Adventures of the Zoid Pilot (Part 2)

So back to the Zoid story……………

Back in the final year of university I woke up and immediately knew something was amiss. My comrade in arms, Rolly, was asleep in the armchair beside mine wearing a pair of stained plastic gloves (?), and the TV was on in the background. I could tell from the “England ODI Clock”, that it was approximately 11:45am, as Mark Ramprakash was making his way back to the pavilion.

Something was wrong……….. burning pain………..on my head. Hmmm – sticky. I prodded Rolly, and pointed at my head grunting. I could see it in his eyes that he soon registered that there was a problem, and he rushed me to the kitchen to wash the bleach out of my hair. Phew - problems over…or so it seemed.

Winding back to pre-memory loss of this incident, it transpires that following a 20 hour drunken wine rampage around Birmingham, I had decided to go blond, and visited the chemists at 8:30am as soon as it opened to purchase some women’s bleach. After application, nothing happened (my hair was very dark at the time). At this point I returned to said chemist, with Rolly nervously waiting outside, to demand a refund. Naturally, I don’t remember any of the conversation, but to get me out of my shop he sold me a tiny bottle of prescription bleach from the back of the shop. I have no idea what prescription bleach is (is it the stuff Whacko used on his skin?), but worrying I was only charged £3.75 for the bottle, and told “not to come back”. Excellent, this should do the trick.

Myself and Rolly returned to the house to perform the operation at about 10ish, and sat down to wait for the bleach to kick in. And then layed back. And then fell asleep :(

Anyhow, once this apparent chemical weapon had been washed from my scalp. The colour began to change as it dried off. It went……….errrr………….gold. Not blond, not yellow, not orange, but metallic gold. FFS. I had longish hair at the time so looked like a right spanner. You know things have not gone to plan, when people go out of the way on the way back from campus, ring on your doorbell, laugh and then walk off. It was at this point that I realised the metallic colour had a bit of an android look about it, and some of the smartarses in the house were trying to get me to walk around campus in a golden romper suit, to complete the zoid pilot effect.

One thing was for sure – it was a dry spell on the women front.

Anyhow – I needed to take action, as the pain was getting worse:

Plan1 : I went to Toni and Guys to request a skinhead. They took one look at my chemically burned scalp and said they couldn’t do it for legal reasons. They suggested I seek medical advice.

Plan2 : I went to a really rough Brummie barbers to request a skinhead. He said “no chance”, and suggested I seek medical advice.

Plan3 : I sought medical advice. Doctor gave me some painkillers, and lectured me on alcohol abuse. He then sent me home and told me to come back “if my hair fell out”.

Sigh. What an episode. The worst was still to come however. For the next month, I’d religiously wash my hair every night before bed with conditioner and mild shampoo (as its texture felt like a brillo pad). Every night I’d go to bed, and during the night my chemical burns would secrete pus like there was no tomorrow. On a good day, I’d just wake up with solid hair. On a bad day, my head would be stuck solid to the pillow. This went on for four weeks :(

One saving was that I didn’t have to spend a penny on hair gel. I’d wash it in the morning and then, Bob’s your uncle, by 11am it was nicely styled with yellow puss again.

Anyhow, as proved by this and the last cash game, drinking wine = VERY bad things happen to me. Back to beer this week I feel.