Tag Archives: amusing

Gladiators

1 Jan

As I youngster, my usual Saturday afternoon would consist of hanging out with mates, playing football, Hide and Seek in the woods and pegging it away from houses that we’d chosen to ‘Knock and Run’ on. Then it was home for dinner; a takeaway if I was lucky, which I would eat sat in front of the TV watching my favourite program at the time; Gladiators.

Gladiators was pretty fucking immense. John Fashanu (Awooga!) and Ulrika Jonsson brought a gentle nature to proceedings; needed when surrounded by numerous Gladiators with their unforgiving attitudes. John’s wacky outfits and banter was ripe picking for Ulrika, who would often bounce a witty response back with great aplomb to Fashanu’s attempt at humour. Oh how we would chuckle to ourselves in my front room; my Dad would always remark on Ulrika, “Cracking bird isn’t she, that Ulrika? She should still do the weather in the mornings”. I would giggle and my Mum would throw a cushion at him.

Ulrika wasn't used to working with such a big tool. Or the Duel combat stick.

The contestants for the night’s show would then be revealed, including a short video clip of what they got up to in their normal everyday lives. I would take my empty plate out into the kitchen at this point; it was boring, I didn’t care what they did for a living. All I cared about were the Gladiators, they were my heroes, and in some cases, my wet dreams too. In no particular order, here is a list of my favourite Gladiators:

 Lampshade – She was the star lady for me. Her bronzed skin was lit up beautifully by the down-lighting off the bulb attached to the top of her head, covered by  the lampshade she wore to cover her face. Nobody quite knew what the lampshade was for. Many of my friends had suggested maybe she was missing an eye, or had been badly disfigured by a dagger whilst in training to become a Gladiator. Her signature move was called ‘Lights Out’ and this would be used in the event called Hang Tough. She would basically kick the contestant hard in the back of the head as they hung from the rings, knocking them out, and at the same time to the floor, making her victorious.

 Nightstalker– Not as muscular as many of the other male Gladiators, Nightstalker more than made up with this with his athletic body and devilish attitude. Nightstalker’s favourite event was The Gauntlet, and it was this event that gave him his moniker. Originally known as Gladiator X during training, Nightstalker shocked the producers of the show during The Gauntlet rehearsals by first choking his contestants with a silk neckerchief, before brutally raping them to submission. He famously received marriage proposals from the audience nearly every week, and also caused controversy when he made a small child eat the giant foam hand he was pointing at Nightstalker because he had called him an ‘angry idiot’.

 Aeroplane – This was the woman that all my mates fancied. With her brunette hair, soft pretty face, long slim legs and peachy arse, Aeroplane was definitely the Gladiator pin-up. The only hindrance to her ability to perform as a Gladiator, was her massive 38EE breasts, which she struggled to contain in her lycra top. Her nipples were also erect most of the time, not that we cared. Aeroplane was great at the cargo net, and her celebration dance would be to raise one leg above her head and strum it with her hand, as if it was a banjo. Perhaps, to her eternal embarrassment, the one stand out memory that most Aeroplane fans will have of her is the time she did a small fanny fart whilst being interviewed by Fashanu. Through tears of laughter, he managed to shout ‘Awooga!’ before wafting the air in front of his nose.

 Hunter – Hunter was always a formidable opponent for many of the contestants on Gladiators. With muscles on muscles, he resembled a condom filled with cocktail sausages, and with tribal war paint smeared all over his face, along with his menacing spear which he would use to stop people in their tracks, it was always a hell of a show when Hunter was on. One time, he threw his spear so hard, that it ripped through the shoulder of one male contender, and then carried on, wedging itself into The Awesome Travelator, rendering it useless for the Eliminator round. Instead, the two finalists had to have a head to head on a spacehopper. Hunter went on to play Dog the Bounty Hunter years later, where he would travel the globe in search of Bounties, as well as macaroons, body butter, and other coconut based products.

 Amazon – The only Gladiator that was a household name prior to the series starting, Amazon was played by Sharon Davies, the successful Olympic swimmer. Her career as a Gladiator though was far from impressive, as the distinct lack of water based challenges meant she was about as useful as a ginger in a heatwave. In fact, such was the ease at which contenders would beat her, she soon became water boy for all of the other Gladiators. Once the first series was over, she went on to play Gabby Logan, when she was ill and couldn’t make a TV appearance.

 Hippo – Only slightly smaller than Hunter, Hippo used a much different tactic during the rounds he competed. With his ebony skin, threatening sneer and bulging eyes it was a massive surprise to many to see that he was far from aggressive when it came to defeating his opponent. Rather than use brute force like all of the other Gladiators, Hippo would use charm and a softly spoken manner to talk contenders into a false sense of security, almost hypnotising them into a comatose state. It was a tactic since used by many, including Alison Hammond on This Morning. Hippo’s one standout moment came in series 2, when he drank four Panda Pops in a row before Duel, and still won.

 Cumquat – Probably the most agile and flexible of all the Gladiators, Cumquat was also very attractive. One of my mates at the time had her posters plastered all over his bedroom. Her signature move was the Cumquat Squat, used to great effect on Powerball, where she would rugby tackle her opponents, pin them down, squat over their stomach and feign defecation (although the Gladiators make-up department was so far ahead of its time in the nineties that it looked realistic). The sheer fright of being shit on would cause many contenders to drop out of the competition altogether. Cumquat also excelled at Swingshot (my favourite round) due to her snake-like hips and ability to almost float through the air.

 Golf – Golf was definitely the Gladiators’ pantomime villain. The audience would boo and hiss whenever he was on, but he was a really good Gladiator, particularly at The Wall. This was down to the fact he would use a driver, or sometimes a putter, to hook the legs of the contestants as they scarpered up the wall. In other rounds, he would take on the stature of a giant, by standing on the shoulders of his caddy. This was beneficial in rounds like Hang Tough where he could be hold onto the rings whilst his caddy stood on the floor. In fact, Golf was unbeaten on Hang Tough during his 6 year Gladiator stint. John Fashanu would always tease Golf, but it was all in jest and very good natured. Golf was such a popular Gladiator that whilst all of the others had ‘Another One Bites The Dust’ played after a victorious round of Hang Tough, Golf had his own version; ‘Another One Lands in the Sand.

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The Alternative Do’s and Don’ts of the Office Christmas Party

5 Dec

The Christmas party; the one time where the company can give something back to you for all the hours you’ve put in during the year – the hours spent perusing the internet all day, annoying work colleagues and making tea, as well as getting paid to use the toilet.

However, there are a few golden rules that should be adhered to, to ensure the Christmas party doesn’t turn into a nightmare scenario for you; whether it be on the night itself, or in the week afterwards. With alcohol flowing freely, usually paid for by the company, it is easy to get carried away and end up calling your boss a twat, or French kissing the slapper from sales in front of everyone else, whilst you try forlornly to slip her a finger on the dance floor. But isn’t this what everyone wants to see? Course it is!

Here are my do’s and don’ts for the office Christmas party. Honestly, follow these rules and you’ll go down in office history.

DO – Act like you’re not really fussed about the fact there is a Christmas party. You’re in for trouble if it’s the only thing you talk about leading up to the party. If you get completely hammered and go on to insult a fellow employee, everyone will say, “I knew it would happen. He was so looking forward to it.” You won’t have a leg to stand on. Instead, adopt the ‘couldn’t care less’ approach. If someone asks if you’re going, say. “Umm, not too sure at the minute. I might do.” Not only will you not look as desperate as your co-workers to spend a night with them, but girls love a bit of mystery. You’ll be like the Fonz.

DO – Dress flamboyantly. Your aim for the Christmas party should be to drink as much as possible and draw as much attention to yourself as you possibly can. Ask the other people in your office what they are planning to wear and go against the tide. If all the blokes are wearing suits, opt for the Hawaiian shirt your mum bought you three Christmases ago. You’ll immediately stand out and thus will be remembered as ‘the hero who wore that Hawaiian shirt’. Similarly, girls, opt for something that you usually ware to the Litten Tree on a Saturday night, that still has vomit stains on it from last weekend’s shenanigans. Wearing a ball gown comes across as a bit ‘fuddy-duddy’ and will restrict any movements when you try and pole dance towards the end of the night  If possible, have both your boobs and legs on display. Nothing screams ‘PROMOTE ME!’ like this.

DO – Take advantage of the free drink. This is your chance to shine, and alcohol gives you courage, so you want to make the most of the night. Think of the following Monday when everyone else will be waiting eagerly at their desks for you to stroll in so that they can tell you what a ‘legend’ you are. Try and get everyone else up and dancing on the table. Be the life and soul of the party. Why not bring in your own karaoke machine from home in an effort to get everyone up and having a good time? Also, nothing says ‘Office Joker’ like being sick down your own shirt.

DON’T – Photocopy your arse. That is so 1990’s. Scrotums/tits are the way forward.

DO – Try and sneak a few drugs into the party. We all know the people in accounts are boring, so why not try slipping them a pill in a bid to heighten their enjoyment of the evening, as well as your enjoyment of them as a human being? Is there a buffet? There is?! Excellent; lace it with ketamine. Everyone will thank you for the wonderful time they had.

DON’T – Bother to say thank you to your boss or whoever organised the party. Act like it’s nothing special, and feel free to tell them so. If you tell them it’s a great night, they’ll immediately question the other nights you’ve had out in the year and will think, ‘If this is a good night, he must a very dull and boring person’. If possible, suggest venues that would have been a better option, maybe even drop in, “If i’m still here next year, perhaps we could do that?”. Your boss will think you’re ready to move on, and may offer you an improved salary.

DO – Bitch and spread rumours about fellow colleagues. This can be started a week in advance so you can enjoy the fireworks on the actual night, once alcohol starts to take its toll. Invent affairs that people are having, or say that Jim in Marketing keeps children in his shed. People may question the accuracy of these statements, but once fuelled with drink, they’ll actually ask the people in question if it’s true. You can sit back smugly and watch the confused looks, tears and tantrums.

DON’T – Keep your clothes on. You want to try and get naked by the end of the night. A good method is to go to the toilets and strip naked there. Then, you can emerge naked and streak across the dance floor, whilst all your fellow employees are sat dancing to ‘Oops Upside Your Head’. Run down the line, legs akimbo, either side of the people sat on the floor. Be sure to leapfrog the tall woman from HR so that you don’t catch your privates on her head. A move like this is instantly memorable.

DO – Talk about yourself as much as possible and try not to let other colleagues get a word in. Remember, you could all be competing for the same promotion, so you need to try and big yourself up as much as possible. Tell everyone about your hobbies, and by all means exaggerate. If you usually like ‘listening to music and socialising with friends’, tell everyone that you’re into ‘kayaking, saving rare breeds of bird, moonwalking, tantric sex and ice sculpture’. Possibly even drop into conversation about the novel you’ve penned but ‘can’t be bothered to send to a publisher, because it’s just a hobby really’. If someone tries to interject and chip in with their own hobbies, loudly say, “I HEARD YOU LIKED TO PLEASURE YOURSELF WITH FRUIT”.

DON’T – Be the office bore. Try and say at least one shocking statement that will spark a bit of debate around the dinner table before the dancing takes place. Something along the lines of, “Was Hitler really that bad?”

DO – Be the last to leave. By the end of the night, you’ll be in just your pants, all going well. You want to be doing Tequila Slammers at the bar with Fat John from I.T whilst he cries about the fact the girl in sales doesn’t love him. Watch everyone else leave and shout ‘BORING!” as they slope off into the night. Being the last one to leave means that you’ll be able to invent something amazing that happened that everyone else missed, like the DJ invited you back to his house and there were 4 supermodels, all gushers, that took it in turns to pleasure you.

Follow these steps, and you’ll be first on that promotion list. Good luck!

A Guide to Princes Risborough Part V – Graffiti

30 Nov

Gang culture is making a comeback in the quaint town of Princes Risborough, and the increase of hoodlums in the area has also brought with it the graffiti tags normally associated with large cities such as London and Nottingham.

The graffiti on display opens up an interesting insight into the minds of the younger generations in the town, who choose to express themselves by daubing graffiti wherever they can. The town is a blank canvas, ripe for decorating, and I have noticed a few pieces of fantastic artwork cropping up. Here are some of the finest examples on display.

The first example I have is a bold statement in itself. ‘Dick’ is the chosen tag, sprayed eloquently onto a rubbish bin. I think the artist is trying to say that he has a rubbish cock. Either that, or it was the first word that popped into his head. Notice how the bin leans to one side, almost poetically, as if it, like the artist, has all but given up hope on the town ever progressing.

DICK!

Eloquently put, this tag is pure genius. Well, almost.

Next up, this fine example which was probably done by someone from the Chinese community in the town. Translated, ‘Herro Darling’ actually means ‘Hello Darling’. The artist in question was probably off their head on ecstasy and feeling the love massively when they wrote this. The fact that this has been done over two fence panels so to cause maximum damage, is admirable.

Hello Darling!

The graffiti is high on the fence, indicating a person with long arms did it.

 

Shock, Horror! A spelling mistake next. The artist has put ‘Like’ instead of ‘Lick’, but it can be forgiven because of the use of such a bold coloured paint against the dark fence. The other patterns and swirls are incomprehensible, but it doesn’t detract from this marvellous piece.

Peck, peck, peck

Who doesn't like battery hens? They are much more reliable than wind-up ones.

My final example is probably my favourite. Such a simple phrase, but the artist is expressing himself and really getting his point across, quickly and efficiently. You know where you stand with this artist, there is no messing about.

I just love the cock

Possibly written by a female. Or a male.

 I will be taking my camera out to capture more masterpieces in the coming weeks. I’m not sure how visitors to the town will react to the above items, but surely they won’t see it as a bad thing?

The Life of a Bag For Life

11 Oct

In theory, if the government issued 10 Bags For Life to every household in Britain, there would no longer be a need to produce any more. The Bag for Life could get passed down through generations in each family, like a treasured heirloom, and fines could be imposed for any bags that get lost.  However, it is not that easy, because as everyone knows, a Bag for Life is never valued as it should be. On average, the life span of a Bag for Life is three weeks, with the oldest bag on record living to an extraordinary 4 months. This is a look at the brief life of a bag for life:

Birth – A Bag for Life is born; sprouting from a machine that has no feelings towards the bag, and is not willing to bond with it in the slightest. The bag, manufactured from fabric such as canvas, woven synthetic fibers, or a thick plastic that is more durable than disposable plastic bags, has no parents as such, so born an orphan, it sets out on its life journey. Little does it know it yet, but the Bag for Life will have a very short life span.

School Years – The Bag for Life meets other bags as they are sandwiched into tight boxes. It is here that they get to know one another. The bright slogans and positive messages printed on each bag lull them all into a false sense of security, as they all wonder what is in store for them. ‘Maybe we’ll be famous? Maybe we’ll live in a lovely household?’ they all think. Never has one bag guessed its true purpose in life at this stage; slavery. The bags will shortly be sold to the public and then be forced to carry extremely heavy objects around.

Adolescence – After a week in transit and storage, the Bags for Life are released from their cage and put onto display like some sort of freak show. Hanging from metal poles, they are paraded in front of the public. Plastic bags point and laugh at them; “What the Hell are you supposed to be?”, they sneer, and they have a point. A plastic bag never gets forgotten. It becomes part of its occupant’s family, dwelling in drawers and cupboards, often with numerous plastic bag friends. It has a happy life. Yes, some may be used as a makeshift poop-a-scoop, but they have been bred for this purpose and so are undeterred by this. The bullying toughens up the Bags for Life, and they get a bit of a backbone, standing up for themselves and making an effort to find a home. “USE ME FOREVER!” they shout at shoppers, “I’LL BE YOUR BEST FRIEND”. It is a mistake that every Bag For Life makes. It is during adolescence that some Bags for Life even turn Emo, trying to not blend in with the bag crowd. ‘I’m not another plastic bag’ they tell people, in a desperate attempt to be different.

Graduating –  The Bag for Life is snapped up by a member of the public. It has a new home, and it is time to start work.

Working Years – As soon has a Bag for Life has graduated, its world gets turned upside down. Fooled into thinking that they would be starting a new, happy life, they are forced into work almost instantly. Their new owners burden them with shopping, almost to the point where the Bag for Life gives up on life. It is strained, pushed to its very limits as a bag. Their new owner doesn’t care, all they care about is getting their shopping home. The Bag for Life tenses every muscle in its body; it will die instantly if it doesn’t. Very soon, they arrive at their new home. ‘Maybe this was a test?’ the bag thinks. ‘I’ve got the shopping home, now I’ll be part of this person’s life!’. Once again, the Bags for Life are deluded. They are simple creatures, bless them. No sooner has the shopping been unloaded, they are folded up and pushed into a cupboard.

Retirement – Blinking, and trying to see in the dark cupboard, the Bag for Life comes to terms that his working days are already over. His time is up. Every Bag for Life wonders at this stage, ‘maybe my owners will use me again soon?’. Once again, they are wrong. The Bag for Life is then set upon by up to 50 plastic bags. They jostle for space and inevitably force the Bag for Life to the back of the cupboard. It only gets worse for the Bag for Life;  the plastic bags breed. There are soon more of them, pushing the Bag for Life further and further into the background, further into the darkness, the wilderness of the back of the cupboard. “We’re the main men around here, you ponce”, yell the plastic bags, hiding themselves inside one another to make a large fearless ball of plasticky madness.

Death? – No one quite knows if the Bag for Life dies, or simply disappears forever. This is still being investigated. All we know is that the owner of the Bag for Life will one day remember that they have it in the cupboard. This usually occurs between two and three weeks after the purchase of their bag slave. ‘I need a sturdy bag for this junk’ they think to themselves, ‘and I’m certain I have one in the cupboard’. But when they got to look for the Bag, it is gone. No search will ever result in the Bag for Life being found; it has moved on to somewhere new. Instead, the plastic bags once again get used, often doubling up with their mates. It is a sad end to the life of the Bag for Life. They die alone.

Things I Found In My Attic Part 2

22 Sep

Part 1 – https://kylejwilkins.wordpress.com/2011/09/21/things-i-found-in-my-attic-today/

I continued to look through the large wooden chest that I discovered in my attic yesterday, and once again I came across some fascinating items:

Leonard Corby’s Pumice Stone – Leonard is an old school friend who would impress us during lunch breaks by performing self-fellatio, which was remarkable to witness. He also had rather bad eczema, in particular around his ring-piece, which he took a great deal of delight in showing us. It was down to one of his friends to help him remove the dry skin that accumulated on his buttocks as Leonard would say it was out of his reach. We made a rule where the last one out into the playground at lunch would have to be the one to rub the pumice on Leonard. One Thursday, I was last out; Peter Barnwinkle had tied my shoelaces together without me realising, and it hampered me when trying to get to the playground. As usual, Leonard was behind the bike sheds waiting for us all to arrive, his cock already out. He handed me the pumice stone, sat down, and took his helmet between his lips. It turned out to be a fateful day. Leonard choked on his cock and we all thought he was taking the piss so neglected to help him. We scarpered when Mr. Davis saw the commotion and came running over. I still had the cold pumice in my hand and I kept it as something to remember Leonard by. He was quite a guy.

 

A Trumpano – This is a very small musical instrument I got given as a gift from the Dhag-hi-hi-hi Tribe on a visit to Gambia. It’s a cross between a trumpet and piano; impossible to play because every time you blow into it, the keys fly off. It is however, the only one of its kind, so I am in no rush to get rid of it. There is a very small message carved into its base saying, ‘Kwadayo Gladdio Beardiet Linzuano’, which translated means ‘Bearded Gladiator Blow My Lizard’. I’m not sure of the relevance of that.

 

A Receipt – I have the first receipt ever issued. It was produced by a London company called Broomsticks, who used to manufacture and sell various witch paraphernalia during the medieval times. Up until the idea of a receipt, an agreement, usually verbal, was kept between the customer and the shop selling an item; meaning an item could be returned and refunded if it did not meet customer’s expectations. Broomsticks found that some of their customers, buying items ranging from hats, cauldrons and broom accessories to black cats, stick-on warts and cans of canned cackled laughter, were returning them after using them for about a year, just to get a new product. They decided to issue some sort of paperwork whereby they could trace the date the item was sold and to whom it was sold. This later became known as a receipt. I have the first one issued, for a bag of mixed snail guts and frogs legs, and sold to a Miss P. Groaner. I’d rather not go into how I came to have this item.

 

A Rhino’s Heart – Picked up by my auntie who used to work in the rhino enclosure at London Zoo; the rhino’s heart means a lot to me because it was given to me as a present on the day I left my virginity. I must stress, I did not lose my virginity to my auntie and it was merely a coincidence that she gave it to me on the same day. An elderly male rhino had passed away, and due to funding cutbacks, the zoo was unable to get the body collected and disposed off, and the ground was far too hard to dig a grave big enough (this occurred during the hosepipe ban of ’86). There was only one other option; cut the rhino up into smaller chunks, and leave in public bins around London. My auntie was part of a 5-strong team that carried out the task. She kept the heart as she thought it was the right thing to do. I get funny feelings, and sometimes erections, looking at the heart, when I think back to what I was getting up to  at the same time that my auntie was slicing and dicing the rhino.

Jimmy Nail’s Cowboy hat – I saw Jimmy Nail on a night out in Newcastle a few years back. He was rather drunk and pushing a girl about, calling her a ‘frigid twat’ and telling her to ‘suck his marvellous penis’. I was quite taken aback by this so went over to see if the girl was ok. As she sobbed, Jimmy asked me what the fuck I thought I was doing. “I have no time for bullies like you”, I replied, and this seemed to tip him over the edge. He went or me, almost spilling my drink, so I thumped him hard in the face. As he dropped to the floor, I put the boot in. Jimmy was shouting all sorts of obscenities at me, so I got him in a half-Nelson and gave him a noogie until he surrendered. After some time, he relaxed so I loosened my grip. The northern bastard tricked me though, and as soon as I had I let him go, he was starting again, spitting at me whilst waving his flaccid cock in the now hysterical girl’s direction.

I gave him a swift boot in the balls, and Nail collapsed again like a sack of shit, but kept kicking out at me. “I’ll take those”, I hissed, removing his footwear.

“Not my crocodile shoes, please man!”, he begged.

I took pity, and took his cowboy hat instead, tossing the shoes back in his general direction. I keep the hat as a reminder not to be horrible to women.

Things I Found In My Attic Today

21 Sep

I’ve just been cleaning out my attic and to my delight I found an old trunk which I had forgotten about for some time.It contains many of my most treasured possessions. Amongst them;

A Stuffed Camel – This was given to me by my Grandfather before he passed away. It was one of his most treasured possessions and the story that goes with how it came into his hands really is quite remarkable; he stole it off of Adolf Hitler’s bed. During the second World War, he was part of a little known squadron that happened to infiltrate one of Hitler’s many hideouts. Unfortunately, they weren’t able to capture the evil tyrant as he was out at the time. Instead he, and the other soldiers with him, feasted on food that they found in Hitler’s cupboards until they were fit to burst. My Grandfather told of the juiciness of Hitler’s grapes and would always add “Not his haemorrhoids you cheeky buggers!” when we stifled our laughter at this part of his story. He would also go into great detail about the ornate decor in the hideout that they had infiltrated, in particular, the naked woman on all of the ceilings that had been hand painted in fascinating detail. My Grandfather would say, “You could make out every pubic hair. That’s how impressive the paintings were. Of course, back then, all the ladies had hairy vaginas”.

It was in Hitler’s bedroom that the stuffed camel was stolen. My Grandfather spotted it sat on one of Hitler’s pillows and couldn’t resist the urge to take it. In its place, he squatted and defecated onto the pillow, then stuck a cigarette in the fresh stool, along with two Smarties for eyes. Giggling, a few of the soldiers then put Hitler’s pants over their trousers and pretended that they were army superheroes, running all over the house and throwing fruit at each other. My Grandfather placed the camel in his backpack and it was there it stayed until his return to English shores. He kept the capture of the camel a secret from his superiors, and it was only once the war was over that he showed the rest of the family just what he had found in Germany. We named the camel, unoriginally, ‘Adolf Humpler’.

 

A Signed Copy of the Bible – I’m not sure how genuine this is, but I refuse to throw it away despite the fact I’m an atheist. It’s quite tatty, and it is now stored inside a smaller wooden box to prevent any further damage to it, and I have been advised by my mother to wear gloves when handling it, (not that I ever read it). On the inside front cover of the copy I own are the words ‘All the best, Jesus Christ’ with a little smiley face which has a beard. I have no reasons to doubt that this could be a fake. It might be worth something in a few years time, so I am trying to take good care of it.

 

Lucky Packet of Chewing Gum – This means a lot to me because it was given to me by my Dad, even though it has bought him so much luck over the years. He came up to me one day with it, pressed it into my hand and told me to keep it. “I’m getting old, son”, he said, “You have this now”. The chewing gum is an unopened packet of Wrigelys Extra; spearmint flavour. My Dad first discovered it was lucky when he was rubbing it in his trouser pocket during the 1966 World Cup Final. He claims it is because of this rubbing action, it was responsible for England winning the World Cup, as well as his substantial win on the Pools, the fact he met my Mum and numerous other fortunate events. Each time something good happened to him, the chewing gum was in his pocket. I took the lucky qualities of the chewing gum with a pinch of salt; I was just grateful to be given something that meant so much to my Dad. However, after he gave it to me, it bought me one stroke of tremendous luck.

I was in town a few years ago with friends, and a mugger came up and tried to steal my wallet. A tussle ensued, but he managed to prise it from my hands. As he attempted to run off, I went for him, and he pulled a gun and took a shot at me. The chewing gum was in the top pocket of my denim jacket I was wearing. Usually, I wouldn’t take the chewing gum out with me, but for some reason I’d decided to take it with me on this particular day. I was so fortunate that day; the bullet missed me and hit one of the friends I was with instead.

 

A Wooden Replica Elephant’s Penis – On my gap year I decided to do a bit of travelling. I ended up, by mistake, in Kenya, having hid inside my own suitcase for a laugh as I wanted to give the baggage handlers a bit of a fright. This backfired somewhat when the movement from me inside the case caused the baggage label to fall off, along with that of a case that was resting alongside the one I was in. The labels were replaced, incorrectly, by the handlers and I ended up in Kenya instead of Prague. I decided to make the most of the mishap and stayed with locals for a few days, playing Frisbee, teaching them English swear words, shooting animals and eating all sorts of exotic meats such as tiger and zebra. They adored me out there, and when it was time for me to leave, they presented me with a huge wooden penis. They explained that the elephant was seen as some sort of God in their country, and that I had reminded them of a God. The penis was carved as a gesture of goodwill, and is supposed to ward off evil spirits.

 

Charlie Chaplin’s Kidney Stone – Stolen from Chaplin’s toilet by my wacky uncle, the kidney stone has the aroma of fame and the texture of success. My uncle was a stagehand back in Chaplin’s heyday. One evening before a live performance, my uncle heard Chaplin in the toilet, shouting loudly and making a great deal of fuss, which was unheard of. He hid and waited for Chaplin to go on stage. Once he had, my uncle rushed to the loo and it was here that he was greeted with one solitary kidney stone that hadn’t been flushed away. He delved into to water to retrieve it (later claiming to have caught syphilis from the toilet seat) and he gave the stone to me on my 18th birthday.

 

Samantha Littleslot’s Goggles – Samantha was a girl with breasts like udders that I used to date in secondary school. One night, we sneaked into the local swimming baths, where she proceeded to give me the most satisfying blow job of my life to date. I had warned her before we started dating that it had been a long time since I had been intimate with a lady, and as such, she took precautions by wearing her swimming goggles whilst my todger was in her mouth. As I ejaculated (I saw stars I may add), my semen gushed forth and Samantha was unable to contain it in her mouth. Her head moved away from my penis, and I covered her face in teenage gooey mess. Fortunately, her goggles saved her eyes from my stinging jism. She gently removed them from her face and left them on the changing room floor. I pocketed them in secret before we left, as a memento of the occasion. They were cleaned as soon as I got them home.

 

A Pickled Finger – When holidaying in the Maldives, I spotted a glass bottle floating in the sea towards the shore. I ran over to it, intrigued, and was surprised to find a severed finger inside, preserved in vinegar. Attached to the neck of the bottle was a message, stitched into parchment. It read ‘To whoever finds my middle finger: Up Yours’. I have done a little research into the owner of the finger but have had no real success in finding out who it belongs to. My local Pirate Museum valued the finger at around £5000 a couple of years back,  so it was a good find.

 

Coleen Nolan’s Tambourine – It’s a little known fact that Coleen Nolan is a tambourine enthusiast. In fact, she used to busk in my local area with a tambourine before she hit the big time with her sisters. It was my young child’s inquisitive nature that blagged me her tambourine when she came back to her old stomping ground for a rare tambourine medley last year. My daughter asked to have a go, and loved bashing Coleen’s tambourine with great vigour, so much so that she didn’t want to give it back. Coleen was good about it though, and agreed to swap in for two Cheese-strings, a Curly-Wurly and an orgasm.  It was all I had on me at the time to offer her in return. I of course obliged, and left her exhausted with a smile on her face, and her tambourine in my hand.

 

A Match Ticket – Not just any match ticket, this is a ticket to the first ever Swan Twatting Championships that was open to the public. In 1974, the Swan Twatting governing body allowed non-ST’s (Swan Twatters) to attend the championships. My father, a big fan, managed to win a ticket to the event. He was disappointed as he had missed out when the tickets had gone on general sale, but to his enormous surprise, he won a golden ticket in a breakfast cereal that was sponsoring the event. More surprising to me, is that he didn’t have his lucky chewing gum at the time.

 

There are still plenty more things to look through, I’ve been pouring over so many objects and remembering so many great stories. I’ll note down the others soon.

Pointless Sports Part 2

20 Sep

Part 1: https://kylejwilkins.wordpress.com/2011/09/07/pointless-sports/

This is the second instalment of the ten of the most pointless sports in the world. In the first part, I covered polo, water polo, the hammer throw, bowls and curling; all sports which really don’t have any point or substance to them. The next five are as follows:

 6) Pole Vault – I’m not too sure how this sport came to be. All that is involved is running along with a flexible pole, which is then used to fling the competitor as high as possible in the air, over a bar. It’s boring to watch, unless the bar they are vaulting over, or indeed their pole, happens to land on them once they are sprawled on the crash mat. The sport would be much more entertaining if it involved vaulting over Polish people; I’m certain this would attract more spectators. The one thing the pole vault has going for it is the fact the competitors stand on the start line and wait for the slow hand clap from the 10-strong crowd to start up, only starting their run up when the clapping has reached its climax. But that’s it. It’s not exciting in the slightest. In fact, all it really is, is a ‘will they or won’t they make it’ scenario; like a really shit version of Heads or Tails, or a slightly better version of ITV ‘blockbuster’ Red or Black.

 7) Cross-Country – The bane of many school children throughout the country over the last 30-40 years, cross-country is more a form of punishment than it is a sport. Invented by sadistic head teachers from some of the top schools in the UK, cross-country has seen many a child almost die through forced participation. It is an unwritten rule that cross-country can only take place in freezing, windswept conditions, and can only be participated by children under the age of 16. These children are rounded up and shown the course, usually 2 laps around a muddy track, with the most unfortunate competitors having to run in vest and pants as they’ve forgotten their sports kit.  More concerned with their pre-pubescent cocks peeking out from beneath their pants, or the wind and rain messing up their hair and make-up; the kids will then be bellowed at as they struggle around the course. “RUN! DON’T WALK”, the most commonly heard phrase, as the course stewards (teachers, dressed in thermals and waterproof clothing), make sure everyone is giving their all, despite their best efforts to go as slow as physically possible. The end result is always the same; a hundred or so soaking wet kids, cold and exhausted, standing at the finish line waiting for the last competitor to finish. This person is usually, and let’s be brutally honest, fat. There is also a high chance that they will be crying. However, every competitor is united in one thing; the hate of cross-country.

 8) Cricket – A controversial inclusion I know, but cricket just doesn’t do anything for me. Two teams of men, dressed head to toe in white, smashing a really rather hard ball about a field isn’t really my cup of tea. There are a few variations on the game too, in a bid to try and appeal to a wider audience. Test cricket is a longer game, played over a number of days, the result of the game can be decided by the weather (yes, I know!), and the 20/20 game is a rather frantic affair, with each side bowling an agreed amount of balls whilst the other scores as many runs as possible. Both games are still, for me, dull. It doesn’t really have much of a pace to it, and a lot of the time, the result can be foreseen by the halfway point in a game, so it’s rare that there is a huge twist in the game. 10CC famously sang “I don’t like cricket, I love it”. I might do a cover version of it called ‘I don’t like cricket, it’s cricket’.

 9) Skiing – Grown adults put on garish looking shell-suit like clothing, and go speeding down a mountain as fast as possible with small runners on their feet and a pole in each hand for balance. How enthralling! I am of course being sarcastic; quite why anyone would want to speed down a mountain with NO brakes is beyond me.  Again, like cricket, there are variations on the sport. Slalom, sees the competitor speed down the mountain, zig-zagging their way through various flags. I’m not sure why they can’t just go in a straight line. Then there is another version, which I am unsure of the name and can’t be bothered to look for it, where there are various bumps and mounds of snow that the skiers have to go over. They jiggle about like a fat girl on top of a washing machine and that’s about it. Then there is the ski jump, where they slide down a huge platform, jump off the end of it and high into the air, leaning forward with their hands behind their backs in a very nonchalant and quite smug manner. All very different versions, but let’s not kid ourselves: it’s still skiing and it still takes place on cold, hard snow, on a mountain. Mountain are high, people fall off them.

 10) Formula 1 – I think I’ve saved the most pointless sport until last. Formula 1 is THE most pointless sport in existence, but attracts a huge audience. Why? As I see it, 20 or so cars line up on the starting grid, based on how fast they have driven in qualifying (which people actually watch!). Now this itself is down to the actual car and not the driver; I’m certain that any driver that finished last in a previous race, would come at least top 3 if he were to be put in the fastest car. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Once the first corner is out of the way, which sometimes, if you’re lucky enough, will see a few cars spin out or get overtaken. After the first lap, the overtaking is very, very limited, with cars only moving up positions if the one ahead of them goes in for a pit-stop. There is an exception to the rule; a ‘fast’ car may have had to start lower on the grid, and as you’d expect, they soon overtake the other drivers in front of them, regardless of the drivers skill or capabilities. Not very exciting really.

Then there are the spectators, who flock in their droves to watch the cars speed past them in a blur, from a distance of about a mile, as they cheer for a split second every time their favoured team or driver whizz past. What is the point? Formula 1 – you are a terrible sport.

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