A spoken word comedy album by Australian comedians "Martin and Molloy" (Tony Martin and Mick Molloy), who's program on in drive time was discontinued, much to the disappointment of the listeners.

Contained clips of their comedy sketches, the odd made-up song, and a large array of funny quotes. Definitely worth a listen if you can find it.

Followed up by The Brown Album, a collection of further comedy sketches.

On returning, in October, to that esteemed establishment whose purpose is to educate me, I engaged in conversation with several of my friends. They told me of various events which had befallen them, most specifically foetusboy, from whose viewpoint this story is presented.

"I was in a rather unpleasant small town the other day, and, having a bottle of vodka and two good friends I proceeded to get rather drunk indeed. Rather more drunk, indeed, than I would have expected, considering what I drank. At any rate, having finished the bottle we that evening, around six or seven, went into a pub not far away. We had a few pints (shots of vodka being outrageously priced in this pub) and a bite to eat, before deciding a change of venue would suit us nicely. So we went across the street into another pub, where we also had a round. One of my friends fell asleep at this point, which myself and my other friend took as our cue to go for a walk. Returning a little while later, we found our friend still asleep, so after one more round we once more set out. While wandering and chatting of various things, we met some fellow revellers, and fell to discussing the evening’s joys, and how strange it was that my friend had been to school with two of the guys present, some years before."

"At around this point, some of my memories fade and those of my friend take their place. Hitherto the only discrepancies were the order in which we went from pub to pub and back again, and minor details like in which one I was busted with an ashtray under one armpit and a drink from the previous pub under the other, in which one they threatened to call the police, out of which we were thrown first because our friend was sleeping, and whether I did go outside and come back in with seven crumpled, bloody cigarettes. My friend says that very soon after meeting these old friends of his and new friends of ours, I dived into the face of a somewhat sturdily built young lady. I remember very little of this, certainly not fifteen minutes, as he says there were, but I suppose events of the sort must have transpired to make possible those that followed."

"All I remember of her physical appearance is the vague shape of the top of her head, in that I think she had a pony tail of some sort. While she was good at what she did that gave this sight, I became slightly bored the second time, having almost hit her in the face when I continued what she stopped momentarily, to take breath. Having little tolerance for either her, boredom or the very activity in which we were engaged- a few months before hand, I had been with a good friend of mine doing similar things in a library, and, despite the more than adequate prowess of my friend I did at one point start reading the titles of books on the shelves- I decided to alleviate the tedium and monotony with a little dry humour: I suggested she take it up- and I, regretfully, quote, asking you to take into account my state of advanced inebriation- her poopchute.

She, fortunately for me (I don’t think it would really have been so enjoyable, given my state and her stature) refused. Understandably. I laughed to myself and returned to appreciating her talents. But then she went and spoiled it all, by saying something stupid like 'I’m not that sort of girl'. If sober, I would have tried, but as it was I couldn't help but point out that she was. And she really was. I found this quite endlessly amusing. Endless to the extent that although my next memory is of lying on the pavement a touch foetally, trying vaguely and vainly to protect my head from the kicks it received from her friends, I then and now found it very, very funny."

"I managed to flee, retaining still my glasses, wallet and watch (the things I check for whatever my state), and called the name of my friend. He not being forthcoming, I made do with a repeat encounter: I set off down a back alley- at which point I must diverge, for it wasn’t really an alley, but a sort of drive-cum-unloading bay, though I don’t know with any degree of certainty. In it I had previously and quite accidentally broken into a car- it may have been unlocked to start with; it definitely was afterwards- and stolen a packet of cigs and some odd red box, both of which I put back shortly, feeling quite silly and immature, and the latter of which I later saw in the pub- but returning to this alley, I got a little way down only to think it was a shade familiar, but the reason for this did not become clear for a few essential seconds. It was not that I had been there earlier, which I only realised later, but that it was populated by the people I had met earlier and did not want to again."

"They had not yet recognised me, and forgive me whilst I digress a little: a while ago, myself and a (different but similarly drunk) friend were trying to take a short cut through a high-walled area. We got over the first one, thus inside, but the second we attempted was somewhat higher, so we went over a wall near it which took us, we thought, a step closer to the outside. It did not, and resultantly we wandered around, through private gardens and houses, over numerous walls of wildly varying heights, coming eventually over one that brought us into the original walled area. I descended first, and being hailed by cries inquiring where I had just been, I walked confidently but quietly in the opposite direction. They followed me, at a similar pace, until my friend landed directly in front them, when we both started running. The lesson I learned from this, and to which I always adhere regardless of sobriety, it having sunk to a very firm level in my brain, is to walk until I’m recognised."

"This I did, but was rapidly grasped by my jacket sleeve. I shook off this improper approach and denied knowledge of who I was, beginning to run shortly thereafter. They gave chase, and I almost immediately saw in front of me a wall of around three or four feet. I leapt over it, not displaying incredible athletic ability and, I discovered the next morning, bruising my toe so severely that walking without effecting an implausible gait was quite remarkably painful. I passed quite easily if not comfortably through the branches of the small, stout saplings that were planted on the other side to make it seem more striking, and landed past it in wet soil where I lay for some time, wondering how drunk I was. Too drunk to be able to gauge or worry, but sober enough to pick up my watch, which lay on the ground beside me. I have a strong visual recollection of my watch seen from a low angle, if of very little else but that a few of my pursuers may well have passed over my head. I have slight and several memories of other incidents, but only one of which I am at all sure.

After this last brief sighting, where I was momentarily cornered by no one in particular, I returned (I think) to each of the two pubs we had blessed with our custom, and finding neither of my friends there I tried the station. I saw my friend on the opposite platform, and ran over to join him. I don’t remember what was said, but we went our separate ways. The next morning, or more probably afternoon, having made it home reasonably safely, I recollected that I had only seen one of my friends set off home, and had little idea of the whereabouts of the other. Not wanting to be identified as the cause of his disappearance if I called his housemates and enquired, I instead phoned the one I had seen last to ascertain that at least one and hopefully both had survived. They both had, but he was surprised that I had: various groups and individuals had been approaching him most of the night asking where they could find me, except for those that told him they already had. One of these latter groups revealed to him, which he revealed to me, that they had bottled me. I denied this vociferously, pointing out that there were no wounds on my face. Wishing to check this, I went to a mirror, only when I switched the phone from one hand to the other to open the door noticing the series of a dozen three inch long, raw and bloody cuts adorning my left arm. He’d hung up by the time I stopped laughing and found the phone again."

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