Taken from the BBC site
What is the best way to go about taking socks off, and still live to tell the tale?
Putting
the things on is relatively easy, as you will most probably be sober.
Taking them off is more of a challenge, as you will most probably be
drunk... if you're me, that is...
So
you and the lads have just flowed back into your house from the Pub,
and you need to lie down for a little bit. Most of your clothes are
more than happy to be removed, your shirt flies off your chest, your
shoes are dispatched with a satisfying KLUNK to the other side of the
room, your trousers slip down without a grumble; you sit on the bed and
think of the next stage. You know that there may be trouble ahead...
You
look at your socks, and they look at you. It is a Mexican stand-off.
The alarm clock doesn't "tick-tock"; it plays the theme tune from "For
A Few Dollars More" - when the music stops, you draw.
You
start to chicken out a little, and think 'Maybe I can just sleep with
them on'. Your socks seem to twitch with laughter - they know that they
have you beat. You swear inwardly, and vow that you won't be made a
fool of.
And so you let rip.
Alas,
it is an unequal battle. As you make a grab for the first sock, you
find that your prey moves itself that crucial few inches out of your
reach. You fall off the bed, and regroup. The sock pretends that it has
seen nothing, and that it has been innocently minding it's own business
for the last ten minutes, thinking noble thoughts.
The air is filled with horrible swear-words. Your blood is up!
So you go in again.
This
time, you make a dash for the other foot, thinking that that sock will
be a little less wary. You have the upper hand! Nope! It has read your
mind, and ducks at the last minute.
As
you bend your leg up to take it, your back gives way, and you tumble
sideways, smacking your head off the wardrobe. Lying prone on the
floor, in severe pain, you can hear the socks whispering foul calumnies
about you, and your parentage. You become aware now of the sounds of
battle from the rooms below, where your mates are being similarly
bested.
'I won't be beaten', you cough, swallowing back your pride, and the taste of the last (bad) pint.
Summoning
up what little remains of your strength, you rise to your knees. Anna
Kournikova looks on, her poster bursts into life, and you know that if
you are to retain any manly dignity, and go on to be a success in the
World, now is the time to prove it.
You reach behind and lo! the right sock can't escape. You grasp its neck and pull...
When
you eventually come to, you are surprised to find that you have fallen
asleep in the wardrobe, and that you and the socks have become best
friends. One is dozing happily upon your head, and the other upon your
manhood.
Over
the cornflakes that day, you cautiously scan the faces of your
flatmates. No eye contact is made, and you know that they have suffered
as you have.
Socks may keep our feet warm, they may cushion our toes, but they will never be our friends.
How
to take the buggers off and live? Well, I've lived, but I've also
suffered. To be honest, I don't know the definitive answer.
What
I DO know though, is that after a certain number of tussles the less
committed sock of the pair decides enough is enough and, presumably
having grown tired of the constant aggro, runs off, never to be seen
again.
As for the one left behind...
Well, that's another story.
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