» Guilty Secrets

This might have fit in with the last QOTW....
Back when I was a young Downie in the days where cheap cider and bottom-rung vodka were the order of the night, we also had the problem of where to drink. Thankfully, most of our group had understanding parents who decided it was better that we 'drank under supervision' than loitered in parks where the paedos and killers could get us. However, one such night tossed an almighty spanner into the works when I was about fifteen or so.

A friend of mine, we'll call him 'Mick' for the sake of it being his name, had drawn the short straw for the weekly bender and as such had the arduous task of housing a half dozen or so teenagers in his house for the night where massive drinking ensued. The night itself wasn't too much trouble, everyone got through with minimal damage and most of them eventually got picked up to head home and sleep off the vodka haze. Considering me and Mick lived within minutes of each other, we figured I'd just sleep on the floor, walk round in the morning and all would be well.

I should probably mention Mick is a bit of a sleepwalker now to explain the course of events.

Cue about 2am, Mick has passed out on his bed and snoring away, I'm still drinking and browsing crap on the net when the inescapable urge to drain one out takes hold of me. I get up and go to leave the room, but the door won't open. For some reason the handle is jammed and no manner of rattling it will cause the thing to dislodge. By this point, my bladder is screaming for relief and I know I'm going to pee myself, but decide that rather than drench myself in 40% alcohol urine, I'll go in the corner of the room next to his wardrobe.

A quick unzip and long pee later, I proceed to pass out myself, sleeping against the wall on the opposite side of the room. Next morning, waking up to the sounds of heated discussion in the room, I open an eye to see Mick standing with his folks being berated that he'd been sleepwalking again. Thinking to myself that perhaps honesty is a good idea, I go to speak up but get cut off by his dad who informs me that he's terribly sorry I had to spend the night in a room that, frankly, stank. They made a fine fry-up and continued to be very apologetic the entire morning until I left, and eventually allowed us to leave after palming a few quid to get some lunch later in the day.

Mick by this point was so assured that he had actually done the deed that I thought it a shame to pipe up and burst the bubble. Still, if his door handle had worked, it would never have happened. Most of the drinking sessions occurred at my place after that, still do to this day, and I always leave doors open for people to go to the crapper with minimum effort.

No apologies for length. Mrs. Downies loves every inch of it.

Click 'I like this' if you think I should finally confess after nearly ten years.

*Pop*
(Fri 31st Aug 2007, 15:07, More)

» Pet Peeves

Fifth!!
Damn, sixth.

Pet peeves?

Recycled QOTWS. Enough said, and I think I speak for the masses there.

Though now I'm actually going to have to THINK of a real story for this week.
(Thu 1st May 2008, 23:17, More)

» Stalked

Third Times The Charm
---Warnings for length and slight lack of funnies---

Lemme see, stalkers...Going forwards, from first to most recent:

1. 'The Sniffer'. So dubbed, aptly enough, for the fact that if I ever went out without her and returned home, she would begin smelling my clothes for perfume and other 'obvious' signs of foul play. At first it was subtle, she'd pick up a shirt I'd tossed to the floor and pass it off as smelling what cologne I'd been wearing that night. More the fool, I guess. After a while, it became much more obvious what she was doing, as she started sniffing my clothes with a fervour saved only for fetishists, then moved on to sniffing ME, literally striding up to me and catching a sniff at my neck for any scents of lipstick, makeup or perfume.

She wasn't entirely nuts, though, and when I did break it off she only threw a mild fit, involving one of my favourite ashtrays being introduced to my cheek. Thankfully she threw like a girl, and I was spared dental dramas.

Oh, it gets better, don't worry...

2. 'Lady Text-a-lot'. I think the name speaks for itself, but neglects to inform that this isn't just for text messaging. Plenty of stories on here about stalkers who lurk your Bebo/Facebook/Myspace, send unwanted and irritating text messages, emails, that whole stint. Yeah, I do wonder these days whether there was a night class they learned it, and whether Lady Text-a-lot was the instructor. I had to daily wipe my cellphones inbox to clear space for REAL messages, my Bebo (since I'm a philistine and refuse to bother using Facebook properly) was inundated by shite little messages which, as would be expected, followed the basic pattern of 'Hey how r u? xxx', moving on to 'Y havnt u msged me bk yet?', to my favourite, 'Fyne, f u, dickhed'.

Wouldn't mind, would even understand if I was actively dodging her, but despite her ultra-clinginess, she was actually a fairly pleasant person to chat with, and got the drift quickly that it was strictly 'drinking buddies' turf only for her and I. However, her messages would span a grand total of half an hour from start to finish...

Almost immediately followed by 'Im sorry, I jus miss u'.

The cuckoos were singing, but the brain wasn't listening...Eventually, she moved away, and in a rather anti-climactic finish, she simply dwindled from the radar. Kinda glad, really. She seemed like the sort who'd have been a real bunny-boiler, and after a friend of a friend had a brief fling with her shortly before her move, it had been strongly hinted to be true.

Finally, my finale, and my tale of two years of absolute hell.

3. 'The Loon'. No insults to our own TRL, this name was there long before I ever graced b3ta.

As a young Downie, of a whole, grand 17 years of age and around the time of my first real, big-boy job, I was involved with a nice little strumpet named Jones (for that was what we called her prior to 'The Loon'.). Nice lass, not exactly the sharpest knife in the block, but nice all the same.

So I thought, anyway.

It started simple, and things that you get used to expecting in relationships once the 'honeymoon period' ends, a little mood change if you were out too long on a night out, a few loaded questions if you were late from work...I was prepared for such things, and having not actually done anything wrong, simply took it with a smile and a nod. My new job kept me late once or twice a fortnight, so I wasn't able to phone/text or pop round to see her, instead opting to just get some sleep for the next day.

After a while, this quickly progressed to the sharp texts, hinting that I was 'cheating on her with some slapper from work'. Now, I'm not an ugly bloke, but I'm certainly no Brad Pitt. Female attention is always welcome, but I know better than to piss off the ones who actually tolerate you. Besides, there was only one 'girl' at my job (as a junior sales consultant, which at 17 is about as fancy as you can get), and the 'girl' was around 40, morbidly obese and with the general demeanour of a Rottweiler with PMS. Constantly.

Yeah, I was apparently pumping the arse off of this on a nightly basis.

-sigh-

Moving on, once that drama subsided (after actually SHOWING her the PMS-ridden hound), I think there was a grace period where she must have thought "I'm being irrational, surely I'm overreacting somewhat.".

I thought, but then, it was probably the medication she was put on. Enough said.

After the typical escalation into paranoia at my actions and general suspiciousness at all of my female friends, some of whom were in relationships longer than I'd known them to which it didn't stop the Loon from effectively cutting all my ties with them, not to mention getting me a kicking from one of said friends partners over certain disparaging remarks I'd made. Needless to say, I'd made no such remarks.

Yep, you guessed it.

Said beating now a little while down the road, and me still none the wiser as to the purpose for it, I returned late from work one last time for what was inevitably the straw to break the camels back. Rather inebriated on a mixture of cheap vodka and whatever other concoctions she'd thrown together, I was charged at with a bread knife.

Now, I'm a reasonably large guy, just shy of six feet and built well enough to look after myself, she was about five feet six on her tiptoes and about 90 pounds soaking wet.

I'm not ashamed to say I ran like a girl, frankly, she'd have done it, and I quite like my oxygen habit.

Cue around three, four more months of phone calls and persistent grovelling apologies, mixed with a good dose of threats of suicide and the like, before her mum had her 'evaluated' for her own safety.

Bloody mental, but the sex was worth it. I also thankfully managed to reconcile with the friends she alienated me from, and am reasonably good friends with the boyfriend who dealt me a kicking after things came to light.

Just glad I didn't end up getting the John Bobbit treatment, goodness knows it was threatened once or twice.

No apologies for length, the ladies love it.
(Wed 6th Feb 2008, 3:09, More)

» Kids

Kids, eh?
Who'd have 'em?

Well, despite all my initial thoughts, me. I'm one of the unfortunate souls who can be considered a 'national statistic' in teenage parenthood, as my son was born when I was seventeen. His mother, an mildly unhinged individual who might have cropped up in the former 'Stalked' QOTW had she been but a touch more off the wall, had decided 'Hey, a baby sounds like a fabulous idea!'.

Now, I'd have been content to sit her down, discuss the thing and weigh up the pros and cons, and give a very fair 'NO' to the whole deal, but instead it was decided apparently that I wasn't needed for input in the matter.

Not verbally, anyways. After getting an odd phone call one morning, hung over and feeling not unlike I'd been skull-fucked by John Holmes on Viagra and Coke, I managed to stumble my still-drunken person into her place of work to be handed one of those horrible little things you women-folk get to find out if you're indeed about to procreate.

Now, hung-over, holding a pissy stick in one hand, my head in the other and wanting the earth to swallow me whole, I tried to come to terms with just exactly what I was being told, and eternally curious as to just HOW she'd gotten pregnant with the magic of birth control pills to assist in the prevention.

"Oh, they must have just not worked...Isn't it great though!?"

Now, I'm a firm believer that abortion isn't an option to be considered lightly, and that there's only a handful of circumstances in which it'd be fair to consider, and as such I braced myself for the upcoming nine months.

The screaming little mouth that emerged, I'll admit, was enough to make me think that perhaps it'd not be absolute hell, and that her sanity might renew itself over time. Of course, by then the 'broody' stage had passed, so Downie jr (No, not Robert) often stayed with me at my place. Thankfully that lasted less than a few months, and things progressed relatively normally for a year, though I eventually decided that we might not be altogether suited for one another.

Yes, I'm now classed as a 'deadbeat' by that delightful organisation called the CSA, who despite the fact I've contributed the vast majority of my expendable income towards my son decide I owe THEM money for the luxury as well. Of course, having not worked a day since he was born (five years ago), means that his mother is a sponger and as such, refuses to have HER benefits cut.

The icing on the cake? Around a year and a half ago, it was clearly revealed that her 'fluke' pregnancy wasn't flukey in the slightest, and that she'd conveniently decided to forget her birth control until she got what she was wanting.

Cunt.

Still, despite all this, I actually quite like kids. My son is growing up to be more like me than his mother (a good thing if ever there was one), and above all else, I'm now prepared for when I have kids in the future and can breeze through, fully trained in the efforts of poo-under-the-fingernail and 3am crying-handling.

Length? 8 months, 1 week and 3 days, if I remember rightly.
(Tue 22nd Apr 2008, 19:45, More)