I was out drinking with two friends, who I’ll call Devin and Ryan to ingeniously protect their true identities. We had posted up in a comfy little pub called Ocho and were working through beers.
With a drink in him, Devin was a bit of a loose cannon. By this point he was well-oiled. On our table sat a candle, jammed in to a wine bottle. The bottle’s sides were thick with wax. As the candle burned, new wax ran down old, delicately balancing near the end of the bottle. Can you see where this is going?
For some reason, Devin lifted the waxy bottle and thrust it at me as if it was a weapon, but going “Whoohoohoo” as if it was a ghost. Waxed dripped over me, my shirt and trousers. Less than pleased, I retreated to the toilet to clean up.
As I stood in the toilet, pointlessly trying to pick the wax off, Ryan walks in with a brilliant idea: “I heard you can burn wax off”. That doesn’t make sense, it was heat that caused the wax to stick to me to begin with, why would more take it off? But there had been booze, and drunken logic said that this was worth a shot. So Ryan pulls his lighter out and gets to work.
And then a stranger walks in to see Ryan, crouched, head at my belt buckle, holding a flame at my crotch, and immediately walks out again.