Taste My Special Sauce

As I queued at the kebab van, drunk and bleary eyed, I couldn’t help but drift off into a daze, thinking about how nice it would be to finally get home and climb into bed, snuggling up to my greasy food. There are not many things better than a massive portion of fat riddled food at the end of a drinking session. Licking the hardened burger or garlic sauce from the side of one’s mouth in the morning or waking up with the half eaten kebab having formed some sort of elaborate chin strap on your face, are both things that have happened to many of us.

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by a gentleman who was at the counter in front of me.

 

“Excuse me, but where is my food?”, he enquired.

 

He was softly spoken, and quite posh I thought. He must have been in his mid-twenties.

 

“It’ll be ready soon”, replied the bloke behind the counter.

 

“But I’ve been waiting ages. You’re serving other people before me”, said the posh fellow, now raising his voice slightly, but still maintaining an air of decorum.

 

“No I haven’t”, snapped the kebab van owner.

 

By now, a few other heads in the queue had turned and we watched like spectators at a tennis match, our heads moving from side to side as the posh man and the kebab man exchanged words of “Yes you have”, “No I haven’t”. With the posh chap getting ever so slightly more irritated at the kebab van owner, I wondered what the next move would be in this bizarre exchange.

 

I didn’t have to wait long.

 

The kebab van owner picked up one of the squeezy ones bottles of garlic mayonnaise, and aimed it at the now ‘agitated’ posh man. Without a word of warning, he applied the pressure required to send an arc of gooey sauce into the man’s face, making him take a pace backwards. The attack of garlic mayonnaise did not cease though, and the bottle continued to be squeezed harder and harder; a relentless torrent of white sauce coating the posh man’s face in its entirety. The rest of the queue stood aghast, wondering what the reaction would be to this quite unnecessary attack. The final dribble of sauce left the bottle, dropping onto the cold pavement, and the posh man put his fingers to his eyes and scooped away the garlic mayonnaise. All I could see were his startled eyes, and nothing else.

 

“What was that for?”, he asked. How he kept his calm I’ll never know. His shirt was also covered, and the sauce dripped off his face onto his chinos. He was a mess.

 

“All I wanted was my food, and you’ve squirted sauce all over me. What is wrong with you?”, he said, this time a bit louder, and stepping forward to the counter. With that, the kebab van owner picked up a bottle of tomato sauce, and unleashed another attack. The sauce pounded against the man’s face, and I have to admit I was now crying with laughter. Again, the full bottle was emptied against his face, covering it again. His clothes were now completely wrecked.

 

“WHAT WAS THAT…Fghghh gghhhh ghhh”, he began, his shouts interrupted as a cascade of sauce filled his open mouth.

 

“FOR?”, he managed to spit out.

 

The commotion had attracted the attention of a couple of policemen who came over to see what was happening. They watched, with the rest of us, as the posh bloke berated the kebab man for his antics, pointing his finger at him. It reminded me of a head teacher telling off a naughty pupil. Once his rant paused briefly, the policeman took him by the arms and started to lead him away.

 

“Me? You’re are arresting me?”, protested the posh man, still dripping with sauces. He looked towards the queue, hoping someone would back him up, but most people were either wondering what the fuck had just happened or laughing.

 

Then noticed me laughing, which to be honest, wasn’t hard, as I was almost bent double. It had tickled me somewhat.

 

“Oh you think it’s funny do you?”, he asked, turning his head to look at me over his shoulder.

 

“No, I just don’t think red is your colour”, I drunkenly replied, and I laughed at my own, lame joke. He did not look impressed.

 

And that was that. The posh bloke was led away, and the queue continued to be served as if nothing had happened, with people trying their best not to step in the sauce that had dropped onto the pavement.

 

“Yes Sir, what can I get you?”, asked the kebab man to the bloke next to me.

 

“Where is my food, I’ve been waiting ages?!”, I joked.

 

“Oh fuck off!”, he replied, smiling, and handed me my kebab. I left, content.

A Drunken Announcement

On a night out with a few work colleagues, I ended up a bit worse for wear quite early on in the evening. This resulted in me losing my phone in a crowded bar in the centre of town. I should mention that normally, without the influence of drink, I’m always aware of where my phone, wallet and keys are, but the more I drink, the less concerned I get about them.

 Being as drunk as I was, I began scrambling around on the small dance floor, hoping to find my precious phone. I think at one point, a small circle of people formed round me, thinking I was doing some sort of funky-worm dance. One girl called me a pervert as she thought I was trying to peer up her skirt. To be honest, I probably was.

The search for my phone proved to be fruitless and there was only one thing left for me to try; an announcement to the whole of the bar.

 I made my way up a flight of stairs to where the DJ was playing. He was positioned on a sort of balcony, looking over the top of the dancefloor.

 “Yes mate, what song do you want?”

 “No. I don’t want to make a request. I want to make an announcement”

 “Sorry, you can’t do that”

 “Please, I’ll be quick I promise, this is really important”.

 Surprisingly, he handed me a microphone. I leant across and turned the volume on his equipment right down which pissed him off immensely. Everyone on the dance floor turned to look up at us, and were greeted with the sight of me, microphone in hand, swaying slightly.  I began to speak.

 “Sssshhhhh. Sssshhhhhh. Everyone, listen. I have an announcement to make. Shhhh! SHHHH! You over there, be quiet a minute.”

 By now you could have heard a mouse fart. I was doing well. Then a couple of blokes over by a fruit machine started talking to one another.

 “Oi. You two. You as well, I need everyone silent. Right, now I have your attention, I need you all to do something. I have lost my phone. What I’m going to do is ring my number and I want everyone to listen out for it. Whoever finds my phone will be treated to drinks for the rest of the night. First I need a volunteer”

 The DJ then tried to grab the mic from my hand.

 “I won’t be a minute mate. Nearly done”

 I looked down at the people below me and realised that everyone single person in the place was looking at me and it made me very nervous. A few of them had their hands in the air. ‘Why the fuck do they have their hands in the air’ I wondered to myself…’Ahh, yes, I needed a volunteer’.

 “You in the blue top. Have you got a phone?”

 The girl I was pointing at nodded.

 “Ok, come up here”

 She came up and I asked for her phone.

 “Right everyone, here we go. Drinks for the rest of the night remember, should you find my phone. Here goes, I’m ringing it”.

 The place was absolutely silent. The DJ was fucking fuming, but I had a crowd on my side now so there was nothing he could do. We were all stood, waiting. I imagined a mass bundle breaking out once we heard my phone, as the people below me jostled to get to it first.

 Then I heard ringing.

 The ringing was loud; my phone was definitely in the building. The ringing was very loud in fact. I felt inside my jacket pocket; there was something in there. My hand reached in, and I pulled out my phone. I started laughing.

 I was escorted off the premises within a couple of minutes.

Nightclub Shoes

I really hate it when bars and clubs refuse entry based on the type of footwear somebody chooses to wear. What difference does it make if you’re wearing trainers or shoes? I often snub such places that have this rule in place, but it was at a club in Brighton that I had to give into this self-imposed ban, because the rest of the group wanted to go to a certain bar.
We queued up for ages before we eventually got to the entrance. I made pleasantries with the bouncers and walked through, along with my mates, into the busy club. First stop, as always, was the bar. We waited to be served, looking out for any quality ‘fanny’ that we could try and chat up later on in the evening. Mark felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

 

“Meatball’s just sent me a text. He’s outside, he’s worn trainers and the bouncers won’t let him in. What a daft cunt.”

 

The rest of the group muttered a collective ‘for fuck sake’ and decided on a course of action. The plan we came up with was simple: We’d ask someone in the club for their shoes, get Meatball to put them on, get Meatball in the club, and then he could return the shoes to their owner, before slipping his trainers back on. It couldn’t fail, we were sure of it.

 

Jimmy spotted one bloke standing on his own at the other end of the bar. He was wearing a black leather jacket, and had thick greasy hair. Most importantly, he was wearing shoes, and looked about Meatball’s size. Jimmy and Mark wandered over to him.

 

“Excuse me mate, this may sound a bit weird, but can we borrow your shoes? Our mate needs them to get in. We’ll buy you a few drinks and you’ll get them straight back”

 

The greasy chap agreed almost straight away; no persuasion was required at all. He slipped off his shoes and handed them to Jimmy. They were ghastly, like the chunky black shoes shoes that I was forced to wear to school. Jimmy slipped them inside his jacket and we all went back to the entrance of the club. Meatball was still there, pleading with the bouncers to let him in but they were having none of it. Jimmy got his hand stamped so he could get back in, whilst the rest of us stood just outside the entrance in the smoking area.

 

Jimmy led Meatball away and round the corner.

 

“Here, have these”, he said, handing Meatball the shoes.

 

“Fucking brilliant! Cheers Jim!” Meatball quickly slipped the shoes on, they were a perfect fit. Not as fashion conscious as the rest of us, Meatball really didn’t care that they looked like retard shoes. He handed Jimmy his trainers, and once again, Jimmy concealed these inside his jacket and they returned to the front of the queue.With a massive grin on his face, meatball strode up to the bouncers.

 

“My mate just dropped my shoes off, so can I come in now?”

 

“Piss off, mate. You’re not coming in, you were lippy before”.

 

Meatball’s grin quickly disappeared and we all wondered what we were going to do. It didn’t take long for us to decide -we all left the club immediately, we couldn’t leave a mate outside on his own. It wasn’t until we got to the next bar that we’d realised what we’d done. Meatball still had the shoes on; the shoes that we’d borrowed off of some poor bloke in the club. He was still in there, just in his socks, probably looking like a complete weirdo. I like to think that he remained in the same spot for the rest of the night, with his socks getting stuck to the spilt alcohol on the club floor. We did feel bad, for a second or so. The shoes were dropped in a bin, before we carried on with our evening.

Wardrobe Wank

Jimmy and Dave are dirty fuckers. Although they are mates of mine, I sometimes cringe at some of their behavior on nights out, particularly when they involve the opposite sex in their antics. It is no secret amongst my group of friends that Jimmy and Dave like to go ‘twos-up’ on girls. One of them will meet someone on a night out, invite them back for some horizontal liaisons, and then invite their mate to join in. It shocks me really at how many girls agree to this. Quite why Jimmy and Dave want to share their spoils with one another is anyone’s guess, but I suppose it goes to show how close they are as mates. They always regale their frolics to us the following day, and the story normally involves them hi-fiving each other at some point. Very romantic.
One particular night, Dave had got lucky with a brunette girl and had invited her back to his hotel for sex. She must have been pissed because she agreed to, and at the end of the night, Dave, Jimmy and the girl made their way back to the hotel at which the two boys were staying. Dave had taken a massive shine to this girl, and he’d made it clear to Jimmy that he wasn’t up for sharing, which wasn’t normally in his character at all. He’d met her the previous night, and although nothing had happened, he had spotted her again, chanced his luck, and scored. Now he wanted her all to himself, and no matter how much Jimmy pleaded with him on the way back, Dave wasn’t considering even asking the girl if she’d be up for it.

Although unimpressed by his mate’s lack of generosity, Jimmy agreed to wander around the hotel for a bit, whilst the two lovers got it on – the problem you see, was that they were sharing a room and therefore Dave would have no privacy. When they arrived back at the hotel, the three of them had a drink at the bar, before Dave and his beauty retreated to the bedroom. Jimmy agreed to wait at least an hour before returning, and he stayed at the bar on his own, feeling horny but with no one to help relieve the tension.
Back in the hotel room, things got saucy as soon as the newly acquainted pair fell through the door, and within no time they were rutting like animals; both working up a sweat as they let their inhibitions go. Being drunk, Dave was surprised that he’d actually managed to get an erection, but now he was firm, there was no stopping him and he found himself lasting longer than he’d ever done before. The recipient of his clunge rod was certainly not complaining, and her bacon pocket begged Dave for more and more.
Before long, both Dave and the girl were so hot that they needed to open the patio doors, which led out onto a small balcony. The room was on the top floor of the hotel, so there was little danger of anyone seeing Dave as he slid the doors open with nothing protecting his modesty. As he opened the door, Dave had a brainwave. He called over his lover and asked if she fancied a spot of alfresco sex. She didn’t hesitate and sauntered over to the balcony railing, before grabbing them, bending over so her cunny flaps were winking at Dave.
“Take me from behind”, she ordered.
Dave didn’t need to be asked twice, and he held her by the hips before entering her. This was turning out to be one of the best shags of his life.

Meanwhile, Jimmy was sat downstairs, very drunk and bored. He had looked at his watch about a hundred times, waiting for an hour to pass so he could go back to the room and get to bed. ‘They best not have done it in my bed’ he thought to himself, although secretly he didn’t mind because at least he’d be able to sniff the sheets. Eventually, after finishing his forth pint in the hotel, over an hour had passed and Jimmy decided to venture back.
When he reached the door to the room, he put his ear to it. He couldn’t hear much and guessed that Dave had finished his business and was asleep. He turned the key in the door and opened it very slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. The first thing he saw was his bed, and he noticed that it was as fresh as how he’d left it. Then he noticed that Dave’s bed was also empty. Looking further ahead of him, Jimmy saw the reason why; Dave’s bare backside was thrusting in and out as he pumped away like a Jack Russell on heat. Jimmy was suddenly turned on at what he was witnessing.

Out on the balcony, Dave was oblivious that he had been caught in the act and carried on with the job in hand, savoring every moment. Just as he was about to spray his milky treat, he heard a noise behind him, coming from inside the room. Without breaking his stride, he peered over his shoulder.

What he saw was a sight he would never be able to forget, no matter how much he tried.

Jimmy was stood just inside the door frame, against the wall. He was partially covered by a curtain but Dave could see that he was leaning against the side of a wardrobe and visibly having a wank, aiming his todger at the gap between the wall and the back of the wardrobe. Dave didn’t say a word; he just braced himself for his own climax and let out a groan of pleasure as he spilt his load. Too afraid, to traipse back inside and confront his mate, Dave was at a loss as to what to do. From behind, he hugged the girl he’d just rogered, grateful that she was unaware what was happening behind them, whilst thinking about what he should do next. Now they’d finished shagging, it was getting quite cold.

Again, Dave peered over his shoulder, and this time the scene wasn’t as bad as expected. Jimmy had finished his wank and was now crashed out on his own bed, so Dave suggested to his bit of skirt that they retire to bed, to which she agreed. She noticed Jimmy as soon as she walked through the door; it was hard not to as he was spread out like a starfish, face down, with his trousers and boxer shorts still pulled down around his ankles. Dave had to reassure her that Jimmy was so drunk he wouldn’t have even noticed them outside.
The next morning, once Dave had ushered his conquest out of the hotel room, he woke Jimmy and asked him what the fuck he was playing at the night before. Jimmy’s head was pounding and his mind was hazy and he struggled to remember much. Dave told him to think hard whilst he went and showered. Ten minutes later, Dave emerged from the bathroom.
“Dave”, said Jimmy.
“Yes mate?”
“Did I have a wank behind the wardrobe last night?
“You know you did you dirty fucker! Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was a dream”
“You are a sick bastard”.

Jimmy has managed to refrain from wanking behind wardrobes since the incident, but one does wonder why he chose such a place to aim his pecker. What a strange man.

Taxi Abuse

Taxi drivers tend to get a bad press but I’ve never had a major problem with them. Yes, some of them do try and rip people off, but on the whole they’re ok. I’ve only ever had one bad experience in a taxi, and that is the topic of this post. It happened on a Friday night on my way back from the delightful town of Aylesbury. Both myself and my best mate Rowley, who was with me at the time, had consumed a lot of alcohol on this particular night. We’d decided enough was enough and felt it was time to call it a night. We sauntered out of the bar we were in and headed straight for the kebab van. It’s an unwritten rule that greasy food must be consumed after drinking anything above 6 pints of alcohol, and we were both eager to get something quite rotten into us before heading home.

 We both purchased chips with cheese and chicken meat, with burger sauce and of course, salad. The salad helps balance out the bad food and makes for a more healthy dining experience. We considered tucking in before heading home, but then spotted a waiting taxi and decided to jump in before someone else grabbed it.

 “No eating in here please”, said the taxi driver as we got in.

 It wasn’t an issue; we’d eat when we got home. It was something to look forward to. We told the driver where we needed to go and I carried on the conversation with the traditional questions that all taxi drivers have to be asked:

 ‘Been busy tonight?’

‘What time do you finish?’

‘What football team do you support?’

‘Has a girl ever given you a blow job instead of payment?’

 The driver responded with a few grunts and we were on our way. I say ‘on our way’ – we were actually fucking flying. The driver was either The Stig, or on some sort of time trial mission.; he had his foot to the floor and we were screeching round bends and overtaking other cars a terrifying speed. Even in our drunken state we realised that the driver was crazy. We pulled our seat belts tighter to us and held on tight. I looked at my friend and mouthed ‘Fuck-Ing-Hell.’

 “Do you think you could slow down a bit, mate?” Rowley asked quietly. The drivers eyes looked up into the rear view mirror.

 “I’ll drive how the fuck I want”

 “Well can we get out then?”

 The driver ignored us and just carried on driving. He had a death wish.

 Once again I looked at Rowley. I whispered,

 “I’m not paying this cunt. Shall we run?”

 “Yes. We’ll run. He is a massive cunt”

 We were now only a few minutes from my house.

 “Can you drop us off at the parade of shops please?” I asked.

 The driver merely nodded. The shops were only a short walk from my house and I didn’t want the driver to know where I lived so it was an ideal drop spot. We would be able to do a runner from the taxi and then head behind the shops to a small alleyway that led to a cul-de-sac. I had the plan all set out in my head, but as I’d never actually done a runner before, I was quite nervous. I sensed Rowley felt the same; we both sat in silence ready to leap from the taxi. My heart was thumping against my chest and I had sobered up a lot. One of my hands clung to the seat in front, the other gripped the carrier bag in which I had my food. I nudged Rowley and told him not to run straight away, just to follow my lead, and he gave me a knowing look back. We pulled up outside the shops; the drive from Hell was over; for now.

 “How much do we owe you?”

 “Eighteen quid”

 I reached into my pockets as if to get the cash.

 “My bloody jeans are tight, I need to stand up to get my money”, I said, laughing nervously. I opened the door as I spoke.

 Rowley was reaching for his door handle as well. Then I snapped.

 “YOU FUCKING WAAAANNNNNKKKERRRRRR!” I shouted furiously, flinging my food around my head and releasing it so that it flew towards the drivers face. The bag exploded against the windscreen, showering the driver in chips and salad. The burger sauce had covered the dashboard and lettuce and tomato hung from the air vents. I was already running away and Rowley was a few paces behind me.

 Suddenly, Rowley stopped running and turned back towards the taxi. He opened the front passenger door and launched his food into the car.

 “TA-DA BOB!” His face was contorted with rage. Once again he turned to run in the direction I was heading.  I was laughing and it was hindering my speed somewhat. We darted through an opening between two shops and peered through the gap. The driver was sat, dumbfounded and dazed in his taxi, with food hanging off him. He was an absolute mess.

 We watched and waited in silence, waiting for the taxi driver to decide what he was going to do. Rowley was stood slightly in front of me and I could see his shoulders moving up and down. I peered round and he was struggling to hold back his laughter. This set me off, and I had to bite my fist. Tears filled my eyes and I kept snorting, trying to fight the urge to erupt into a full on guffaw. A couple of minutes passed and the driver started to move off. He drove a couple of yards slowly before speeding off again into the night. We laughed loudly, it was nice being able to release it after holding it all in.

 Eventually we calmed ourselves down and emerged from our hiding place. We made our way across the road towards my house, keeping a look out for the mental taxi driver.

 “Rowley?”

 “Yes mate?”

 “I’m fucking starving”

 We both began pissing ourselves again.

Never again have I done a runner from a taxi, nor do I intend to, but trust me, this one deserved it. As I’ve said, every other taxi driver has been a decent bloke, this one was just, well, weird.

Irate Fat Girl

The football team I play for held an auction which was used to raise money for the team and more importantly, charity. It was a good laugh; a few beers were put away and the food was free, which is always a bonus. One of the highlights for me was when my brother outbid me to pay £22.95 for fifty litres of fruit juice. It was a lot I was happy to lose and although my brother didn’t mind that much, little did he know that he would have a setback of a different kind later on that evening.

After the auction, a group of us decided to head into High Wycombe to see what havoc we could cause over there. It was quite good, nothing special, but we had a laugh, danced like spastics on speed and drank far too much alcohol. By 2am, most of the group had retired for the evening and there were only 3 of us left; my brother, Mark and I.

 We decided to head for the only place that was left open, a dingy nightclub which attracts all manner of reprobates to it. Putting this aside, I wanted a drink, and so I was happy to go along, even if it meant paying a £6 entrance fee (the money grabbing twats). Into the club we strolled and then headed upstairs, straight to the bar. Mark bought a round of beers, and as none of us had much energy left in us, we decided not to strut our stuff on the dance floor. Instead, we stood at the bar and chatted about the night’s events, although I think I did break into doing the robot for a while.

We hadn’t been supping on our beers for long, when an attractive young girl came over to where we were and asked my brother if he fancied a dance. At first he was reluctant, but after we goaded him for a while, he accepted the invitation and joined her on the dance floor. Now, at the time I didn’t really know why what followed happened, I had to wait for my brother to tell me. It was certainly funny to witness.

After they had been dancing for a few minutes, the girl turned to him and whispered in his ear.

“Make me jealous”, she said through hushed tones.

“What?”

“Make me jealous. Dance with another girl for a bit.”

 My brother was confused to say the least, but he didn’t really have much choice because no sooner had she made her demand, his dancing partner had turned to face another random bloke and was gyrating in front of him, all the while looking over her shoulder, winking at my brother. Not wanting to look like a complete lemon, standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, he decided to go along with what she had asked. ‘This is quite kinky’, he thought to himself.

Looking around him for a girl that he could dance with, he spotted a lonely looking girl dancing on her own, with a drink in hand. She was rather large and not very pretty and sweating quite profusely from her dancing. My brother stepped up in front of her and began dancing and the fat girl just gawped at him. This was probably down to the fact that he was doing the David Brent dance from The Office, his arms swinging from side to side as he squatted and sidestepped to and fro in front of her.

 “FUCK OFF” she barked, and her eyes went all big and bulbous, and veins in her forehead were popping out. As she said this she relieved the contents of her glass all over my brother’s head. She was not very happy, and my brother made things worse when he just started to crack up laughing at how she had reacted. It seemed to annoy her further, and she started jostling to get passed him, her arms slapping about like a pumped up sumo wrestler.

Eventually, my brother gave in and returned to join us, his hair now soaked flat to his head. Mark and I were in hysterics at the fat girl and also wondering why he’d stopped dancing with the good looking girl. When he eventually managed to explain, we felt we should go and ask the attractive girl why she wanted to be made jealous, but we couldn’t find her, she’d done a disappearing act. There was only one thing for it. First, we went to the toilets and helped my brother dry off under the hand dryers. Then we went back to the dance floor, found the fat girl, formed a circle around her, and danced like loons for as long as we could before she went mental again. We lasted about 20 seconds, before running away like naughty children.

Naked Surprise

A few years back, after a particularly boozy works party, I found myself in the unfamiliar and quite seedy surroundings of a Premier Inn hotel room. Swaying about the room in a drunken haze, I decided that the best course of action would be, of course, to get completely naked. Off came my clothes, as I did my own sensual striptease to no one in particular, using the music from the Channel 5 smash hit TV program Quiz Call which I had on in the background. I seem to recall swinging my shirt around my head before flinging it against the wall, and as I slipped out of my jeans, I lost my coordination and balance, and fell face first against the bed – thank fuck there was no one around to see me. Fortunately, it was quite a soft landing, despite the fact it was a hotel mattress.
Undeterred by my stripping shortcomings, I removed my boxer shorts and stood proudly in front of the mirror. Something wasn’t quite right, ahh yes, my socks! I whipped them off in a flash and sat on the bed, at this point unsure of what I was going to do next. Afterall, I had countless options! I could choose to watch Quiz Call, I could walk around naked for a bit, I could go and be sick if I really tried, or I could half a half-hearted attempt at a wank.
I decided that, in my state, Quiz Call seemed the most appropriate course of action. It was actually quite good, and I contemplated phoning in myself.

“Ok, so we’re looking for words that can follow ‘Hand’”, the annoying male presenter shouted at me through the screen. Surely ‘job’ would be one of them, I thought to myself, feeling smug that no one else would phone in and say that, thus missing out on a whopping £500. However, as I watched and noticed that no one was getting a correct answer, I decided against wasting my phone bill, instead getting more vocal and angry at the show because no one was getting a correct answer. Before long, I was in a bit of a rage, shouting at the nauseous presenter through the glass of the TV screen, calling him all manner of things, mainly a ‘fucking twat’.

It was then that things took a turn for the worse. There was a knock at the door. ‘Who could that be?’ I thought to myself, before getting to my feet to answer it. As I stood up, I stumbled slightly, forgetting that I was still quite drunk. I ambled over to the bedroom door and pulled it open.

“Yes, what’s up?”, I enquired, in a quite cheery fashion.

The woman, in her late 40s, that was outside my room looked me up and down, very slowly. Then she looked down again. It was at this point I remembered that I didn’t have any clothes on. It probably wasn’t helped by the fact that I was propping the door open with my foot, and had my hands resting on my hips. I felt like a filthy pervert, but felt that I had to carry on to save face.

“Can I help at all?” I asked again.

The lady looked up at my face, struggling to make eye contact with me.

“Erm, yes, er sorry. Can you keep the noise down please? It’s a bit loud in here?”

I looked around behind me, hands still sat proudly on my hips, my flaccid cock free for the lady to view.

“No problem”, I smiled, before closing the door. I’m sure I saw her roll her eyes before she walked away.

I went and turned the TV off, and did what I should have done in the first place. I had a rubbish wank

Rosewater Cocktail

The location was the Falcon pub in High Wycombe on a Saturday night. It was early in the evening and a group of 6 of us were having a few cheap drinks before moving onto somewhere different (and more expensive). I noticed that the table we were sat on had a small vase in the centre of it containing a solitary rose and what I can only describe as dirt and water. I say vase, it was more like a half pint glass; in fact it probably was.

Mike had been on the scrounge all evening. He hadn’t been paid yet and was short on cash, so he was taking drinks from whomever he could get one from. To be fair, he was doing all right, he was getting fairly intoxicated without spending a single penny of his own money. The intake of alcohol soon meant that he needed to nip to the toilet, and I had been waiting for this opportunity since I’d spotted the rose. No sooner had Mike left the table to go and empty his bladder, had I removed the rose from its vase, placed it under the table and put the vase and its contents in front of me. All I had to do was wait for Mike to return. The rest of the group sensed I was up to something and asked me what I was planning, but I said nothing.

I saw Mike ambling back towards us a few minutes later and I put my plan into action. As he got closer to us, I put the vase up against my mouth and tipped my neck back slightly, being careful not to get any of the vile water on my mouth. When Mike was stood right in front of me, I moved the vase away from my mouth quickly and scrunched up my face, as if I’d taken a sip from it.

“Fuck me, that’s strong stuff” I said, putting the vase back down on the table in front of me.
“What is it?” asked Mike, eyes widening as he spoke.
“Some spirit, mate. I just got it from the bar”. The others sat on the table saw what I was up to and began playing along.
“Yeah, I had a sip and I feel pissed already”, added Andy.

Mike had been fooled, I was sure of it and so I offered him the vase.
“DOWN IT, DOWN IT, DOWN IT”, I started to chant and the others joined in, banging on the table for extra effect. Mike took the vase from me and knocked the contents back in one.
As quick as the murky fluid had gone down, it appeared again, as Mike hurled it from his open mouth, covering the table in bile.

“What the fuck was that? It is really strong stuff”, he said, standing dumbfounded with a look of confusion on his face.
“Strong?” I asked.
“Yes, I wasn’t expecting that. It tastes bloody horrible, and it’s got little floaty bits in it like Goldschlager. I’ll stick to what I’m drinking, thanks”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him what he had actually drunk. I know it isn’t the worst thing in the world that he could have had in his mouth (he could have had Bill Oddie’s member, for example), but it is still pretty awful. The next morning I asked Mike what it had tasted like. He described it as ‘slimy vinegar with lumps and bits in it’. Gutted.

Pint of Piss

Andy turned to look at me, his face going slowly crimson. He leant in and whispered in my ear, “Mate, I need a piss so badly. I don’t think I’ll make it to the toilets.”
I let out a laugh and then looked around me. The pub was very busy; it was a Saturday night after all, and the toilets were up a flight of stairs on the other side of the bar.

“Here you go, fill this” I said, handing him an empty pint glass. I could see the doubt run through Andy’s head, but he merely shrugged, took the glass from me and moved it under the table.

“Ahhhhhhhh, that feels so good” he exclaimed as the buildup of urine was suddenly released from his body. Anyone watching would have wondered what the fuck he was doing. He was sat hunched over at the table with both hands hidden from view, with orgasmic expressions etched over his face. I wondered if he’d get kicked out for having a supposed social wank. Twenty or so seconds later, his job was done.

“What shall I do with it?” Andy asked me.

“Drink it, it’s probably all alcohol anyway” I joked.

Unfortunately Andy wasn’t that stupid. Instead he just placed the glass back on the table, where it stood proudly, just looking back at us. Despite my protests, Andy wouldn’t take it elsewhere and so it was up to me to move it.
As there were quite a few of us out on this particular night, we were split over two tables. I decided that the pint of piss should sit on the other table – it was putting me off my drink.
I picked it up and it was still warm. This made me feel a bit sick, it was almost as if I was touching Andy’s piss. Luckily, I only had a short distance to travel, and I placed the glass down on the other table. Everyone sat there turned to look at me as I did so and all I said was ‘No-one bother drinking that’. Then I returned to my seat, and watched.

“Thanks mate” said Andy, “I didn’t want that there either, it fucking stinks”.

“I still can’t believe you actually did that” I replied.

As we chatted we kept glancing over at the pint of piss, and it remained in the same spot, untouched. The rest of the group were quite oblivious to it, and if was getting surrounded by empty bottles and other pint glasses as they knocked back their drinks. About 45 minutes after I’d put the glass on their table, the inevitable happened.

Warren was quite drunk and looking for something to whet his whistle. The bar was crowded so he scanned the table for anything he could chuck down his throat. Being almost full to the brim, the pint of piss instantly caught his eye.

“Who does this drink belong to?” he asked the rest of the table.

“No one, he just left it here” Mike replied, pointing over at me.

Warren clamped his hand around the glass a took a huge gulp from it, just as I was in the midst of shouting ‘NOOOOOOO!!!!’

I was too late. I watched in horror as Warren swallowed.

Amusingly, he then slammed the glass back down on the table, shouting “Fuck me! That tastes like piss!” It was too much for Andy, who was now bent double from laughing so hard. Warren saw that he was in hysterics and marched over, with the pint of piss in his hand,
“Is this yours?” he muttered, quite calmly for someone that had just swallowed his mate’s urine.
“Yes, sorry Warren” Andy replied sheepishly.

What came next still makes me smile. Without warning, Warren tipped the rest of the piss straight over Andy’s head, before gently placing the empty glass back on the table, spinning on his feet and meandering back to whence he’d came. Andy sat where he was, silent with a shocked expression. At first he was open mouthed, but he quickly closed it as his own urine cascaded down his face. Eventually, he got up and without saying a word, headed to the toilets so he could dry off under the hand dryer.

To his credit, he did stay out for the rest of the night, despite smelling like a stale tramp. Every so often the unmistakable tang of piss would catch my nose and I’d turn around to see Andy approaching and I’d laugh as people we didn’t know fought with each other in an effort to get out of his path. Andy was undeterred by it all.

“I only smell off piss, at least I didn’t drink it”, he’d say.
And I suppose he was right, really.

Train Piss

Going for a piss on a train is never easy. The gentle sway of the carriage makes aiming difficult and it can be hard to choose between using a hand to steady yourself or to hold your nose to alleviate the stench of the often rancid surroundings. Attempting to urinate on a train whilst drunk, into an empty can of beer however, is even more of a challenge, and it is a position I found myself in not too long ago after a night out.

Rowley and I had a carriage to ourselves. It was 1 o’clock in the morning and so there weren’t too many passengers, especially as we were travelling from High Wycombe to Princes Risborough. We were both drunk, but in good spirits, laughing about the nights events and looking forward to getting off the train for a well deserved cigarette. The journey itself is only about 15 minutes long, but halfway through, I felt my bladder expanding rapidly, pushing against my trousers.

Everyone knows what it’s like once you’ve broken the seal after a few alcoholic drinks; you need to go to the toilet all the time. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been for a while and I felt as if I could actually wet myself for the first time in years.

“Fuck me, I’m desperate for a piss, where are the toilets?” I asked Rowley, too lazy to look for them myself. Rowley looked up from his phone and along the carriage.

“Just down there, look” he said, pointing.

 I walked out of the carriage in which we were sat, and into the next one, which was only occupied by one old man. Fit to burst, I began to think about the warm tingly feeling I’d get after releasing such a buildup of urine. As always, things were not that simple.

Before I had even reached the toilet door, the reek of a freshly deposited turd hit me, making me gag instantly. The air was a foggy haze, and the thought of inhaling somebody else’s airborne poo particles made me retch again. I daren’t even open the toilet door. If the smell was this bad outside, what monstrosity would I face inside? Images of skid-marked porcelain flashed before my eyes and I only just managed to keep down a small amount of vomit which had crept up my throat. How the old bloke sat in this carriage could put up with the smell, I wasn’t sure, unless it was him that had committed this heinous crime.

Turning around quickly, I made my way back to where Rowley was sat; now jiggling around on my feet like a toddler, desperately trying not to wet myself.

“I’m not going it there, it’s fucking disgusting” I said to a now rather amused Rowley.

Scanning the carriage, I spotted equipment that I felt I could use in such an emergency. By one set of seats there sat two empty beer cans, and a large coffee cup. I picked up the coffee cup and pulled off the plastic lid, grateful that the items I had spotted were not some sort of mirage brought on by the fact I needed to urinate immediately.  The relief I felt as I finally let all pent up fluid out was sensational, and I let out a sigh to signify such a feeling.

The cup was soon almost full, so I tensed and held my bladder whilst I quickly put the cup down and picked up one of the beer cans. This time, aiming was not as easy as I didn’t have much of a hole to aim at. Instead I had to let my piss trickle out slowly but at least it was coming out. I had another disadvantage whereby I couldn’t see how much of the can I had filled, but this was solved when I felt the metal go warm around my fingers. It was time to swap cans.

By now I had built up a bit more confidence and was peeing at a more normal speed into my last available receptacle. Rowley was sat a few seats back, chuckling to himself, all the while calling me a dirty bastard. I had to tell him to stop laughing because in turn it was making me laugh, thus adding to the difficulty of my challenge.

“Are there any more cans up by you”, I asked Rowley, mid-piss.

“Nope”

“Oh, shit. This one is nearly full as well”. I was starting to worry. Rowley just laughed once more.

 I was holding the final can at the top waiting for the metal to go warm, but it was now heavy and I knew that I’d almost reached its capacity. For a second time, I held my bladder and placed the can down by the other full one. We were still a couple of minutes from our stop and there was no way that I could keep the last of this piss inside me, especially not now I was over half way through. It wanted out.

There was only one thing for it. Not wanting to go all over the floor, I waddled over to a bin near one of the carriage doors. It was only about 2 foot off the ground, so I had to squat whilst I finished off my business. Once done, I zipped up and returned to my seat, exhausted but content. I felt ashamed and also had a pang of guilt because I knew some poor soul would have to clear the bin out the following day. Then I remembered why I had to piss in the bin in the first place and thought that cleaning the bin would be nothing compared to what lay in store in the actual toilet.

“Are you ok now?” asked Rowley

“I really needed that” I replied.