Right, a few weeks ago I was dragged around a friggin castle in Somerset, and as we exited my missus spots a sign that said, :arrow: to the ghost trail. So I'm pulled into a vault/cellar and she sets too reading about ten hours of spiel about said ghosts. I tells her that the only ghastly apparition I could not wish to meet at night would be her mum in stockings and suspenders. Anyhow she reads on and I am fookin starving, knowing well I have a big oggy and a cheese cake yogurt not more than a brisk walk away. Yummy. So she waffles and I pipes up fcukin ghosts what a load of wan.............. Oh shit, from the direction of a blank wall a friggin great boulder(ten pence size stone) is heaved at me from nowhere. Me being a rough and generally macho big b*stard, I made it out the bat cave in 2.3 seconds at an acceleration speed that would put sea dart to shame. Now I am not easily scared but I would not go back in that friggin cellar for another pension. Mrs bleeding Rumrat has brought the friggin stone home, and I will not touch it. She keeps it on top of the biscuit tin. I ain't had a biscuit for yonks, life is a bitch.