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The Coalminer

12 Sep

For a couple of weeks, my brother and I had hatched a plan to pull an extraordinary prank on our mutual friend, James. It came on the back of him getting one over on us with a joke of his own. In private, he had farted into a Pringles tube and quickly sealed it with the lid. Then he found each of us individually and asked if we thought the inside of the tube smelt funny, cue hilarity when we were hit with the fresh pong of his arse hole. We knew we wanted to get him back, but we were undecided about the best way to do it. James often stayed over in the summer holidays for days on end and early suggestions as to how we were going to get him back were quite feeble, including things such as farting in his face whilst he was asleep and putting his hand in water so he pissed himself. What we needed was something that would make James think twice about ever pulling a stunt like his Pringle tube fart ever again, something that would go down in legend amongst our friends. After a lengthy discussion one evening, we came up with an elaborate plan that, if executed well, would get James back twice over. We were going to scare the shit out of him.

James was due to stay the following night and we knew that despite his bravado, he was scared of one thing in particular; ghosts. If we started telling ghost stories, James would put his fingers in his ears and bury his head under his duvet so he could drown out all ghost talk. Like Gary Glitter and small boys, any mention of ghosts put the willies up him. We wrote down our plan of action and then went through a couple of practice runs, ensuring that we could carry out the necessary actions in the time we guessed we’d have available. Once sure that we could, we sat back smugly, looking forward to the events the following evening.

We spent the next day playing football in the local park with James and a couple of other friends. There was no mention to anyone of the plan we had put in place as we didn’t want to put it into jeopardy. The day passed and the evening came and as it was the school holidays we were allowed out late, so we hung around in the local park, doing nothing in particular. Eventually, we decided to call it a night and my brother and I gave each other a knowing look as we made our way home; we were finally going to get our revenge.

The three of us sat in my brother’s room playing his Super Nintendo. All my brother and I had to do was wait for James to give us the prompt we needed to start the prank. We didn’t have to wait long.

“Pause it lads, I need a piss”, said James. This was what I had been waiting for.

“Go on then, be quick” I replied. James stood up and headed for the bedroom door. As he opened it, I put the prank into motion.

“Oh, mate, just to warn you; don’t look out of the small bathroom window that you can see in front of you when you’re having a piss.”

“Err, why?” asked James.

“Because of the coalminer”

“The coalminer?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him, my brothers seen him. Even my mum has mentioned seeing him”

“Who’s the coalminer?” James looked scared already.

“I’m not sure why he’s started coming here”, I began, “but the last few times I’ve been for a piss late at night and I’ve looked out of the window, I’ve seen the face of a small boy looking back at me. The face is covered in soot and is wearing a coalminer’s helmet. It’s really weird and scary”

“Yeah, whatever”, said James. I could tell he was shaken, that was the main thing, and we’d also planted the seed of doubt in his mind. He made his was slowly out of the bedroom.

No sooner had James left us to cross the landing and go to the bathroom, had my brother sprinted downstairs and to the front door. Here he picked up a torch which we had hidden the previous day and then made his way to the front of the house. Once outside, he climbed on top of the wheelie bin, also positioned strategically the day before. This gave him easy access to the flat garage roof to which the small bathroom window looked out over. The practice runs had been worth it as he was up on the roof in no time at all. I meanwhile, had snuck across the landing and was listening at the bathroom door. I could still here the urine trickling out of James and into the toilet and I braced myself ready for the prank’s finale.

My brother was crouching below the bathroom window. He turned the torch on and held it against the top of his head with one hand. Then he leapt up and pressed his face to the window.

“WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH” he bellowed as he jumped to his feet. As I heard this I burst through the door.

“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK”, screamed James and he collapsed to the floor, covering his head with his hands.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” he shouted, still not entirely sure as to what was going on.

My brother and I erupted into fits of laughter. I opened the bathroom window and my brother poked his head through.

“Woooo, I’m the scary coalminer boy!” he teased. James looked up from the floor.

“You are fucking bastards! Fuck you!” He was still shaking with fear.

“We got you! We fucking got you!” I replied. My brother had tears rolling down his cheeks.

After a while James got to his feet. What we saw delighted us. Not only had we scared him something silly, but we had forced James to piss all over the front of his trousers. My brother and I were deliriously happy with our achievements.

“I think that makes us about even”, I said to James, once the commotion had died down and we were back in the bedroom playing the computer.

“All I did was a fart…one fart…that was it. A fart” was all that James could muster

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The Harvest Festival

7 Sep

I attended a Church of England primary school, and every year the school would put on a Harvest Festival. This involved the whole of the school (plus any parents who wanted to attend), piling into the local church where we would listen to the vicar drone on for an hour or so, sing hymns, and the big finale; every child had to give a ‘gift’ to the church, which was then donated to charity. Now, this gift couldn’t be any old thing; it had to be food, and in a bottle or can, as it was packed up and sent to a poor African country. A nice sentiment I’m sure you’ll agree.
I always forgot about the Harvest Festival until I was kust out of the door to go to school, and then I’d see other kids carrying their gift proudly with them. I’d run back inside and my mum would search the back of the cupboards and find anything that she could so that I would have something to donate. I remember taking a tin of peaches one year, a can of sardines the next, and to my shame, one year I donated a pot noodle.

 

The gift giving ceremony was always the last part of the Harvest Festival. Everyone would sing a hymn called ‘We Plough The Fields And Scatter’, whilst each year group would file out from their pews, walk up to the front of the church, and then leave their individual gift on one of three huge tables, before making their way back to where they were sat. There were strict instructions from teachers on how fast we were allowed to walk (not too quick and not too slow), and we had to have a ‘serious face’. As each child got up from their seat, the rest of the school would watch eagerly to see what they had brought in; eyeing up to see who the biggest cheapskate was or what the strangest item would be. Memorable items include one can of Tesco Value beer, cans of Spam, a bag of Opal Fruits (as they were called back in the good old days), a bag of walnuts and a can of Irn Bru.

As there were so many children, and a total of seven age groups, we would have to sing the same hymn at least three times through, bizarrely stopping as soon as the last child from year 7 (the oldest year group) had sat down. This meant that we could be halfway through a verse and then we’d just suddenly stop, much to my amusement. We would then say a final prayer, whilst most of the children would be looking at the piles of cans of tomatoes, hotdogs and prunes that had been amassed for the African children.

 

My fondest memory of Harvest Festival is from when I was in year 6, so I was about 11 years old. A boy in my class called Andrew bought in a can of Vimto to donate. I’m sure it’s what every African child would have wanted.
As the teacher took registration, we all had our donations out on our tables, and we immediately spotted Andrew’s Vimto. As Andrew was quite unpopular anyway, the teasing soon began over his choice of gift.

 

“It was all I had at home. I forgot it was the festival today”, was his response, and it was a response I could relate to. I was ok this year, I had a tin of tuna with me. I’d gone upmarket for a change.

 

The teasing about the can of Vimto continued as we made our way to the church. It’s funny how the smallest of things can amuse young minds. The festival began, and it was boring as usual, with each and every child waiting eagerly to get the donating his or her foodstuff out of the way, so we could actually go back to school. I sat with my mates pretending to sing the words to the hymn, watching as each year group got up and filed slowly to the front of the church, waiting for our turn. I then heard whispers behind from me. We looked round, and a few of the other boys in my class were sat on their pew, still taking the piss out of Andrew. I heard Rat-catcher Neil say, “God’s going to think you’re a dickhead for bringing that in”, and when Andrew told him to ‘Fuck Off’, Leigh jumped in with “Fucking Hell, Andrew. No need to get eggy about it”. They laughed, and Andrew was visibly rattled.

 

As the hymn started again for the third time, it was almost my year groups time to walk up to the donation tables. We got ready, and as the row of children in front of us took their seats, we stood up and started walking to the front. It was quite an uncomfortable experience, as it did feel like everyone was just staring at you, looking at your donation or seeing if you’d do something stupid. This year, their stares were rewarded in spectacular fashion.
As I, and the other 7 pupils that were on my pew, placed our gifts down on the tables at the front of the church, I heard a loud pattering of feet. I turned my head to look over my shoulder, just in time to see Andrew in the midst of falling over. It seemed to go in slow motion. His legs slid back from beneath him, his body started to fall forwards towards the hard church floor. As he reached out his hands to break his fall, the can of Vimto flew from his hand, and smashed against one of the tables, spraying purple liquid all over the table and into the air. It landed on the floor by Andrew, who was now horizontal, staining his white shirt.

 

We were in fucking hysterics, but still the hymn droned on, and we giggled all the way back to our seats, despite numerous glares from the teachers. I was struggling so hard to regain my composure and I still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to fall over. Andrew picked himself up and made his way back to his seat; head bowed as he walked. Most of the school were watching him, sniggering. As he sat down, Rat-catcher Neil looked him up and down.

 

“I told you God would think you’re a dickhead for bringing that”, he said, laughing to himself, and the rest of us all started pissing ourselves again.

Cool Runnings

7 Sep

It was 1994 and the Winter Olympics were in full swing in Lillehammer, Norway. Being only 10, I didn’t really have much interest in it and neither did the rest of my class; we were more concerned about playing Cops and Robbers, putting upturned drawing pins onto each other’s chairs and singing the wrong words to hymns in assembly. Playtimes were spent swapping Panini Football Stickers (with a shiny was worth AT LEAST 2 normal stickers), trying to push one another into the thorn bush and or sticking ‘itching powder berries’ down the back of someone’s shirt. Life was good; I had no worries in the world and not a great deal of homework to contend with at that age – as long as I went home with a new sticker for my Panini album, I was happy.

My teacher at the time was Mr.Marsh; feared by many, he was the only male teacher at my primary school. His booming voice would stop a misbehaving child in his or her track. Some were known to have spontaneously wet themselves after being shouted at. Now, Mr. Marsh was not an ordinary teacher. He would try and make learning fun; we listened to every word as he spoke, such was the enthusiasm of the man. We’d already completed a class project earlier in the year where we had various ‘airports’ dotted around the classroom, complete with toy planes. Daily timetables were drawn up and it was up to the ‘Air traffic Controller’ and ‘Pilot’ (specified daily) to move the correct planes, at the correct time, to the correct airport. It was not unusual to see children wandering about in the middle of a maths lesson, to move a toy plane to its next destination. This taught us geography and time management skills apparently. I didn’t care – it was fun.

Mr. Marsh also loved sport. Not only did he teach us in year 5, but he doubled as the PE teacher for the whole of the school. He was sport mad, so to him, the Winter Olympics were a big deal. I remember the beaming smile on his face as he broke the news to us about our next class project one morning.

“Class”, he started, his deep voice bouncing off the walls of the classroom, “for our next class project, we will be holding a bobsleigh tournament. You will work on your own and will compete against each other”

Our ears pricked up. Even the cool kids at the back of the class stopped whispering and passing notes.

“We will build a bobsleigh track in the classroom. Not a full size one for you to race down, but one that will fit a matchbox car. The only rule is, your matchbox car will have to look like a bobsleigh. You will have to use card and any other materials you want, to make the correct shape, decorate it in the colours of any nation you choose, and attach it to your car. We will then hold time trials to see who is the bobsleigh champion. We will build the course this week and time trials will be Monday and Tuesday of next week”. It was Mr. Marsh’s own little way of getting a class of 10 year olds interested in the Winter Olympics.

We couldn’t believe our luck – we were going to be coming to school to race our cars! Even the girls in the class didn’t seem fussed by this. I was over the moon; a keen collector of matchbox cars, I was sure I had the perfect car to beat all the opposition.
The course was built over the next few days. Mr. Marsh provided a plastic track from some sort of toy car race track (Hotwheels or something similar). This was attached to wall at the side of the classroom, running down at quite a steep angle so that the cars could pick up speed. It was about 7-8 metres long, then doubled back on itself sharply, and ran along some desks that were pushed together alongside the wall. The first part of our project was to decorate the wall with a winter Olympic theme, complete with spectators. I think Neil drew a yeti somewhere in the background. This was the boring part on the project. On the Friday, we all had to bring in the car that we wanted to use in the bobsleigh tournament. Mr.Marsh supplied those who hadn’t got one (mainly the girls) with a car from his collection. I carefully cut out two shapes that vaguely represented the side profile of bobsleigh, and blu-tacked them to the side of my car, which was a black Porche if I recall correctly. I had chosen this because the wheels seemed to go the best out of all of my collection. I gave my bobsleigh the number 12, and coloured it in black, green and yellow; the colours of Jamaica. We were even allowed to oil up the wheels of our cars – It was one of the best days of school ever. I actually wanted the weekend to go quickly, as Monday was the day for testing our cars on the track and making any modifications if required, ready for the time trials on Tuesday. Most of the class couldn’t wait either and a friendly rivalry had already sprung up amongst classmates.

Monday came, and one by one, we were allowed to take our car to the top of the track and release it, seeing how well it performed. Giving the car a push was not permitted. I waited with great anticipation for my turn; my surname begins with ‘W’ so I was one of the last as we were going in alphabetical order. I was sure that the other kids would be so jealous when they saw how fast my car went. Finally my time came and I stepped up, make-shift bobsleigh in hand. I let go and it whizzed down the track at some speed, much faster than most. When it came to the curved bend, the bobsleigh almost shot over the top. ‘Ah, skills’ I thought to myself, ‘I can win this’. My main competitor, from what I could tell, would be a girl named Sarah Bow, who’s bobsleigh had also nearly left the track, such was the speed of it. I hadn’t noticed anyone other bobsleigh do this. I went home Monday a happy child, brimming with confidence about the following days competition.

Tuesday came and it was the final day of our Winter Olympic project, the day that we’d all been waiting for – the race competition. Excited voices filled the classroom that morning, every child was confident that their bobsleigh would win. I kept quiet; I knew that it was a two horse race between myself and Sarah Bow. After class registration, we had an opening ceremony. Every competitor had to go to the front of the classroom, say an interesting fact about the country they were representing and place their bobsleigh on the desk before returning to their seats. Mr. Marsh waited until the 25 or so small bobsleighs were lined up, and declared that we would be starting the day with a history lesson; competition would commence after break. What a tease.

We came into class after break time and the competition started. All did not go according to plan. The first couple of bobsleighs seemed to ‘stick’ to the track and wouldn’t go down it. Closer examination revealed that there was a cheat amidst us; the wheels of the toy cars had been stuffed with blu-tac. Picking up my car I noticed the same thing had been done to mine and the wheels were slightly bent. I was quite distraught – my hopes of winning the competition had been dashed. Mr. Marsh hit the fucking roof!
“Who has decided to cheat and ruin this for everyone?”. The walls shook such was the ferocity in his voice. No-one owned up, no-one daren’t look up; every child in the class had their eyes fixated on their desk. Mr. Marsh was clearly disappointed that someone would do such a thing. He explained that he would ‘come down like a ton of bricks’ on the person responsible for cheating, should he find out who had done it. Fortunately, such was his love for this project, he let us have until lunch time to fix our bobsleighs and competition would restart in the afternoon.

Rumours circulated during lunch break about who the phantom tamperer could be. One name kept springing up; Sarah Bow. Rat-Catcher Simon told me that he had seen her go back into the class during break time and a couple of other kids confirmed this. For me, that was enough evidence. She was a competitive little cow – it was widely known that her mum had completed her Mozart project earlier in the year and she had taken all the plaudits, as well as the book token first prize. I was fuming. My bobsleigh had no chance of winning, the bent wheels meant that it was now one of the slowest. If I couldn’t win, I was going to make sure that Sarah Bow couldn’t either.

I scoffed my lunch down faster than usual and left the canteen. I made my way towards our classroom, pausing only briefly for a quick sip from the water fountain – my throat was dry; I was going to do something devious, but I didn’t know what. The classroom door was open slightly, and peeking through I saw that the room was empty. Outside, I could see other members of my class playing ‘Tag around the bush’ and Mr. Marsh watching over the playground, wearing really tiny PE shorts. I entered the room and pushed the door shut behind me. On the desk in front of me were all the bobsleighs. My eyes scanned the desk quickly, looking for Sarah Bow’s, all the while I was listening intently for any sounds of someone coming. If I got caught it would ruin me, my reputation would be in tatters as I would surely have been prime suspect as the phantom tamperer.

I saw Sarah Bow’s bobsleigh, (a red and white one, I think it was Canada) and I grabbed it in my hand. I examined it –not a trace of any damage to the wheels; she must have tampered with everyone else’s, I was sure of it. What I did next still confuses me to this day. Not really knowing what to do with the bobsleigh, I dropped my trousers and inserted it into my anus. Now, this was the first time I’d ever put anything up there (not that I’ve put anything else up there since), and I was surprised by how quickly it slipped up once I’d got the nose of the car in. ‘Wow, it’s like it’s actually driving up me’ I remember thinking. At the time I was worried that our pockets or bags would be searched once Sarah discovered her bobsleigh was missing, so my arsehole was the only place where I could safely hide it. Once composed, I went into the playground and joined my friends, my bum pulsating slightly.

An upbeat vibe filled the classroom upon our return after lunch. Even Mr. Marsh seemed to have calmed down and was eager to start the competition. I stayed calm, I was perspiring slightly but I kept my cheeks clenched tightly, my stolen prize stayed put. I knew that Sarah Bow would go mental when she discovered her bobsleigh was missing.

To cut a long story short, she broke down in tears when it came to her go and she couldn’t compete. I think Mr. Marsh may have had his suspicions about her already, he just shrugged and said, “You must have misplaced it”. My heart swelled with pride and my buttocks ached with pain – I had stopped Sarah Bow winning and it was just what she deserved. I think Andrew ‘Carrot Nose’ Littlejohn won the competition in the end. I came in the bottom 3, but I wasn’t fussed. The highlight of the whole project for me was seeing Sarah Bow’s devious little plan all come unhinged. I waddled home that afternoon content with the world and had the most refreshing poo of my life to date. The Canadian bobsleigh slid slowly out of me and I picked it from the toilet bowl with some tissue paper and buried it in the garden.

An Epic Battle

4 Sep

When people mention great battles that have been fought through the history of time, there are a few that immediately spring to mind; David and Goliath, Gettysburg, Waterloo and Stalingrad to name but a few. However, there is one battle that leaps straight to the forefront of my mind; a battle that lasted almost an hour and a half and that left one man a worn, tearful but eventual hero. A battle that defines courage and guts; that shows what one man can do if he is determined enough. The battle I’m talking about is my mate Ashley versus his bowels, when he fought for 90 minutes to avoid shitting his own pants.

It was a Saturday afternoon and my brother, cousin, Ashley and I were playing football on the green outside the front of my house. I think I must have been about 14 at the time. We had two goals set up and were playing 2 on 2, using a very small football. Every now and again, I’d run across to the front window and peer through at the TV so I could check the latest football scores, which would disrupt the flow of the game. We also had to stop whenever a car went passed as we had a tendency to be a bit wayward with our shots. However, these small pauses in the afternoon’s fun were nothing compared to the waiting around we had to do when Ashley’s battle began.

As I ran towards goal with the ball, I saw Ashley approaching me, defending his goal. As I neared him, I thought about an early shot, but decided that I’d try and take it passed him before slotting the ball into the goal. I was a couple of yards from him, when without warning, and quite hastily, Ashley dropped to the floor and lay face down on the grass. He was stretched out, but he crossed his ankles and I could see that he was clenching hard. Despite witnessing him fall down, I scored my goal and celebrated before we all gathered round him and peered down.

“What are you doing?”asked my brother. “You could have saved that”.

‘Bllllllaaaaaapp-a-flap-flap-flap-a-bbblaaap-flap-flap’

Ashley responded with one of the wettest farts I have ever heard. His hands quickly went from being flat out on the grass above his head, to cupping his bum cheeks. We all burst into laughter, apart from Ashley.

“Oh God, I really need a shit”
“Go to the toilet then”, I said.
“I won’t make it”, Ashley whimpered, his face still sunk into the grass.

‘Blllllaaaarrmmm-bup-bup-bup-blaaaapp-flap-a-flap’

Once again, Ashley let out a wet, meaty fart.

“That must have been more than just air that came out”, I joked, but Ashley didn’t laugh, he stayed where he was and let out a silent groan.

For the next ten minutes we just stood over Ashley, trying to make him go to the toilet, but he remained on the grass. Eventually, he made an effort to move, and slowly but surely, he got into a crouched position. As we egged him on, it looked like he’d finally got the beating of his bowels, but then he let rip with an almighty air biscuit that threatened the safety of all of our nostrils. He collapsed to the grass again and rolled back onto his stomach at a rather impressive rate.

“What the fuck are you doing?” we asked.
“It won’t come out if I’m like this. If I move I’m going to shit myself”. By now Ashley was beginning to panic. My cousin probably didn’t help his composure at all;
“Well it looks like you’ve got two options. Shit yourself now, or stay here all night and shit yourself in your sleep”.

Again, we all chuckled. How nice it was watching someone struggle to hold in an ever-nearing poo, I was so glad it wasn’t me.

As the battle went on, Ashley got braver. He nearly made it to a standing position quite a few times, but on each occasion, he’d fart loudly before collapsing to the floor again as if he’d been shot by a sniper. The game of football had been ended, and we were all sat down, chatting idly, occasionally stopping to go silent and watch Ashley’s efforts to make it the very short distance to my house, and then laughing as he guffed and fell down again. After about an hour, his face was purple, and he had made an imprint in the ground from where he’d been laying for so long. Still he fought the urge to soil himself. Bored, we started chanting, trying to help spur him on,

‘ASHLEY, ASHLEY, ASHLEY’ we sang in unison, but it was no use, he was still unable to make many movements.
Just when we were thinking of going in to get something to eat and leaving Ashley where he was, he spoke. His face turned to look at us,

“Get me a large stick”
“A stick?”
“Yes, and hurry”

For some reason, none of us asked questions despite being intrigued, and we went to a nearby tree to find a stick. Peering back at Ashley, I saw that he was still in the same position. I wonder what people looking from their houses must have thought he was up to. My thoughts were interrupted,

“Found one!” said my cousin.

We went back to Ashley and handed him the stick. It was about a metre long and five centimeters in diameter. Ashley rolled over onto his back and looked up at us.

“This is it; I’m going to make it now” he said, as if giving himself motivation. Still, none of us knew what he was up to but we watched excitedly, secretly hoping that he’d follow through eventually.
Ashley began to stand up again, and as before, farts flew out of him like he was a deflating whoopee cushion. Rather than collapse to the floor as before though, Ashley poked the stick through his shorts, into his sphincter and waited until he could move again. He was soon in a standing position, with the stick still held firmly in place and we were all in hysterics at what we were witnessing.

We watched as a determined Ashley waddled ever so slowly across the road and through my front door, punctuating his walk with farts that reverberated off of the stick. He was calm though, and taking his time, using the stick as a safety barrier. He had to stop every couple of paces and regain composure, but after an almighty struggle, he had made it into the house and to the toilet.
We cheered as the front door closed behind him, our eyes filled with tears of laughter. What we saw that day will never leave me; it was a true display of courage and determination. It was the talk of our group of friends for the next couple of weeks, and the stick was kept as a sort of souvenir – it rest on the green as a reminder of the event.

An Overheard Secret

30 Aug

There was a boy who joined my school at the start of the term as we moved into Lower Sixth Form. As he had not been at our secondary school from years 8-11, along with the fact he was socially awkward (plus shy, a geek, wore glasses, had big teeth, loved Freddy Mercury and drama), meant he was an easy target for the bullies/’cool’ kids. For the first couple of weeks of term, he’d be at the receiving end of most of their ‘practical jokes’; and the other new members of class would join in, as if to distract from the fact that they were new as well.

Nathan was his name, but he was soon known by all as ‘Twaz’ (bizarrely because he once said ‘‘twas’ instead of ‘it was’) and then this was lengthened to ‘Twazim Akram’ once it was discovered that he liked cricket quite a bit.

It just so happened that Twaz was on my school bus, and we soon developed a bit of a friendship. I’d chat to him in the mornings on the way to school, and stop and talk to him if we crossed paths walking to lessons. On numerous occasions I’d go and chat to him during break and lunch times if I saw him standing alone, as he’d only made two friends at the school, who were of similar ilk to Twaz. It wasn’t out of pity either, I found him charming and interesting, and as Twaz’s confidence grew, it became a great spectacle for me watching him give witty ripostes to the lads that tried to mock him.

I’d just like to point out that I was by no means one of the ‘cool’ kids at school , and was in no way taking Twaz ‘under my wing’ so to speak; but I was fortunate enough to be able to flit between the different social groups that develop at school. It meant that I didn’t get the piss ripped out of me for stopping and chatting to Twaz, and the negative attention he received when he first joined the school soon died down.

Three months into term, Twaz came up to me during lunch break.

“It’s my birthday on Friday night and I wondered if you’d like to come round to mine? I’ve asked Dan and Dominic (his other two mates) as well. They’ll be a bit of food and some drink. My parents are away as well. You don’t have to if you don’t want to”

“Sure, why not?!” I replied. I had no other plans, and I liked the bloke, it was fine by me.

“Thanks”, replied Twaz, “I’ll let you know the details later on. Can you not let them lot know please? They’ll only take the piss out of me.”

 I knew who he meant by ‘them lot’. “Course not”, I replied, and with that Twaz walked off.

That afternoon in Business Studies, Twaz came over to my desk. In hushed tones, he told me to get to his for about 7.30pm, and he told me his address. As he lived in the same town as me, I knew where he lived straight away. Then he told me that he was making 3 different curries for us to eat. Result! I fucking love curry!

“I’ll be there, mate”.

“BE WHERE? PARTY IS IT?”. Fuck. One of the twats in the class had heard most of the conversation and began to broadcast it to the rest of the room. He knew the time, the address; every detail, the nosey fucking bastard.

“I didn’t want you lot to know”, protested Twaz, downbeat. “It was meant to be a secret”.

“Awww, bless”. The teasing commenced.

The next two days were rife with rumours that loads of the sixth form were going to turn up to the ‘house party’. Friday came and I let Twaz know that I would still be coming to his, along with Dan and Dominic. All day, people kept winding Twaz up, saying things like ‘See you at half seven’ and ‘can’t wait for your party’. That evening I turned up at his, at he invited me in. Well fuck me; the food looked, and indeed tasted amazing, and there was a lot of beer and wine on offer – he’d pulled out all the stops. Conversation was pretty awkward as I didn’t know the other two that well, but I was glad I had turned up. I’d been there about 45 minutes, when the doorbell went. Twaz went to answer it, and I peered from the living room towards the front door.

FUCK.ME.

There, at the front door, stood about 40 people from the school. The tranquil, social gathering of 4 went to loud , chaotic house party and carnage ensued within minutes. The music was turned up, his parents alcohol cupboard was instantly raided, and despite Twaz and I trying to control the situation, there were far too many already drunk teenagers for us to be able to much to calm their behaviour. In the next hour or so, curry was chucked over the walls and carpets, someone pissed in the microwave, numerous people were wandering around in his mum’s clothes, the back window got cracked, cigarettes got put out on the carpet, a trifle got launched down the stairs – you get the idea; as much damage as possible, teenagers being utter arseholes. Twaz was in tears, and I felt sorry for him, and also guilty because it was our conversation that had been overheard. The destruction only stopped when the neighbour called the police to complain about the noise. I stayed behind to help clear up, but we were fighting a losing battle, and Twaz knew he’d have to tell his parents what had happened when they arrived home the next Sunday. I wished him well and left, wondering to myself how people can be such fucking idiots. I felt sad that not only Twaz’s house been ruined, but his birthday too.

I’ll sum up what happened in the aftermath of this:

–   Twaz got a bollocking off his parents, and got grounded for a month.

–   He invited me, Dominic and Dan around again 3 weeks later when his parents were away again, and whilst he was still grounded. I accepted. When I got to his house, he’d pulled all the carpets up, put Clingfilm over every single wall and locked anything of any value in the garden shed, just ‘in case someone found out about it again’, as he put it.

–   The house party went on to be the making of Twaz. People thought he was a legend and no longet took the piss out of him. A couple of months after the event, he won the school ‘Stars in Their Eyes’ style talent show, with a rousing rendition of Radio Gaga.

Teenagers can be a fickle bunch.

My First Rude Discovery

17 Aug

I’d seen a view rude things growing up. From the lingerie section of the Kays catalogue, where, if I was lucky, they’d feature a few see-through bras and I’d get a hint of aereola; to the fantastic feeling of playing Hide and Seek in the woods with my mates and finding a few ripped out (but crumpled and weather damaged) pages of Fiesta left behind a bush. I, like most of you, had also caught glimpses of Eurotrash, although I could never pick up channel 4 properly in my room with the portable TV aerial so the picture was often blurred. Lola Ferrari looked more like a pixelated Donkey Kong on my TV.

It wasn’t until my first trip abroad that I really got to see something rude; something that really opened my young eyes to new delights that the world had so far hidden from me. Majorca was the destination, and to this day, the excitement of boarding and travelling in a plane, swimming in foreign seas and trying paella for the first time, is still overshadowed by my rude discovery.

It was our first full day at the resort, and my Mum sent my brother and I off to the local shop to get an ice lolly for her and my sister. At 13, I was the eldest and I was handed the cash. My brother, 11, followed me to the store, with further instructions from my Dad to get him ‘a Feast, because ice lollies are girly and just frozen water with food colouring in’. Off we marched and I still remember feeling a little nervous about whether or not the lady behind the counter would start rambling on at me in Spanish. We picked up the items we were asked to get, along with something each for ourselves (for some reason I bought a Lipton Iced Tea), and made our way up to pay. It was then that it happened.

On a stand near the counter, were various holiday trinkets; key rings, postcards, pens and other crap with ‘Majorca’ emblazoned across it. However, there was one set of items that caught my eye in particular – pornographic playing cards. My eyes lit up; here right in front of me, were images of ladies in various states of undress, and most of them had their bronze European tits out. “Look!”, I whispered to my brother, nudging him with my elbow, nodding my head towards the playing cards. He looked up and I noticed his eyes widen too.

“Shall I get a pack?” I asked him, unsure of whether he would think I was being naughty and would tell Mum.

“Erm, yes, do it”, he replied giggling.

So I did.

Although, I do have a slight confession to make. I didn’t actually pay for the cards, and it wasn’t intentional. After handing over the other items I was going to pay for, I just froze; I was a 13 year old boy with a pack of porn playing cards in my hand. As I glanced down, I noticed that I’d picked up the ‘Anal Sex’ edition. I’m not sure I even knew what anal sex was, but I could tell from the image on the front of the pack that it was quite naughty, although the woman seemed to be smiling and enjoying herself. Before I knew what I was going to do, the woman behind the counter handed me my shopping in a carrier bag, and we turned and walked out, with the cards firmly clasped in my hand.

Keeping them in my short pockets for the rest of the afternoon was a scary thought, but I had to do it. I didn’t want my parents to know I had them, and certainly didn’t want them to know I’d stolen them. The hours slowly ticked by and eventually we headed back to the hotel to get changed for dinner. It was here that I managed to unload them into my rucksack, and it was there they stayed until 10 days later, when we arrived back home. I can’t tell you how nervous I was walking through passport control on the way back, thinking I’d be arrested for having these cards on me.

I couldn’t wait to show my friends my newly acquired playing cards, and the very next day we were in the park, flicking through them, laughing at some of the images and almost vomiting at others. For the next two or three days, I was The Porn King; the 13 year old who had everything; Chewits on tap, free cola bottles and white chocolate mice when I demanded, and best swing in the park. My playing cards had given me power amongst my peers. They had also taught me something new – what the term ‘anal sex’ actually meant.
Time passed, and the novelty of the cards wore off. Other boys found their mum’s dildos, or dad’s video collection, and my playing cards could not compete with these. However, I kept them, there was no way I was going to get rid of them; what if my mum saw them in the bin?!

“But what happened to the cards?!” I hear you cry. (well, not really, but it leads me onto the next point).

I still have them.

14 years on, after 2 house moves with my parents, to me moving out on my own into rented accommodation, back in with my parents and then finally last year to my own place; these cards have come with me. It wasn’t until I thought about them again randomly this week that I remembered I still had them, so I checked, and yes, there they were, in the old box file under my bed along with my Granddad’s war medals and old school reports.

I took the liberty of taking a few photos of the images that still take me back to Majorca, the ones that really left a lasting impression:

Obviously, these links are NSFW!! They feature tits, arse, cum dripping cock, minge and ugly foreign people.

Photo 1 – The image on the box. Look how happy she looks – imgur.com/lN53p

Photo 2 – The psychedelic hat man. I always wondered why he kept his hat on, and why the fuck his bought it in the first place – imgur.com/byxvL

Photo 3 – Banana Split. This was the one that my mates and I used to piss ourselves at. – i.imgur.com/wG5We.jpg

Photo 4 – Horny. To be honest, this was the one that made my mates and I feel a bit queasy. – imgur.com/8X84O

Photo 5 – The Work Out. I used to wonder why she had this attire on. – i.imgur.com/RKvvh.jpg

I have actually played proper card games with these cards in the past and I think I’ll keep them for a while longer yet

The Haircut

2 Aug

When I was 14, I decided it would be a good idea if I shaved my head. I’d asked my mum if I could have a ‘grade 1 all over’ but she’d refused on the account that she thought I’d look like a thug. I tried to argue that it would save me time in the mornings, plus keep me cool (it was the Summer), but still she wouldn’t let me, so I did what any young boy would do; I did it anyway.

 I waited for her to go shopping one Saturday afternoon, retrieved the clippers from the bathroom, and got to work. As my hair cascaded down off my shoulders and onto the floor, I started wondering about how much trouble I’d get into. I realised that I’d made a mistake but I’d gone so far that I had to finish off the job regardless. After shaving off the remainder of my hair, I stood back and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like a thug at all – more like The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas with an illness. Panic set in, so I ran out of the house and to the park to play footy with my friends.

 They all loved my new look. I was greeted with shouts of ‘SKIN HEAD’ and they all wanted to stroke my fuzzy scalp. It made me feel better about what I’d done and I soon forgot all about the trouble I’d get into when I got home.  A couple of hours passed, and everyone had to go home for dinner. Reluctantly I made my way home. My mum was still out; result!

 “What the fuck have you done?” were my brothers exact words as I walked into the kitchen.

 “What does it look like?”

 He started laughing at me.

 “Mum’s going to kill you. Hahahaha. This is going to be brilliant. I knew you’d done it because I saw all the hair in the bin. You utter wanker!”

 By now I was bricking it.

 “What shall I do? Can we try and sort of stick it back on do you think?”

 My brother laughed.

 “It’s all in the bin mate. You’re dead!”

 I was in big trouble. I even thought about shaving both of the cats and using their fur on my head. I had to do something. Anything. As thoughts raced through my brain, I heard a car pull up on the drive. My brother looked out and confirmed my fears that mum was home. I grabbed a black sweatshirt, and tied in around the top of my head; I copied the way I’d seen ladies wrap towels around their wet hair.

 My mum came into the kitchen and started putting the food she’d just bought away, whilst asking what we’d been up to. Eventually she looked at me and asked why I had a jumper on my head.

 “Errmmm, well we were playing football and I wanted to be Ruud Gullit, so I just played like this because it’s like I have dreads”

 “You pillock, you look more like that woman from M-People”

 I’d gotten away with it, for now at least. For the whole evening and the following day, I managed to go about my business with my shaved head without my mum noticing, by just wearing a jumper on my head when I came out of my bedroom. However, Monday morning came and the inevitable happened. As I went to leave for school with yet another jumper tied around my head, my mum called me back.

 “You can’t wear that to school. Take it off”

 “I’ll take it off when I get there”

 “No you won’t, give it here”, and with that she pulled it off my head.

 Before she could start shouting at me I spluttered,

 “It…it..just fell out”

 “FELL OUT? WHEN!”

 “Over the weekend”

“WELL WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?! JUST FELL OUT? Right come on, I’ll book an appointment with the doctor; you might have a serious illness”.

 With that she went to the phone, dialed the number and began to book an appointment.

It took me until we pulled up outside the doctor’s surgery to admit what I had done. I had thought about trying to blag it, but I didn’t have the balls for that. I received a huge lecture about lying and disobeying my mum. I felt terrible.

A few years later I found out that she knew all along what I had done because, like my brother, she’d seen all the hair in the bin. She just wanted to see if I’d own up and how long I’d keep on wearing jumpers on my head.

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