It is now time to reveal What Happened To Andu.
So there we all were in the pub having a fun time on the Saturday. Mid-afternoon, I was part-way through my second pint when sinus related pain which had been bothering me for three weeks previously had one last excruciating stab right through my head. Thus, I gave myself some painkillers and put an end to drinking booze for the day. I even had to abandon the rest of that pint due to taking the tablets. This would turn out to be fortuitus...but for whom?
Andu powered on through his evening, at one point being so jolly that he decided he was Doctor Doom (which was unusual). Many rounds of shots were taken while I looked on with my lemonade. I foolishly pointed out that the team were close to reaching #113 shots between them. This became a challenge, with many excitable chats about James Roberts and his fine #113 facts of fun. Within moments of shot #113, Andu began to sway slowly in his seat. He looked pale. The eyes began to droop. Whereas moments before he had been shouting many thrilling lines from the Transformers TV story 'The Rebirth' for all the pub to enjoy (and perhaps some passing travellers 13 miles away and slightly to the East), he was now silent. He rose unsteadily to his feet, his centre of gravity apparently in dire peril, and declared he was off to the hotel room to sleep. He had not made it to midnight. I felt he was able to make it back to the hotel as it was just around the corner. Surely nothing bad could happen?
The remaining TMUK-ers enjoyed convivial conversation until naturally breaking up for the night. I returned to The Hotel Room. Andu was asleep on his bed, like a baby but bigger. The television was on. He appeared peaceful. Sometimes his eyes would flutter open so I made him a nice cup of tea. As I am a good chum, I stayed up for about half an hour in case of booze related illness from him, channel hopping through nothing of much interest. It looked safe to turn in for the night. Beside his bed was his new pile of Marvel Transformers UK comics retrieved from a comics mart scant hours previously. I thought that if there was chunder he would spew upon them from where they were in relation to his head, so I moved them far away from him to the table along the wall for their own safety.
I turned off the light and got in to my bed. Within scant seconds of lying down, Andu suddenly arose in the darkness like Lazarus and began a fast chicken-walk across the room while making strange noodling noises. Instead of heading for the loo, he was making a direct bead for the Marvel UK TF comics! Concerned for my good friend's welfare, I dashed up like a puma and shoved the comics out of the way mere micro-seconds before an enormous river of pink goo erupted from Andu, accompanied by the howl of an exploding volcano. The pink goo poured over the side of the table like a dashing greyhound, requiring quick thinking to move the comics yet again. "YEEEAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!" yelled Andu.
Then, suddenly, he turned to his right and fired a quick volley of pink goo from his maw at the pile of exciting Transformers toys lying there. It was a bit like when Godzilla uses his fire breath but crap. With the speed of a penguin sensing fish, I dived to my right and pushed him back, diverting the eruption just in time! My nimble reflexes scattered the toys out of the way while he went back to trying to cover the comics again with the contents of whatever was left in his deluded system. I wiped pink goo from the packet containing his two highly rare Botcon Ratchet kits. Only later would we realise that in doing this, one of the Ratchet heads must have been been lost instantly in the pink slime. Oh the humanity!
I urged Andu to repair to the bathroom. He heeded my warning, yelled: "YEEEEEEEEAAAARRRRRRRGH UUGGGGGGGGGGGGH" and promptly exploded within the little room. It looked just like The Red Weed in 'The War of the World' but slightly camper. While he clung on to the toilet like it was the last pint in a pub and yet somehow managing to be sick everywhere near and round the bowl without hitting it much, I started to mop up the dingy detritus of despair in the main room. My mood did, admittedly, darken slightly. Surely, however, it was all over now?
But Andu had not yet fired his final volley.
"RRRAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE RRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" he stated, not unboldy. His strange fascination with returning to the table returned with a vengeance as (impossibly) more pink lava erupted from his venerable Vesuvius. Dashing with the panache of a goat who has sensed butter, I once more swept toys and comics out of his way, pausing only to wipe pink stuff from my spectacles case and to kick my trainers out the way just in time. But it was not over yet.
Escape to danger!
Yes, Andu was once more back in the loo. Some men paint the town red past the hours of midnight when out for a fun evening. Some other men paint toilets pink instead...and not even an outdoor one in an interesting area of town at that! "HUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR HURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!", exclaimed the Scots stereotype. But he was not Ben Hur.
At last, the shuffling terror was over. Feebly, like a blind man playing Frogger in the real world, he shuffled over to the many rivulets and channels of undigested terror that covered what was supposed to be our temporary abode. Mistaking small thin pieces of toilet paper for vast swathes of cloths and detergents with which to clean this affair, he looked like a broken man. The kind of man who goes to the shop for a Cornetto but finds there are none in stock. Like a giant amongst the pygmies of goodness, I assisted the exciting clean-up operation.
After a few moments, some dim awareness seemed to reach Anduland. Somewhere inside his damaged mind, the vaguest hint of a sunset appeared over a foggy moor. "At least...I didn't get my trousers," he opined like a rubbish version of Hamlet. With great solemnity, I pointed to the floor where the aforementioned trousers would never run free in the wild ever again. Like a geriatric songbird, they would never sing again. No, Monsignor, no. Those trousers won't hunt. The weakest, most forlorn, most despairing sound that was ever heard by the creature known as Man came from the lips of Andu along with a very, very quiet: "Fuck."
It was over.
-Ralph