» My Worst Date

Worst date EVAH. (Long)
Jennifer (name changed) was a cute, elfin 16-year-old whom I'd been admiring at school for a while. I was 17 and horny, and had the use of my dad's Mini. So I asked her out on a date, and to my delight, she agreed. I secured the use of the car, and drove her to the local city. We went to the cinema, then for a couple of drinks, then I took her to my friends' house (to show her off). It seemed to be going OK, and we were getting on fine, but the couple of times I tried to take her hand, she withdrew it.

In the car on the way home she started rambling about stuff that didn't make too much sense, and then told me she could "help me with my problem". I asked her what she meant, but she didn't give me a straight answer.

Then I hit a cyclist.

It was dark and pouring with rain, and the cyclist had been coming round a roundabout with no lights. Luckily I had stopped before entering the roundabout, so I was only doing about three miles per hour when I hit her, but still she rolled spectacularly up the bonnet onto the windscreen, then back off again onto the ground. I jumped out of the car and the cyclist's friend ran up to me, smacking me round the head and calling me a "fucking bastard". I ignored this and helped the cyclist up. I offered to take her to hospital but she declined. The bike seemed to be OK. I gave her my number, apologising profusely. The whole time Jennifer was sitting there in the passenger seat with big bug eyes.

We set off for home again, but after a couple of minutes I was hit by delayed shock. I apologised to Jennifer and pulled over into a pub car park, whereupon I burst into tears. She put her arm round me (the only physical contact I ever got from her). Unfortunately, this was at kicking-out time, and a huge group of chavs came out of the pub, saw us in the Mini, and braying with laughter proceeded to pick it up by the wheel arches and bounce it around the car park.

My tears now turned to fear and anger, so I turned the engine and lights back on and revved the engine furiously, and eventually they let go, and we carried on back to her place. I dropped her off with nary a peck on the cheek.

She declared her lesbianism a couple of days later.

A few weeks after that she got off with a (male) mate of mine at a party. It was his loss, though: even though they didn't shag, she turned up a few days later at his parents' house at 3am, in bare feet, to tell him she was bearing his child. She started going through a genuine phantom pregnancy, and then disappeared. She was eventually picked up by the cops walking barefoot down the fast lane of the motorway, on her way to London to tell the government what she thought of them. She was sectioned.

I ended up having to pay for the repair for a dent in the bonnet of the Mini, buy the cyclist a new bike, compensate her for days off work, a taxi to the hospital, and a medical bill for a bruised finger.

I try to suppress the thought that it was the trauma of our date that pushed Jennifer over the edge, but it does occasionally haunt me. And I never got any.

Edited to add: on further recollection, I think I may have further compounded her mental problems when, after she refused to see me, I recorded myself singing a seriously awful David Brent style lovelorn adolescent song I had written ("I never should have touched you/'Coz you have the Midas touch"), and posting the tape through her letterbox. Oh the shame.
(Mon 25th Oct 2004, 11:52, More)

» Breakin' The Law

Not glue sniffing
I was taking my friend's dog for a walk, out by the ring-road. I was suffering from hay fever at the time, so after one sneezing fit I sat on a log to blow my nose. I heard a screech of brakes, and a cop came legging it from the ring-road, straight up to me, and grabbed the handkerchief out of my hand. The other cop shouted "what are you doing?!"

"I'm blowing my nose," I replied. "I have hay fever."

"Oh, we thought you was glue-sniffing," he said.

I then looked at the other cop, who handed back my hanky, green in the face and trying not to retch, trying to wipe my snot off his hands with a tissue.
(Thu 8th Jan 2004, 11:21, More)

» On the stage

Stiffy britches
Playing a rustic in a school production of a restoration comedy, I had to canoodle with a girl during one scene. Unfortunately I had the unrequited hots for the young actress. During the opening night, she played her part with verve, which involved sitting on my lap and wriggling.

Unfortunately my usual thespian professionalism did not extend to my adolescent knob, which reacted with glee at the stimulation from the nether regions of the object of my affections. Not only did I have the embarrassment of fearing the girl in question would feel my rising ardour, but I was wearing tight-fitting britches, and knew that in a few minutes' time the scene called for me to push her off my lap and leap up. I became terrified that my stiffy would be visible to the audience. I was desperately willing little Mr Winky to go down, without any success. The strain of this made me begin to sweat, and feel dizzy.

Eventually the time came to jump up, so I did so with a hand strategically shifting my embarrassing protrusion to the side as I did so. Alas, the double shame, the heat of the lights, and the first night nerves, got the better of me and I fainted backwards into the chair, and came round a few seconds later, without a clue where I was, nor why I was sitting in strange clothes in an armchair, with an erection, bright lights in my face, and hundreds of people looking at me.

Thankfully I came to my senses in a moment, the shock quelled my 'excitement', and I was able to carry on. Subsequent performances had me turn my groin away from the girl, which made my character look less keen, but at least I avoided further priapean shame.

Of course, there is also the worrying thought that neither she, nor the audience, noticed that anything had been amiss...
(Tue 6th Dec 2005, 12:10, More)

» My Worst Vomit

Puke soup
At a party at Uni, I drank an entire bottle of thunderbird after having consumed a load of beer beforehand down the pub. Suddenly got the spins, so asked whether I could use mine hostess's bed for a while. She concurred, and, realising my plight, brought me the largest receptacle in the house - a big soup pan - just in case I chundered. Minutes later I duly filled it with vomit then went to sleep. She put the lid on the pan to hide the stinking semi-solid liquid, and removed the pan from the bedroom. She went to empty it down the toilet, but the bathroom was occupied, so she temporarily put it back on the stove. Then forgot about it.

Next morning some of the hungover revellers went to make breakfast. They turned the stove on, including the ring that was under the pan-o-vom. The house was permeated with the smell of boiling sick.
(Thu 26th Aug 2004, 10:07, More)