This is a
short but freagin funny story of being in the right place at the right
time. Unfortunately me and my mates Dave and Croft weren't pissed,
we were under-aged and had gone to purchase some booze at Box Hill
(also good for cheap heroin). Loaded up from a successful trip, we
were on our way back to the Chiselers house, when we jumped on the
train. "FLOYD!" some bloke was screaming, so we went to
have a look, and it turns out Floyd was passed across a couple of
seats with the ground below him covered in some mysterious (we came
to the conclusion it must have been piss and some beer). Anyways,
poor old Floyd was down for the count, and his mate was trying to
drag him off the train but pulled old Floydy into the metal door rail
and probably killed off whatever remaining brain cells Floyd had left.
But Floyd wasn't moving an inch. "FLOYD, 'dis izzz our fargggin
stop! we gotta get off!" ...Still no movement. But that wasn't
gonna stop his mate, who bum dragged his mate through the doors which
closed on him then off a pretty big ledge onto the platform where
Floyd once again smashed his cranium into the pavement. And that was
the last we ever saw of Floyd.
The moral of this story is to always trust your mates to get you home
in a couple of pieces.