I’m sat in a pub with my two best friends and two women.
We’ve had a few drinks, but it’s not raucous or a mess, it’s chilled and relaxed – the only undertone of tension comes from the fact that this is one of the first times that me and best mate A have met the girlfriend of best mate B.
The second woman at the table is the girlfriend’s single, attractive sister.
We are all chatting away politely.
Mate B is happy, we are getting to know his new girlfriend quite well and its all good. Me and mate A are subconsciously aware that her sister is single, gorgeous and ever-so-slightly drunker than the rest of us, but we say nothing.
It’s worth stating that, in a pub table scenario, I’m a complete c*nt…
Actually, I hardly need to add the pub table bit, but I digress.
In a pub table scenario, I’m a complete c*nt, because I’m almost without shame, I instinctively turn up to places with far too much money on me, recklessly buying stupid coloured drinks for people I don’t know, plus I make people laugh until they piss helplessly and then I am crowned the King of f*cking Everything.
It’s what I do.
To his credit, single mate A is also f*cking hilarious, very very funny, but just not as much of a massive tw@t show off as I am and so he’s a little bit quieter in these situations, a little bit more reticent to shout the loudest.
But I can sense him easing his way to the front of the group here, I can feel it.
And who would blame him? Single sister is gorgeous, she’s had a drink – she’s laughing at everything we say and I’m no cock blocker – this is an open market.
Suddenly the conversation turns to sex, as it often does, thus upping the ante quite considerably and opening up a whole new level of competition between me and mate A. However things suddenly move quickly in an unforeseen direction, like a sudden gust of MANGRUNT in the moist air.
Single sister is suddenly explaining in real detail how much she loves sex.
We are captivated.
She is hot and now she is telling us how often she goes out and just has sex with men because she loves it and needs it.
We are f*cking lost in her right now, neither of us sure what to even say or how to say it. She’s telling the table all SORTS of things and she’s plainly indicating to us that this is what she does. That she sometimes meets new men and just WANTS them, for a few hours, with no strings attached.
We are poised, like two rutting stags who catch each other’s gaze mid-battle.
She is now telling us that sometimes she feels guilty, the way she regularly uses man after man just for a night of hot, meaningless, physical release.
This was a moment of utter brilliance and we were frozen into it with her…
And that… THAT was when he said it.
He looked her straight in the face and said: “Surely you have AIDS?”.
The phrase hung in the swollen air like a sickening echo of pure WRONG.
Me and mate B simply could not believe what had just come out of his mouth and judging by the state of mate A, neither could he. Meanwhile mate B’s new girlfriend was frozen with her mouth open and a drink paused halfway to it like a lonely cable-car on a particularly uncomfortable mountain.
Single sister was just looking, aghast, at the massive empty space where our conversation used to be, tears forming in her eyes.
Mate A was reddening, I mean he was SO red he was already basically purple, because of course he didn’t mean aids, he meant a dildo, a sex toy… a guilt free SEX AID.
I knew in that moment that if I even looked across the table and saw the face of mate B I would utterly, completely piss myself in a way that I couldn’t control. I also knew that if I looked across and he looked at me – he would do the same and almost certainly end up with his new girlfriend’s drink in his face.
So I did what any friend would have done, I looked right at him with a sh!t eating grin twice the width of my actual face.
Mate B began laughing instantly – but with a half a Guinness halfway down his throat it came out more like the liquid roar of a drowning epileptic tiger.
He basically threw up foaming Guinness onto the table whilst howling like a fat wolf being clumsily buggered. It was an absolutely suberb and riotous guttural laugh that barely left him any time to breathe.
Meanwhile, I was snorting tears of utterly uncontrollable laughter out of my face and all over my pint. I could barely see a thing for the fizzing riot of furious noise I was vomiting onto myself.
As a backdrop to this, mate A is now trying desperately to explain what he meant, with basically the same level of success you might expect Adolf Hitler to have, interviewing for a post as an infant school teacher.
He’s trying to explain that he was thinking about how highly sexed she was and that if she was guilty about all that stuff… couldn’t she use a vibrator… a sex aid…. not AIDS…. a SEX AID, Jesus NOT ACTUAL AIDS!
It wasn’t working because she was already crying.
The girlfriend was disgusted with mate B for laughing and subsequently stormed off taking sister with her, mate B trotting behind still laughing hard but trying to be deadly serious and failing miserably.
Mate A stood by the table, like a purple beacon, shouting hopefully across a busy pub that he didn’t mean that kind of AIDS.
Laughing hard at the horrendous awkwardness of it all, I sat alone at the table.
The night was utterly destroyed, the only good point being that I was still in a pub, with a mate nearby and a table full of alcohol that the other three wouldn’t be coming back to collect.
Mate A sat down and put his head into his hands, lamenting the disastrous HELLFAIL of pretty much his only earnest sentence of the night.
Of course I turned to him and said: “honestly, I think she f*cking likes you”
He punched me square in the f*cking face.
We all love animals.
Apart from the ones that we lock into tiny boxes then ravenously eat, obviously.
But overall we f*cking love little animal things because they are cuddly and lovely and great and they do mad stuff and tricks and things that we momentarily adore before resigning them to the same monotony of routine that we mistakenly think enriches our own bollock-flavoured lives.
But there are downsides.
Animals have a tendency to lovingly distribute sh!t, piss and other bodily fluids pretty much everywhere in a way that makes their very existence f*cking irritating. And I don’t mean the animals we put in fields and then later, stuff into our hungry mouths – those f*ckers are absolutely entitled to fill their own fields with all the piss and sh!t in the world.
I mean those ones that put it into your garden, house or shoes.
And it’s not just sh!t.
I mean when cats wander into your garden to actually specifically deposit their bottom eggs into your vegetable patch it’s rubbish, yes. And when dogs leave special delivery defecation bombs on the pavement, that end up like happy footprints through room temperature Nutella, yes – that’s unpleasant too.
But how many times do you recall having to suffer the indignity of an animal spitting into your mouth?
You see this is what I don’t like about the ungrateful bastards. I was trying to do the antler wearing tw@ts in the deer compound at a well known animal park a f*cking FAVOUR. I had dutifully bought a little tub of what looked like guinea pig-sh!t, so that I could feed their hopeful deer faces as I drove through that particular small field.
Little did I know there would be four hundred of the f*ckers and they were like starving dogs.
Before I know it I have a massive-headed antler-stag with it’s f*cking entire BRAIN inside my car, it’s horned headpiece stuck under the steering wheel and IN MY FACE. Spilling my £2′s worth of guinea-pig sh!t EVERYWHERE instantly like a clumsy bellend.
It even beeped my f*cking horn.
Naturally I took hold of its stupid face and pushed it back out of the window whilst loudly announcing what a rude c*nt it was for being such a greedy fat-headed sh!t in trying to take more than his fair share.
At which point it spat on me.
My mouth was forming the middle vowel of a formidable expletive at the time. And the deer’s mouth-juice-gob-ball went right into my own mouth. INTO MY OWN MOUTH. Just to clarify… IT SPAT IN MY f*ckING MOUTH!
What kind of a f*cking nonsense of a scared manbaby would accept that?
I punched the deer in the face. Hard.
I think I might even have spat back at it. I can’t be sure because there was a fog of testosterone conflict raging in my mind and it was a survival instinct that I was working through. But yeah, pretty sure I spat the deer’s own spit, and mine, back into his beady eyes.
As I punched it’s face twice…
And called it a c*nt…
Not my finest hour.
With hindsight, this was made worse by the fact that firstly we were still no more than 6 yards from the feeding station where the student rangers sat in amazed awe at my obvious prowess and instability. And secondly there was a 3 year old child in the car. Now crying.
The moral of the story is this; don’t take any f*cking sh!t from animals and don’t be afraid to punch them in the face if you need to. f*cking man up.
I saw a man do a good fall down today in the middle of the street.
Possibly a classic.
It was one of those weird moments when I don’t quite know how to feel sorry for someone I don’t know at all doing something that makes me want to practically sh!t myself laughing.
I mean deep down I could see this guy was a normal random chap with a Kangol mac and middle-aged-combats. He had the kind of silvery black hair that utter tw@ts call salt and pepper. He was very much a normaller.
An inoffensive normaller.
Problem is he did that thing – you know – that thing when you catch the very front of your shoe (or in this case cross training boot) on the slightly raised lip of a flagstone or drain cover.
We’ve all done it.
And at sometime in our lives some of us have no doubt done that other thing whereby your stupid brainhead suddenly decides, at the exact point of trippage, that a REALLY GOOD f*ckING PLOY to save face would be to simply disguise the little trip by making it the start of a short run or trot.
A short run or trot.
So you trip, take a quick step… then automatically start running.
Problem is, now you are trotting down the street and you f*cking instantly realise that you have NO WAY of stopping without getting the overwhelming feeling that EVERY SINGLE PERSON in the street knows that your run was too short to be real and you are, in fact, a c*nt.
As if anyone is even AWARE that you exist.
Nevertheless, you assume that if you stop, even up to 50 yards up the street – some of the SAME PEOPLE from the other end of the street will now know your run was a f*cking LIE! A cheap stupid lie because now they can ALL see that you were just FALLING OVER…. SPASTIC! YOU f*ckING SPASTIC!
So you run on.
I have a friend who did this once and accidentally ran 2 miles home because he was that scared of stopping.
Our hero did this thing too, he tried the trotting ploy – he tried to disguise the initial trip into a little energetic and wholesome trotf*ck to try and save face, but here’s the thing.
If you ever do this – firstly DON’T but if you do anyway, at least look the f*ck where you are going. Seriously DO look the f*ck where you are going.
Plan the trot.
That way you will avoid tripping over a flagstone and then immediately and irrelevantly running directly into a sultry and cougar-like female nurse pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair.
Also you will not have to limply hurdle the old man, failing miserably, like a sh!t, white Kriss Akabusi, bizarrely pressing your genital region into the elderly man’s surprised old face as you bellow f*ckSORRY! and knock him OUT of his chair and onto the floor.
Equally you won’t have to dither about like a red faced c*ntBOBBIN whilst you vaguely assist us in putting the little old fella BACK in his chair whilst we all admire the nurse, or Nurse Lindsey, for those of us who didn’t have to leave immediately like frightened animal perverts.
It’s not f*cking rocket science is it?
My old next door neighbour was a real fat sh!tter.
He was an ex pub landlord with a stupid accent and an incredible ability to f*cking incense me into apoplectic rage simply by breathing air near me or walking within my field of vision.
He wasn’t my friend.
And his inordinately fat wife had a collection of tiny stupid dogs that were little more than a pack of badly trained yap rats. They were never walked or exercised properly and they used to wander around the garden depositing sh!ts until it resembled an anti gravity snowglobe loaded with dog’s eggs and misery.
But his wife was also a proper f*cking animal.
She was f*cking enormous, like a n injured weather balloon with an acrobatic tw@tface drawn on it by a sh!tfaced chimp.
And what’s worse she had that weird f*cking mental illness that some horrific women get where they imagine that they are somehow really “sexy with it”… you know?
Sexy with it.
Now I’m the first to admit that a larger lady can still be very sexy, that curves are a very womanly feature… and that real women do NOT have the body of a 12-year-old boy. And by that I mean their actual body isn’t shaped like one, not that they have bizarrely killed and hidden an unlucky preteen.
The reality is, is that all too often this over confident sexual blunderf*ck is a 19 stone f*cking BUSFACE with the thighs and arse of an albino rhinoceros that recently shat itself violently.
The legging wearing, giant tee-shirted thunderc*nt that scrapes it’s hair back so hard that it’s face changes shape and texture. Arms like a donner kebab?
Well this one was worse.
She was all of the above but also a f*cking horrendous bottom dirt of the lowest order.
I once saw her sunbathing and it pretty much changed my life. I was unlucky enough to have needed to climbup on top of the roof of my barn to punch some concrete and w@nk a drainpipe… or something.
When I saw it.
Like a vision of f*cking nightmare HELL she had just rolled out a towel in the middle of her garden – in a f*cking ENORMOUS SEA of dogsh!t. No word of a lie, she had just found a rough gap and blobbed down into it like an awful f*cker in amongst the stinking mess.
There must have been FIFTY dogsh!ts orbiting her, like tiny stinking planets hopefully worshiping a GIANT UGLY BASTARD MOON. It was like having a f*cking stroke, my vision was momentarily blurred and I was unable to process all the information I was receiving.
She was f*cking topless.
She was wearing only a pair of hotpants and they looked like some kind of tiny denim jewel embedded in an immense and impossibly awful LARD COALFACE.
And that’s when it happened.
As I looked down at her, my gentleman’s peanus withdrawing inside me like a brand new internal organ, she suddenly spat hard onto her own woman tit.
And rubbed it in.
She spat on her own f*cking tit.
f*ck me. Some things in life are not for the faint hearted and some things in life are just things that nobody should see for fear of permanent damage and the kind of trauma that normally is a result of international war crimes and electro shock therapy.
The moral of this story is simple:
f*ck the barn roof.
Sailors are quite gay right?
I mean just generally, thanks to Hollywood and all that sh!t. You know?
Anyway, shush, I want to explain some things.
What I mean is that basically all that dancing about with little hats on and bell bottomed trousers is really quite gay. And in some ways I don’t think that’s a fair reflection on semen.
One hand you get the massive bell-bottomed gay stereotype and then on the other hand you get the rampant and erect dockside prostitute-rutter.
It’s all very confusing.
It must have been so much simpler in the long-lost historical past, when sailors were massive bearded stinkers who were 100% MAN. Albeit without the luxuries of vitamin C or teeth.
But at least these days they don’t seem to regularly make-up ENORMOUS STUPID LIES to try and pretend they didn’t accidentally f*ck AN ANIMAL through feverish sexual desperation.
I mean these days sailors have the Internet, pornography, and of course: the Internet. Strategically combined with a boxing glove and a tube of Nivea Cream, this is an almost unstoppable solo-powered orgasm factory. You’d be thrupping the holy sh!t out of your personal jolly roger whilst swinging about relentlessly in your hot and fetid hammock bunk.
But back then boxing gloves didn’t exist and Nivea Cream was illegal. Fact.
And THAT’S why they all made up that stupid f*cking obvious baby lie:
Those sailors never saw any f*cking Mermaids, oh no, they just knew that they could make up any old sh!t to detract people from the horrible truth. They also knew that whatever they said, people would just factor in the drunken, sun-stroked f*ckers ‘missing home’ and automatically self-fabricate something romantic and ethereal to embellish the story.
They didn’t see Mermaids.
They didn’t even “mistake Manatees” for anything.
They simply had no boxing gloves, no Nivea Cream and no WOMEN, as if any woman would have allowed a sweating stinkbeard with no teeth to gruntpump her in the poopdeck any-f*cking-way.
They saw the only thing they could get close to without it f*cking right off at the sight of a hairy sailor running at them with a bulbous erection – a fat manatee.
They simply charged in like horny tw@ts and went all 80s porno on them before they even knew what they were doing.
Afterwards, in the quiet time, they sat with ashamed and irrelevantly swollen beards, looking at the floor, wondering what the f*cking HELL they just did.
THAT is when they started making up stories about Mermaids…
At the end of the day: Hollywood made sailors as Gay as f*cking hell, but sailors are REAL MEN and the proof of this is all those years ago when they routinely f*cked massive sea cows then told lies.
I was making a cup of tea.
Nothing unusual in that you might think – and you’d be right, it was simple a cup of tea I was making for my good self in my slightly off-circular Albania! mug that my Dad brought me back from Albania. It’s a red mug.
I had been expecting a package for a few days, my friend Richard as I feel I should call him (as we were doing things in the real world together and even share some Facebook) had very generously posted me an external hard drive for me to put, unused, into a cupboard until approximately the exact day that my PC dissolves into a pool of fizzing horse porn and data protection concerns.
My dogs were helping. Helping in the sense that they both aim to stand directly between me and whatever it it I need to use or operate in the production of my cup of tea. Then, as if it’s the very first time they have EVER seen my mug (it is not) they follow it and me across the room, shuffling backwards, noses an inch from the cup I am walking towards the sink… in some kind of weird canine choreographed ballet entitled:
“We hope with all our hearts that it’s a piece of warm meat – even though we’ve seen it every day and we know damn well it isn’t a piece of warm meat because its a f*cking cup”.
So there I was, mid way though my Pas de cheval urging myself on towards the sink, when it happened…
The front door opened without warning and the top half of a man appeared wielding what looked, in that fleeting moment, to be a large brown box. Now as it happens, it was a large brown box – but this is neither here nor there as the real issue at this point was the sudden and unusual presence of the top part of a bloke inside my personal house space.
Sometimes time all but ceases to occur.
A handful of disparate milliseconds stretching lazily out into frozen moments where our perception of the world around us seems to magnify into some kind of information-rich fire that burns inside our living soul. Mostly this happens in films like The Matrix or Max Paine and I also think it happened once in SISSY’S HOT SUMMER (1983) but that later turned out to be a VHS spooling f*ck due to a greasy and borked cog.
Anyway, this moment was still happening – and I was in it. Right in it it.
The impromptu dog ballet ceased, sans encore, replaced instead with over 100 kilos of unhappy puppy instantly trying to gain traction on slate tiles. Heads synchronised and lolling forwards impatiently, teeth prepared, mouths gaping, waiting for at least two of their four desperate legs to make a meaningful contact with the elusive floor.
This was shortly followed by the thunder of eight angry paws making extremely swift progress down a long hallway, across the wooden boards, towards the frozen postman and his threatening presence with this large cardboard box he seemed to be unable to let go of.
As Cerberus itself they morphed into a single animated wall of rage as they covered the ground co-ordinating their duties: one snarling, lips curled back and teeth flashing white whilst the other fired off a salvo of deepest baritone barks to serve as fair warning. Abandon all hope all ye who enter here.
It was beautiful – I was frozen in time with a part made cup of tea.
The postman reacted.
He threw the box to the ground and pulled himself back through the doorway slamming it behind him, holding it shut as the dogs arrived and closed it against him via their involuntary inertia. As easily as it had opened however – the door wouldn’t close, not without him holding it desperately, hanging from the handle like some kind of weather-beaten mascot hanging from a teenage girl’s very first rear-view mirror.
It’s a multi-point lock you see, on a PVC door. It’s quite clever and it locks in several places if you turn the handle upwards when you close it. However if you kneel on the floor holding it shut whilst two dogs bark at you from inches away through steamy Pilkington safety Glass…it doesn’t close too well.
Anyway, here we were…again… at another one of those little junctures in life that I seem to encounter on a daily basis, with a postal worker trapped helpless and hanging off my front door, a parcel from my friend Richard lobbed helplessly into a canine deathtrap and my beloved tea only half made.
And that’s when the postman made a run for it. An actual run. He pushed the door shut, looked over to me as I was now advancing down the hallway (pretending he hadn’t seen) me before simply sprinting away. The dogs, seeing the door begin to slowly swing back open, prepared to burst into the void, adrenaline coursing through their veins…
“Sit” I said calmly.
You know, I swear I heard one of them mutter oh for f*cks sake….
So what happened next?
Well, I instantly marched around the house angrily repeating phrases like “what a f*ckc*nt!” and “how dare he just come into my bastard house” and “I should have f*cking let the dogs f*cking chase f*cking him” until my cup of tea was cold. In between rantings I hopelessly tapped at the Internet to find the phone number of The Post Office so that I could phone them and have this raging pervert sacked immediately.
I also learned that The Post Office doesn’t really have a phone number, simply a web form that hopefully tries to repackage and re-brand your inquiry and lever it as far way from “complaint” as possible.
So I helpfully included the words THIS IS A COMPLAINT on the top of my little text box.
Then I inspected the package, a precious and lovingly packed hard drive, worth thousands* and yet thrown recklessly across a room** full of animals, vowing to take it to the PC and check it’s functionally instantly if not sooner.
*Not worth thousands.
**Dropped onto the floor from a couple of feet.
So the facts are clear:
1> I have a sh!t postman who will now throw all my mail into the sea rather than face me and the hell dogs again.
2> I need to find some kind of lock that you can fix to a door that makes it shut like a normal f*cking door.
3> I need a new cup of tea.