» Public Sex

in which berk experiences the joys of outdoor lovin’…
First post (and it's a long one!) please be gentle…

(wavy lines back to summer 2003)

It was late summer, and some friends and I decided to bid farewell to our college years in style; one last halcyon week before departing our various ways to various towns and cities across the UK to go to uni. Alright, alright…less of the Enid Blyton, we spent a week on the piss in Newquay. Classy, no?

we’d taken a chalet which was more or less on the beach; it was self catered, and the beach itself had a pub – we barely even needed to move in order to supply ourselves with that studenty ambrosia which is strongbow…although as a group we would invariably traipse up the town for the evening and get pissed there. (in retrospect I suspect this was more an opportunity to visit Newquay’s fine array of takeaways than to get drunk…it’s surprising how many places hang up when you slur ‘yesh, we’d like it delivered to the beach, pleashe’, no matter how legitimate a request this may be…)

Anyway, I digress.
The group included my then-fucktoy, a sweet and innocent lad whom I had taken it upon myself to deflower, reasoning it my civic duty not to allow him to go to uni a virgin. Around 5 of us had been in town (read ‘pub’) for most of the day when it became apparent we’d lost our friends somewhere. Being sex-crazed teens it was instantly decided that this would be an opportune time to jump on each other. What with sharing a chalet with 8 other people, and possessing a modicum of respect for our friends (not to mention self-restraint) we hadn’t viciously abused each other for a whole…gosh, three days?

We staggered back to the chalet, pawing at each other’s clothes, to discover – horror upon horror! – that most of our friends were already back. Having, shall we say…worked up an appetite, there was no way we couldn’t, so…
You know those moments of genius and clarity that you have, where you can actually believe there is a lightbulb going ‘ting!’ above your head? This was not one of those moments. It was dark, it was late. More importantly, it was the actual seaside, with actual sea. And tides. ‘let’s have sex outside’, says he.
‘ok!’ I readily agreed.

Ripping our clothes off a la clark kent, (only chubbier, geekier and uglier), we soon got down to business. I complained about the wet sand digging in to my back, so the boything took one for the team and I went on top. Did I mention it was late, and dark, and I was drunk? Cue much giggling, falling off and rolling about. On wet sand…

when I got back on, it was as if he’d flung away the innocent prophylactic and sheathed himself in sandpaper. Howling like a happy-slapped mong, I leapt off and ran to rinse my now burning ladypart in the ocean. I missed my footing on some rocks, fell over in the sea and came up retching, not knowing which way was up and convinced I was dying. The boything, having established in his drink-sodden brain that leaping off his beef truncheon and running away shrieking was not my usual response to a bit of action, came to see what the matter was. He missed his footing on the same rocks and fell, only this time the tide was on the out, and he twatted his head on the rocks and knocked himself spark out.

I then had to drag him back to the chalet, one of us bleeding and both of us pretty much naked, drunk and sore. It is not possible, under these conditions, to sneak in to a chalet leaving your friends unaware.

suffice to say, I spent the remainder of the holiday sober and haven’t really felt the need to indulge in a bit of al fresco action since…
(Tue 28th Apr 2009, 14:54, More)

» Guilty Laughs

Follow my wavy lines back to 2001
It's a few days before my 16th birthday and my dad has kindly overshadowed the big event by dropping dead. Attention seeking to the last, we later found out; the daft bastard downed a couple too many aspirin and half a bottle of vodka in an attempt to make my mum feel guilty for starting divorce preceedings after 16 years of increasing violence and misery. Instead of hospitalising him and tormenting her as he'd intended, he had a heart attack in his sleep (c'est la vie..or mort, possibly?)

I was on a school residential at the time (a story in itself) and so after having had the news broken to me by my IT teacher and speaking to my hysterical mother on the phone, it was decided that I would stay at the summer camp to avoid being involved in all the various gruesome bits of funeral organising. A very strange week passes, and a bemused young berk heads homewards to face the music. The funeral came and went, during which my elderly gran let out such a long, rumbling cheek-trembler of a fart that it sounded like the first few bars of 'The Last Post', a fitting tribute to her odious guff of a son and which had me laughing so hard I had to pretend to be sobbing. But that isn't the guilty laugh to which this post refers.

A week or so later and my mum and I went to pay our dues to my father's drinking buddies, a sorry bunch of bar-proppers, drunkards and reprobates, most of whom had been asked not to attend the funeral for fear of upsetting my nan. I knew most of them quite well, having spent great quantities of my formative years in my parents local. Naturally, they were all hammered and loudly bemoaning my father's passing. This went on for some hours. Afternoon stretched in to tea-time, and tea-time in to the evening. At first I itched to go and play pool, something, anything to stop the day dragging (I was peremptorily called back and told not to be disrespectful) but eventually they were too drunk to notice I was gone. I came back after a while - there's only so many games of pool you can play on your own - and decided to beg the housekeys off my mother, pleading fatigue and grief. One of them, espying my return, patted my hand and said "'E was a good man, your dad. We all miss him. 'S a shame he can't be here tonight'.

Neglecting in my outrage to mention that they wouldn't be here tonight reminiscing if my dad had been there, what with them having his send off, and secure in the knowledge that my dad was a cunt of the first order, I snapped, deadpan: 'Well, his ashes are in the car boot. I can fetch him in if you want, but I doubt it'll make you feel better'.

Immediate hush: the entire pub fell silent. Our table was a picture postcard of a dozen or so identical faces gaping, eyes popping, jaws dropped, like a multitude of horrified bowling balls.

'Oh fuck', thought I. 'I've upset a pubful of drunken nutters and my dad's drinking mates are going to lynch me. Nobody's wished me a bloody happy birthday, either'. I couldn't help it. I laughed. I howled until I thought I'd puke. I laughed so fucking hard I honestly feared I'd rupture something. Slowly, other people started to giggle until pretty much all the regulars were roaring as hard as I was. Then I fucked off home and I haven't been back since.

I felt guilty as hell about it then but I certainly don't now - that laugh was 16 miserable years in the making. Cheers dad.
(Mon 26th Jul 2010, 11:28, More)

» The most childish thing you've done as an adult

Well, just this morning
I was in a very boring meeting, and my colleagues stomach started to rumble. Not much at first, but more and more audibly as the meeting dragged on. And all I could think of was pounding her stomach like a bongo and yelling 'HUNGER STRIKES!' (from the shreddies advert) I restrained myself, and started to giggle instead. And then she started to giggle. And then the person sitting on her right started to giggle, all the time trying to keep it quiet enough for my rather elderly boss not to hear. We failed. He was, rather strangely, not nearly as amused as I was.


As we live in different cities, I don't get to see my boyfriend that often. A couple of weeks back, I drove up to see him and discovered he had man flu. Not content with moaning, groaning and giving his damn cold to me, he denied me my fortnightly carnal delights because he was feeling ill, and then thrashed around in the bed all night, sweating and snoring and generally being a disgusting germ filled boy. At 5:30am, after being rudely awoken by yet another elephantine snore and flailing limb, I thought 'bugger this for a game of soldiers' and got up for a wee. On returning to the boudoir, my bloke is lying on top of the bunched up duvet and spreadeagled across the bed. I can't get in; there's no room and no covers. Knackered and fuming, I applied a tub of fresh-from-the-freezer Ben and Jerrys to his naked arse crack, and when he sat bolt upright screaming, farted in his face. Then I kept him awake giggling like a loon on and off for the next hour or so. Served him right.
(Mon 21st Sep 2009, 16:19, More)

» Helicopter Parents

Having made a
total balls of my A-levels, I didn't get in to my uni of choice and ended up going through clearing. I hadn't expected to fuck up quite so badly so hadn't really put much thought in to a back up plan, and in the end I simply applied to the old poly in the same city as my first choice. Got in fine, no problems etc. But I'd left it too late to get in to halls, so had to find somewhere to live.

The uni had rather kindly organised a massive list of private landlords and their properties, but again, having left it so late I was pretty much looking at the dregs when I got down there. Thats how I came to live in a house with a psychotic chinese lass and a bloke with an excessive fondness for Bolivian marching powder.

This guy was 26 and had been at uni for seven years. He'd never completed a course, either repeatedly failing years or changing his mind about the course and starting a new one. I can't imagine what role his penchant for little bags of white powder played in this...however I digress.

At the age of 26 his mother would:
1) Come down from London twice a month to tidy his room, and if she saw fit the communal areas of the house as well - once sparking a blazing row between her and the our mentalist female housemate for 'moving her knives'.
2) Take him to Tesco for his big shop whenever she came down, then put it all away, frequently moving or throwing away my food to do so. This is despite the fact that he lived mainly off takeaways paid for by
3) His stonking great allowance. He also had a credit card which she would pay off in full every month.
4) There were other things too; taking his laundry back to London, going with him to the GP because she didn't feel the doctor was taking him seriously, choosing which hairdresser he went to, etc etc...

Until one day in March sometime, I came home to discover the front door open, a police car outside and lots of shouting. Lots and lots. It seems that during a routine tidy and rummage round of his bedroom she'd found his stash; just over an eighth of weed and a couple of lines of coke. She'd rung the police and tried to demand an ambulance too, then tried to have him detained under the mental health act when - rather understandably - he had a massive go at her. When she started throwing things and screaming I scarpered and returned a few hours later. No sign of him. Weeks pass - still no sign of him. One day I come home to discover most of his stuff has gone. Then in June when I'm preparing to move out myself, I heard the door go and an unfamiliar male voice; he's back to clear out the rest of his stuff under Mummys watchful eye.
She'd locked him in his room 'for his own good' until he agreed to spend a couple of months in rehab. True, the guy was a dick but it really wasn't necessary. Needless to say, I never saw him again.
(Fri 11th Sep 2009, 16:34, More)

» Bullshit and Bullshitters

Continuing on the theme of Vagabond's story below
not exactly bullshit, but an excellent lie to tell small annoying children:
I was looking after my odious little fart of a cousin, who persisted in coughing and sneezing and generally being a snot-filled germ factory at an age when he should have known better. He was chucking a tantrum after being told to put down his DS and come to the dinner table, ignoring his pathetic mothers limp estuary exclamations of 'aaaoooowwww beeeeeen, daon't do vat!', so I seized him bodily with the intention of dragging him there (and possibly bashing him 'accidentally' against the door frame...) when he coughed, right in my face. And then sneezed, right in my face. And then laughed.

Wiping mucus from my face and grasping his wretched little arm very tightly, I told him in a low and angry tone that the reason people put their hands over their mouths when they cough or sneeze is to stop the change in pressure from causing their brains to come through their nose.

Apparently this gave him nightmares for several weeks. I'm not allowed to babysit him anymore, thank fuck.
(Thu 13th Jan 2011, 17:00, More)