding and eventually became a professional in the hang gliding world. Later, that evolved into paragliding. And for twelve or so years, that was my job and my life.
So, in an odd way, he did help me.
He was definitely a cunny funt.
Since then, I’ve developed a penchant for practical joking – as you’ll see – although, these days, they’re a little less gory.