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Stray Nipple Hair

14 Jun

This is, without a doubt, the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me. Let me set the scene; it was a glorious Sunday afternoon, the sun was shining and I was sat in the pub with a large group of friends. Also with us, were a few people I hadn’t met before, but were ‘friends of friends’, so, being the gentleman I am, I was chatting to them and trying not to make myself look a twat.

It was soon my turn to get a round of drinks in. I took everyone’s order and made my way to the bar, asking Sue, one of the girls I’d only just met, to give me a hand with them. At the bar, we had a bit of awkward, forced conversation whilst waiting for the drinks. It was then that it happened. The most God awful thing that will happen to me for a long, long while.

As we stood making small talk, I noticed that she had a solitary stray dark hair on her top. She was wearing a white blouse, so it stood out really clearly. The hair was only a couple of centimeters long and positioned near her right breast. As soon as the words, “Oh, you’ve got a hair on you”, came out of my mouth, I knew I was making a mistake, for my hand raised upwards towards the hair in a bid to remove it.

This itself was bad, because as already mentioned, it was on her tit. However, it was too late to stop myself. My finger and thumb grabbed at the end of the hair like one of those mechanical claws at a funfair, that people waste money on trying to win a teddy bear. Unlike the mechanical claw though, I made a good connection, and in one swift motion, pulled the hair up and away from her top.

What I was expecting to happen was that the hair would come free, I’d rub my hands together to deposit it on the ground, she’d thank me, and we’d return to our friends with the drinks.

Only it didn’t.

As I pulled the hair away, Sue’s whole boob lunged forward towards me;  as if it were trying to break free. I pulled once more, a little harder, and again a her boob came at me, this time with more purpose. Taken aback, I stopped pulling, BUT MAINTAINED CONTACT with the hair, still holding it in between my finger and thumb.

It took a while for my brain to compute what was happening, and slowly the realisation dawned on me that, yes, the hair was actually attached to her boob (at a guess I’d say on her areola, but I cannot confirm this) and was in fact poking through her blouse. I looked up and made eye contact with Sue, slowly releasing my grip on her stray nipple hair. She was crimson red, mouth agape, staring back at me like I was Hitler, Stalin and Mugabe all rolled into one person.

I turned and walked out of the pub.

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Escaping the Hooligans

2 Sep

One of my narrowest encounters with pain and fear is also one of the funniest things that I have ever witnessed. The scene was a pub in Shepherds Bush early on a Saturday afternoon. I was with my girlfriend having a quick pint before we headed into central London to do a spot of shopping. Around us there were quite a number of QPR football supporters, all in good spirits ahead of their home game later that afternoon. The atmosphere was jovial; a few songs were being sung and all the non-football supporting customers looked to be enjoying the upbeat mood in the pub.

 

We had nearly finished our drinks when we saw two men run through the door of the pub over to a group in the far corner. I heard one of them say something like ‘Leeds are here’. The group immediately stood up and started making calls on their phones. My girlfriend and I were sat in the opposite corner of the pub, on the same side as the entrance. Peering out of the window behind me, I saw about 30-40 grown men swaggering towards the tavern, and they didn’t look like they were going to pop in for a quiet drink. Other men inside started making their way to the door and the atmosphere turned from cheery to one of dread very quickly. I told my girlfriend that we’d wait where we were and to try keep out of the way.

 

“LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS”

 

The shouts got louder and more raucous as the hooligans approached. They were now in line with where we were sat, but fortunately, we weren’t the intended target of any impending violence. A few bricks were thrown towards the front door, and the blokes inside the pub were now spitting with fury, itching to get outside and do battle. My partner reached across the table and held my hand.

 

“Don’t worry, just sit here” I told her, trying to hide the fact that I was shitting myself at the prospect of getting caught up in the mayhem.

 

Suddenly, the QPR ‘supporters’ rushed from inside the pub towards the Leeds mob with a battle cry of “RRRRRRRR’s”

The two crowds met and started beating seven shades of shit out of one another. We stayed where we were, trying to stay calm, but this was incredibly hard when windows of the pub were being smashed around us. I went to ask my girlfriend if she was ok, when I saw her eyes widen. She wasn’t looking at me; she was gazing over my shoulder. I turned round quickly.
Coming towards the pub was a 20 stone Leeds hooligan, arms raised, with a manhole cover in his hands. He was laughing as he got closer, taking enjoyment from what he was doing. He kept motioning as if he was about to release the manhole cover towards the window behind which we were sat, but then gripping it in front of him. I’m not ashamed to say that I was too scared to move. I should have ducked under the table or moved: anything but stay where I was sat. The hooligan was now right up against the window, gurning with delight. He raised the manhole above his head once more and started making his way backwards.

 

‘This is the one’ I thought. I knew that this time it was coming through the window.

 

“Get under the table”, I ordered my girlfriend. Little did I know, she was one step ahead of me and was already in relative safety, tugging on my trouser leg, trying to get me to join her.
I sat and watched as the beast moved another step back, and then another, with the manhole still raised above his head. He took one more step backwards and then…collapsed! His leg had gone straight down the uncovered drain and I stared openmouthed as 20 stone of twat hurtled towards the floor, smashing his ballbag onto the corner of the drain hole. The manhole cover crashed to the floor, narrowly missing his head. He now had one leg resting horizontally on the pavement, with the other one dangling down the drain. It was one of the biggest senses of relief I’ve ever felt. I slipped down from my seat and under the table, pissing myself with laughter.

The police arrived 5 or so minutes later and we were escorted to a taxi once they’d dealt with the thugs outside. I look back at how close I came to getting showered in glass, but all I can do is laugh about it. It was fucking funny watching him fall down a drain which he himself had uncovered. The scumbag.

One up the Gary…

1 Sep

From the age of 18 I worked as a builder’s labourer for a couple of years. It was one of my first ‘proper’ jobs, and I did really enjoy it. It was different every day and paid well, but one of the things I enjoyed the most was the ‘banter’ on site. I heard many funny stories from the various builders, electricians and plumbers I met doing my job and as I became more familiar with the people I was working with, I’d get up to all sorts of mischief myself.

One job I remember very well was a loft conversion that I helped on. One afternoon, Spud (another labourer), and I were in the loft, helping Gary the electrician out. It was a bloody hot day, and being in the loft was not the most comfortable of experiences; the insulation was itchy and hurt like buggery when rubbed against a sweaty arm. Gary was in the room below and we were feeding down cables that he’d installed in the loft the day before. We were almost done when Spud had a brainwave.

“Follow my lead”, he said, and I sensed that his plan was mischievous.

Gary shouted up from below, “Can you feed the next one down, lads?”

“We can’t see the hole”, was Spud’s instant response. He looked at me and winked. He was already a massive Cheshire Cat like grin on his face.

“Poke your finger up through it”.

With that, Gary’s bony index finger emerged through the plasterboard, like a bulbous earthworm emerging from the soil.

“Nope, still can’t see it Gary. Hold on, we’ll have a look”. As Spud said this, he was unbuckling his belt and unfastening his jeans. He looked at me again and put his finger to his lips. I tried hard not to laugh.

“I’m over here”, said Gary, “a few rafters in from the end”.

“Hold on, Gary”, I shouted back.

Spud already knew where Gary was positioned, and was hovering over the hole with his trousers round his ankles, buttocks spread. He squatted down further so that his balloon knot was only an inch or so above the plasterboard. He used one arm against a beam to steady himself and then called out again.

“Go on then, stick your finger back up and I’ll see if I can see it”.

The tears were already trickling down my face long before Gary stuck his finger up through the hole.

“Urrrgghh, eerrrrrrrr, what the fuck is that?” said Gary, as his finger recoiled in horror.

Spud just managed to splutter out “You touched my tea-towel holder”, before we both collapsed in hysterics. It was a small thing of beauty which had brightened up a shitty day being stuck in a baking hot loft.

And Gary? Well Gary used a screwdriver from then on in.

Avoiding a Fight

23 Aug

A few months ago I was out drinking with a couple of mates and we found ourselves in the outside area of a large pub. It was quite a busy evening; there were no tables free so we were stood up by a small outside bar, chatting and smoking, keeping a look out for any tables that happened to be vacated. As I glanced towards the table opposite where we were stood, I saw two males sniff what was probably cocaine off of a card and up into their noses. I quickly looked away; it wasn’t any of my business, but I was surprised at how brazen they had been. I didn’t say anything to either of my mates, but looked over again and realised that both of the males were now approaching me.

As they neared, I remember thinking ‘He we go’. They were ‘proper lads’. You know the type; love boozing and chatting up the ‘birds’, three-styles-in-one haircuts, both dressed in attire usually associated with Jeremy Kyle guests and were walking like constipated apes. Proper-fucking-lads.

“What the fuck you looking at, mate?”

He was quite big, so I pretended I hadn’t seen him.

“Oi, mate. What the fuck were you looking at?”

I turned slowly round to face them.

“Me?” I started, pointing at myself. “Nothing”.

“You fucking what?”

“Nothing”

This went on for a couple of minutes; them asking me what I was looking at, and me responding with the same answer. My mates, ever helpful, stood and watched, sipping their drinks slowly. Eventually the two lads got bored with asking me the same question,

“Right, you little cunt, what’s your fucking name?”

With that, the larger of the two grabbed me by my collar and tried to pull me towards him. I stood my ground and for some reason, my Granddad’s (RIP) only ever words of wisdom came into my head – ‘If you’re ever in trouble, act like you’ve got a mental illness’.

Before I could process this thought completely in my head, I felt my mouth open and I started speaking in a posh gentleman’s voice,

“They call me The Mongdaddy, boys. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sputnik, Cauliflower, Wibble Jib-Jib!”

I extended my hand to the lad who wasn’t trying his best to remove my clothing.

“Mongdaddy? What the fuck are you on, mate”

“Why nothing fellow”, I carried on. Still I kept my posh voice. My mates now had their backs turned to us and were slowly sidestepping away from the scene.

”And it’s The Mongdaddy, parp, parp”.

With that, I pulled my hand down like you do when trying to get a haulage driver to sound his horn. I felt the grip on my collar loosen and the big lad stepped back away from me.

“Are you fucking nuts?”

“Oh God no, treacle pie. The Mongdaddy is perfectly normal. Hoopla-Hoopla, come and play the hoopla! Whistle. Flute. Hairy Biscuit”

I was now doing a small jig on the spot. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a few people watching me. I must have looked like an absolute nut-job.

“Hoopla?” The lads sounded as confused as I was.

“Five attempts for a pound, my dear. Get in the cockpit and roll out the kipper”.

“Fuck off, you freak”

And with that they walked away. I returned to my mates, necked my pint and left for somewhere different.

Dirty Pint Glass

3 Aug

Brace yourself, this one is quite strange (and disgusting) and features my friend Ashley, star of the ‘Some Dirty Bastard has shat on the seat’ post. The location was The Antelope in High Wycombe, a medium sized boozer that has provided my mates and I with many a laugh over the years. This particular story happened one summer when the outside area was open and busy – an important part of this tale.

In the summer, the pub has an outside bar which comes in very handy. It also has a couple of portaloos, which, if you’re brave enough, can also prove useful. My mates and I were all sat round a table, basking in the warm evening air, when Ashley suddenly piped up;

“Fuck me, I need a shit and it feels like it could be massive”.

Now this in itself is a statement that would make any group of friends stop their discussion and go quiet. When the aforementioned statement is combined with a mischievous look like the one Ashley had on his face, you know something other than a bog standard shit is going to follow. We all stopped and looked at Ashley and then we began probing him as to his plans. This was only a couple of weeks after the shitting on the seat incident, and Ashley had received a fair bit of praise for that prank, so we were all wondering what he was thinking of doing next.

“You’ll see”. A smile formed across his face.

“Keep watching that portaloo door. I won’t be long”

Ashley got up and made his way to the portaloo. The rest of us got in the queue for the outside bar and waited. I was already chuckling to myself, wondering what on Earth he was planning. A few minutes passed and still we watched and waited, trying not to make it too obvious to everyone else around us that something was about to happen.

Suddenly, the door opened, very slowly. Ashley’s silhouetted figure emerged in the doorway, and as he opened the door further and the light hit him, I saw the biggest grin on his face. We still couldn’t see what he was smiling about, and not wanting to shout out to him, we kept quiet. I did notice that his arms were behind his back and I wondered what he was hiding.

I didn’t have to wait long. From behind his back, Ashley brought forth a pint glass, and in it was the single biggest log I think I have ever seen. It was a thing a rare beauty; long, thick and perfectly smooth. It was so big that it was jutting out of the top of the pint glass. It reminded me of an iceberg in a way, with most of the mass below the brim of the glass, but with the dome of the log peering over the surface.

I was on the floor.

I’m not sure why I found it so funny. I think it was the thought of him crimping off such a magnificent beast into a pint glass. Tears streamed down my face and I clambered to my feet, trying to regain my composure. My other mates were laughing too, and we were all thinking why he had committed such a crude act.

Ashley closed the door once again, and emerged shortly afterwards, joining us in the queue.

“I hope you’ve tipped that out and flushed it away you dirty fucker”,said I.

“Nope. I’ve left it in the glass! It’s by that little flushing handle thing! Ha!”

Ashley was obviously proud of his newborn, and funny as it was, we told him that he better get rid of it. Grudgingly, he turned and went to go back to the portaloo, but it was too late, two girls had nipped in and closed the door. By this point, I was absolutely pissing myself laughing again, thinking of their reaction on finding Ashley’s mess.

“Maybe they’ll think it’s one of those toilet attendants – it’s big enough” said my brother.

We all started sniggering. I was caught in a loop of trying to stop laughing, and then remembering what I was laughing about, which made me laugh even more. I think we’ve all been there.

Then, without warning, the door flew open and the two girls ran out covering their mouths. One ran to a nearby wall and promptly threw up, whilst the other one was stood next to her, still covering her mouth, shaking her head in a disapproving manner.

We all did what any gentlemen would do in that situation. We turned and legged it onto the dance floor, pissing ourselves with laughter.

Old Man Jim

29 Jul

During my time working as a builders labourer, I did many jobs at Care Centres, Nursing Homes and Mental Institutes. The rules were always the same; never leave any tools unattended, keep the van locked (very annoying), lock yourself in the room you were working in (a pain in the arse in the Summer when ventilation was required) and do not speak to the patients/residents. Obviously, we didn’t adhere to these at all times, be it through laziness or forgetfulness, but nothing bad ever came of it. I did see some interesting sights at these places. At a home in Slough, I witnessed an elderly man escaping into the grounds of the centre, with his trousers and pants around his ankles. As 3 nurses chased him, he bent over, pulled his bum cheeks apart, laughed, and then carried on with his attempted escape.

Another time, I was plastering a new en suite bathroom.. Feeling like I was being watched, I turned around to find an 80-something year old woman with the bulgiest eyes I’ve ever seen, just starting at me, holding a big bit of skirting board in her hand. When I turned to face her, she just handed me the skirting board, turned and walked away shaking her head. I was clipped round the ear by one old man for ‘listening to tripe on the radio’ and a nurse also told me off for playing cards with another elderly fellow during my lunch break. Big deal! (excuse the pun).

 

I hated working at these places. The atmosphere was always horrible, and they all smelled the same. I did however gain a lot of respect for the staff that work there; getting paid a pittance to care for these elderly people, who were either incapable of looking after themselves, were mentally ill, or had just started to lose the plot – and I don’t mean to sound offensive saying that, it was really sad to see people with no recollection of who they were, what day it was, where they were etc. I lost count of the amount of times I saw an elderly person soil themselves. I hated the shouts and screams I’d hear from some of the bedrooms during the day, or seeing people wandering about in a daze. When people truly start ‘lose it’, it is a horrible thing to witness.

 

However much I hated doing building work at these places, it was something I had to do, and more often than not I could try and find some humour in certain situations, which made the days more bearable. My one true highlight though, was Jim.

 

Jim must have been in his late seventies, or early eighties. I first had the pleasure of meeting him on a rainy midweek morning, as I arrived to do a job in Buckinghamshire at a place called Cherry Tree Nursing Home. It was a big job; we were changing every window at the home, as well as knocking a few walls down and laying a huge patio. As I walked down the corridor towards one of the bedrooms that I was going to start in first, I heard a deep, almost Sergeant-like voice say, “What are you up to, boy?”. I glanced to my left, and in the doorway of the bedroom adjacent, stood a elderly fellow dressed immaculately in a grey pinstripe suit. He had white wispy hair, what was left of it combed over into a side parting, and a big crimson nose. I also noticed that he had massive hands – they were like dinner plates.

 

“Just here to start some work”, I replied. I admit I was quite nervous.

 

“And your name?”

 

I told him my name, to which he responded, “Pathetic! I’m going to call you Simon instead”. When I asked him why, he just smiled and said “Because it’s your name”. The conversation was interrupted when a one of the nurses/carers came down the corridor. “Come on Jim, back in your room please”.

 

“Bastards!” Jim muttered, and then turned his back on both of us and walked into his bedroom. The nurse told me to just ‘excuse Jim, he can be a bit of a pain’.

 

Over the coming weeks, I had many conversations with Jim. When I was working near his room, he would come out and speak to me. He always wore a suit. Every time he saw me he would say, “Good day, Simon”, then pat me on the head. It was scary the first couple of times, but I soon realised that Jim was harmless and just wanted a bit of interaction, a bit of banter even. He was one of the grumpiest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting; it was done in such an infectious, naive way. He would tell me how most of the staff were ‘boring old farts’, the food was worse than ‘foreign foods like curry’ and that he ‘should be at home still, not stuck in here‘ on a daily (sometimes even hourly) basis. We never went into proper conversation about his life etc, one of the reasons being I didn’t know how much he could remember himself, I just liked listening to him lambasting the care home. I found it funny. I think Jim also liked my company, not that he would ever admit to it. He would often interrupt me mid speech and say, “Simon, it’s been ok. I’ll catch up with you later, boy” and then just walk off.

 

He scared the shit out of me once, by creeping up on me in one of the bedrooms, flinging a pair of black pants (thankfully clean – I think) in my face and shouting “SPIDER!” at me, before chuckling a big hearty laugh and walking out.

I’d get a lot of ‘they are definitely up to something in here, Simon’ – what it was though, Jim would never say. I was caught on quite a few occasions talking to him, I couldn’t see the harm in it myself, and each time Jim would just roll his eyes, mutter an obscenity and walk off.
If Jim was losing it, or had indeed already lost it, he would never let on to me. Perhaps he was the sane one? I do miss Jim.

A small boy gets what he deserves…

29 Jul

It was on my first lads holiday that this story happened. My friends and I were being harassed by those little pikey looking kids and old women that sell flowers and ‘lucky’ heather. I could see Steve getting more and more annoyed at one particular kid who would just not leave him alone; he kept pulling on Steve’s arm trying to get him to purchase a manky looking rose.

Despite numerous ‘no thanks’ and then a few ‘not today’s’, the kid would just not give up, and kept thrusting the flower in Steve’s face. We all carried on walking away from him but still he followed us; it was like he was taking enjoyment from winding us up. It was fucking annoying, but I shrugged it off, it happened pretty much every night and I had to admire their resilience as most people told them to fuck off as they approached.

After a good couple of minutes of being subjected to a very bad sales pitch, Steve finally snapped.

“CCCCCCUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNTTTTTT!!!”

He shouted with such ferocity that I thought his eyes would pop out. The little kid almost left the floor; I swear his head tipped back slightly from the force of the actual shout. He was obviously rattled and didn’t know what to do. He stood and stared blankly for what seemed like an eternity, whilst Steve sounded the ‘T’ of ‘cunt’ with fists clenched tightly and eyes closed. Steve was shaking slightly, getting every last bit of pronunciation out.

The kid then turned and ran – straight into a sandwich board outside a club. He hit it from point blank range, and with such a force, that he fell to the ground and the board collapsed on top of him. Steve was still hunched over, now shouting ‘cunt’ at nobody in particular, just the void which the little boy had left. We all started to laugh at the boy (who still had the flower clasped tightly in his hand) and he just lay, wondering what had just happened.

To top it all off, a rather rotund woman then went over to him and pulled him to his feet by his ear, before giving him a swift boot up the arse.

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