» Procrastination

I spent Sunday at home, in my pants, doing nothing
...well, up until around 11pm. My phone rang, which is weird since nobody EVER calls me. It came up number witheld, and I normally don't answer those because it's either a) a survey or b) some credit card company telling me I owe them a king's ransom. But since it was a Sunday evening I figured it couldn't be either and picked it up.

"Hello?"

"...hi....[my name]?"

"Yes? who is this?"

"It's Sarah"

Now Sarah was my first girlfriend who I haven't spoken to in exactly 1 year. While we parted on good terms, her choice to go and sleep with a married cocaine dealer shortly after we split meant I didn't really want anything to do with her. Given the fact that she lives in Birmingham and I live in Dover meant I didn't have to worry about bumping into her. Anyway, it was kinda weird getting a call from her out of the blue. As soon as she confirmed it was me she burst into tears.

"I've fucked up, I've fucked up so much. I don't know what to do any more."

"What's happened?"

"I've just fucked it all up! I'm scared. I'm frightened. I'm frightened. Come and see me. Now."

"What the hell are you on about? I'm in Dover."

"So am I."

Now by this point my stomach had sunk. I cannot put into words how much I've grown to loathe this girl in the year since we last spoke. I watched her go from being my first love to a bullying, lying, cheating, attention seeking slut and I actually shed a genuine tear of happiness the day we split because it felt like I was actually free at last. And now here she was, back out of the blue, 250 miles away from her home, demanding to see me. She'd had a habit of pulling the old damsel in distress routine when we were together, but that normally involved me going up to Birmingham to go and "rescue" her.

"What the hell? Where are you?"

"I'm on the seafront in my car. Can you get down here?"

And so, at half 11 last night I find myself walking the 40 minute trip from my house down to the beach. I'm absolutely frozen, half asleep and very anxious as to what's going on. I have to take the long way down to the beach, since being in Dover at night is only a good idea if you consider puncture wounds a fashion accessory.

So I make my way onto the promenade. Sarah had said she had the same car, which was a horribly garish shade of blue, so I was pretty sure I'd find it quickly. The promenade is about a mile from one end to the other, so I started to walk along, burying my head in my collar and pulling my hat down as much as I could to keep the cold sea air out. I was pissed off. Why couldn't she have just left me alone? Why did she have to drop her fat arse into my life again like a celulite nuclear bomb, and destroy the frankly wonderful life I'd made for myself since she left?

I made it to the end. Her car wasn't there. I checked all the side roads that branch off the promenade - nothing there. Now Dover only has one seafront - where the hell was she?

I keep calling her mobile but nobody answers. Was it a wind up? It was definitely her - I know her husky, whiney West Midlands drawl, and I could hear the horns of the ferries in the background when she called me.

Then, in an otherwise totally empty carpark, I see her car in the far corner. I walk up to it, my stomach feeling heavier with each footstep I took towards it. I approached from the rear, expecting to see the silhouette of her cheap nasty perm against the repeating glare of the lighthouse. No silhouette. She must have gotten a haircut. I went down the passenger side of the car - I walked all the way down here, the least the bitch could do is give me a passenger seat in the car with the heaters on. I bend down and look into the window. The driver's seat is empty. I look up and do a 360 turn of the empty carpark to try and spot her. Nothing. So I shout rather a loud expletive and head back to the beach.

So I try and find a shelter that wasn't filled with drunk, masturbating hobos, scootch up into a corner with my knees up into a foetal position to protect myself from the cold, and ring her phone again, and again, and again.

Finally, on my 23rd attempt, I hear a click and a hello. but it wasn't her; it was her mum, sounding rather pissed as I had apparently woken her up.

"Sarah called me. She said she was in Dover and asked me to come meet her at the beach, and she's not here! Do you know where she is? If this is some kind of joke it's not fucking funny."

"Who on earth is this?"

"It's [me]!"

"You awful, awful man!" She then burst into tears. I wasn't expecting that.

"Sarah died 4 months ago you bastard!" She slammed the phone down.

My head started spinning. My heart was pounding. Dead? I mean I hated her, but not that much. How did it hap...hang on.

Who the fuck called me? And why did they have Sarah's car?

I don't know why, but I felt the need to run as fast as I could back to the car park and check the car again. This was madness. Was it a dream? The stench of alcohol, weed and piss, the relentless November sea spray and driving wind slapping my face confirmed it wasn't.

I sprinted across the carpark and looked in the window again. She couldn't be dead. I spoke to her an hour ago. Her car was in front of me - it was all real.

Then, a hand on my shoulder. I feel nails digging into my skin.

I turn around and see a





Well, that killed half an hour. I should probably get back to work now.
(Mon 17th Nov 2008, 9:45, More)

» My sex misconceptions

Mood killers - part 1
I used to have a Nigerian girlfriend. We were in that very special place where we're buck naked, spooning and both acutely aware that the horizontal monster mash was inevitable. Then I look down at my cock resting between her arse cheeks.

"Look at that! It looks like a negative of a hot dog!"
(Thu 25th Sep 2008, 19:05, More)

» Food sabotage

Not technically sabotage...
...but it could have been done on purpose. I'd arranged to meet a friend at Victoria station, and as I'm waiting I happen to notice possibly the world's worst transvestite sitting down to eat outside Burger King. Honestly, he had a beard. I decided not to snigger because he was around 9 feet tall and he could probably beat me to a pulp whilst still in stilettos.

Anyway, much like myself he performed "burger surgery" before he ate (opening it up and removing the tomatoes and anything else that may wind up down the front of your shirt/dress). As he opened it up a pigeon swooped in from nowhere and shat all over his exposed burger.

I have honestly never seen anyone look so sad as that 9 foot man-lady did as he stared at his shit-covered burger.
(Fri 19th Sep 2008, 10:16, More)

» My sex misconceptions

Hell, hell, hell
And another girl I was seeing. Well, she was quite petite and insufferably gorgeous. Before our first night together she'd remarked that she didn't have an arse. I've heard many a skinny girl say as such and figured I'd be treated to an arse akin to two cherries on a stem.

The night comes, I tear off her pants in a fit of triumph, and...

She really didn't have an arse. Just a mass of skin with a tiny slit right at the very bottom.

Then I realised I was looking at her front. Hahahahaha!

Actually thats not true. Turns out she had spina bifida.
(Thu 25th Sep 2008, 19:11, More)

» My sex misconceptions

Oooook...
When I was but a wee lad I assumed that whenever a lady hurt herself and screamed in pain, a baby came out. I don't think this is a completely screwy logic - I'd seen women giving birth in soap operas and I assumed that pain = childbirth, not the other way around.

So anyway, I was in infant school at the time, and one afternoon my mum fell down 3 flights of stairs in coming to pick me up. I come out of class and see her in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, screaming in pain and rather bloodied up and surrounded by people. My response?

"Noooo! I don't want another brother!"
(Thu 25th Sep 2008, 17:12, More)