What is the best way to go about taking socks off, and still live to tell the tale?

Putting the things on is relatively easy, as you will most probably be sober. Taking them off is more of a challenge, as you will most probably be drunk... if you're me, that is...

So you and the lads have just flowed back into your house from the Pub, and you need to lie down for a little bit. Most of your clothes are more than happy to be removed, your shirt flies off your chest, your shoes are dispatched with a satisfying KLUNK to the other side of the room, your trousers slip down without a grumble; you sit on the bed and think of the next stage. You know that there may be trouble ahead...

You look at your socks, and they look at you. It is a Mexican stand-off. The alarm clock doesn't "tick-tock"; it plays the theme tune from "For A Few Dollars More" - when the music stops, you draw.

You start to chicken out a little, and think 'Maybe I can just sleep with them on'. Your socks seem to twitch with laughter - they know that they have you beat. You swear inwardly, and vow that you won't be made a fool of.

And so you let rip.

Alas, it is an unequal battle. As you make a grab for the first sock, you find that your prey moves itself that crucial few inches out of your reach. You fall off the bed, and regroup. The sock pretends that it has seen nothing, and that it has been innocently minding it's own business for the last ten minutes, thinking noble thoughts.

The air is filled with horrible swear-words. Your blood is up!

So you go in again.

This time, you make a dash for the other foot, thinking that that sock will be a little less wary. You have the upper hand! Nope! It has read your mind, and ducks at the last minute.

As you bend your leg up to take it, your back gives way, and you tumble sideways, smacking your head off the wardrobe. Lying prone on the floor, in severe pain, you can hear the socks whispering foul calumnies about you, and your parentage. You become aware now of the sounds of battle from the rooms below, where your mates are being similarly bested.

'I won't be beaten', you cough, swallowing back your pride, and the taste of the last (bad) pint.

Summoning up what little remains of your strength, you rise to your knees. Anna Kournikova looks on, her poster bursts into life, and you know that if you are to retain any manly dignity, and go on to be a success in the World, now is the time to prove it.

You reach behind and lo! the right sock can't escape. You grasp its neck and pull...

When you eventually come to, you are surprised to find that you have fallen asleep in the wardrobe, and that you and the socks have become best friends. One is dozing happily upon your head, and the other upon your manhood.

Over the cornflakes that day, you cautiously scan the faces of your flatmates. No eye contact is made, and you know that they have suffered as you have.

Socks may keep our feet warm, they may cushion our toes, but they will never be our friends.

How to take the buggers off and live? Well, I've lived, but I've also suffered. To be honest, I don't know the definitive answer.

What I DO know though, is that after a certain number of tussles the less committed sock of the pair decides enough is enough and, presumably having grown tired of the constant aggro, runs off, never to be seen again.

As for the one left behind...

Well, that's another story.