Would you spend an entire week slipping into a wet and slimy crevice just to see what was at the other end? You may be surprised to hear that groups of idiots do this every year, mostly in the dark! Why do they undertake this activity, well in short, they’re just very, very sick and suffering from a new disorder called ‘pot-holitus’ from the Latin, ‘stark-starium as a boxus frogus’.
The symptoms are easily spotted; the sufferer simply can’t pass a hole without sticking his or her bonce through it, then entering it to see where it leads. Just the safety aspects of this ridiculous pastime, and the total disregard for their own safety have been frowned upon by the emergency services, to the point where psychiatrists have stepped in to save these fools from themselves. And now you can be sectioned if you’re seen attempting to enter the earth’s crust.
No, no, don’t pick a hobby that’s above terra firma, let’s go underground where no-one can reach us if we break a leg, despite calling out, at great expense, an air ambulance, four paramedics, the police and the bloody fire brigade!
I don’t care if the risk to caver is quite low, the fact is, someone at some point is going to have an accident and it’ll be the tax payer that cops the tab for it. “Where shall we go this year dwarling, somewhere warm and relaxing?” “Well actually I was thinking of a place where we’d be at risk of a fall, with a definite chance of flooding and hopefully a good dose of hypothermia.” “Ooh super!”
If farting about in small spaces in near darkness with no idea where you’re going isn’t bad enough, some fools go cave diving. I mean – if it wasn’t dangerous enough, let’s put an aqualung on so we can really up the chances of getting wedged between two rock faces. Bloody idiots; every last one of them!
Okay, I’ll throw this one at you. You’ve been under ground for a good four hours, you’re covered mud and soaking wet. The night before you visited ‘The Old Slapper’s Inn’, downed 12 pints and then went for a curry. Where’s the bog? “I’m busting for a slash,” says the novice to the team leader he’s tied too. “That’s okay,” says the cheery twit in front, “You can use my urine bottle.”
The novice speaks again. “Ooh, hang on, I think that vindaloo’s making a break for freedom.” “Can’t you hold on,” replies the twit? “Bit late for that, I’m sitting on a turtle head now!” So, with all the dignity he can muster, the lead twit says, “Here, you can use my rucksack!” Ewww, ewwww and thrice ewwwwwwwww.
No, no, no, no, no. These people should definitely be shot at birth…
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