THE CRAPCAVE AND THE CASTLE INFLATABLE

Awnya and Crapman had the grand opening of the Crapcave(tm) and had us intrepid superhero types over for a soiree avec les slabs of meat sur le barbeque, avec un chef Anglais dangereuse.

Anyway, so there I was out in Loughshinny, sipping on my cheap-assed Bavaria beer, when out their back garden I spied - shimmering in the sun with undiscovered treasure like some newly discovered Aztec pyramid - was one of Man's most extraordinarily amazing contributions in the history of invention and inflatables. The Bouncy Castle stood there, wavering slightly as the air coursed through it with a gentle enginious hum, filling out it's inflatable crevices, taunting me with it's pneumatic quiver.
As the sun began to dip behind the Fingal the trees and hedges, the thought occured to me - to us - that surely the last child must be gone, surely it's past their bedtime, surely now, we could take that castle, it could be ALL OURS... There was just one rule: NO SHOES.

So my army of men, with an average age of 28, stormed the Castle Inflatable, throwing ourselves through an invisible portcullis all trying (put failing) to look as cool as yer man off Die Hard. Our hefty lumptiness almost toppled the castle on it's side, and our efforts to oust each other from the castle's interior concussed at least one of our party (poor Jonanthan!). Through this rumpus pandemonium, one of the neighbour's kids approached us, and said - arms folded and eyebrow arched - "Playtime is over!"
So shamefaced, bruised and concussed, we made our way back to the adult world at the opposite end of the garden.

"How much did the Bouncy Castle cost you?" The Crapdad asked him.
"1080 euro," Crapman replied.
"1080 euro!"
"80 euro to rent it, a thousand more cause these f*ckers have wrecked it!"