Arriving late to the surf one morning (as always) a foreign object had drifted ashore. Immediately thinking it was some poor Euro, I turned to Robo "What the f@#ks happened to this poor C@nt" came a short snub reply "Yeah... Lanka Sorts out the men from the boys" It's a wonder how great minds think alike. We stood there bewildered for 20 minutes, giggling at this critter flapping about in the shallows.
Meanwhile the surf was firing. Heavy low tide grinders, neither of us had the balls to go out but somehow that wasn't mentioned.
Finally the object starts to move, slowly but surely heading in our direction, hobbling like the elderly. Neither of us had clicked that mediocre was about to subside. "Its F@#kin Hot-Rod." "Oiiiii you alright mate? Ya need a hand?"
Turns out he wasn't in the mood for general converse. Six inch head gash right across his mellon, blood soaked head to toe, struggling to breathe and mumbling to himself. He was lucky to be standing let alone dragging himself up to the carpark, board and ego in tow.
Once he got closer all hell broke loose, "F@#k...... Hospital! Grab a towel, wrap his head "We were gun'Na come help Ya mate but......" No excuse was found.
Later over beers and giggles, listening to all different versions of the day's events, a plan was devised to protect Rods nogin for the next surf trip, "I'm not wearing a Gath hat, I'll end up look'N like a bloody Yank" "Well..... How about we wrap Ya head in cotton wool and shove a hat over the top" The more beers we drank the better the idea sounded.