Tag Archives: joke

A Practical Joke

2 May

For this practical joke you will need one length of spaghetti, and one banana. That’s it. Nothing else. It’s not hard. 

The straighter the banana is, the better; my example below probably isn’t the best, but that’s all I had in the house. Sorry.

Make a very small incision into the bottom of the banana. Young children may want to hide from any adults so that they don’t get told off for using a knife.

Next, push the spaghetti into the hole, and up into the middle of the banana. Get as much in as you can. PHWOOOAR!

Break off any excess spaghetti that you can’t get into the banana, and push the rest in so it is not visible.

Now, leave overnight. During this time, the spaghetti will go soft. Leave the banana in a fruit bowl for your unsuspecting partner to find, or take it to work and swap it for one that a colleague (you know; that one you REALLY hate) has brought in for their lunch. Then just sit and wait.

As they bite into it, they will find a stringy object inside (the now soft spaghetti), or better still, will take some of it into their mouth before spitting it out in disgust.  This is your chance to shine. Tell them that it’s probably a tropical worm of some sort, or “one of those banana tapeworms that they’ve been talking about on the news”. Make them feel queasy and watch them gag. Add things like, “I heard that once it’s in your system, they can stay in your body for up to 15 months, and sometimes they crawl back inside your anus when you attempt to shit them out”. Good luck.

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

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.

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.

Hiding in the bed

25 Aug

This story doesn’t feature me but two of my close friends. We’ll call them Ray and Ashley. They had been out drinking together, throwing a few abstract shapes on the dance floors of High Wycombe and were suitably drunk. Ray had happened to pull a tasty little blonde lass named Chloe early on in the evening, and Chloe and her mates had joined the two inebriated rapscallions on their jaunt around the pubs and bars of the Buckinghamshire town for the rest of the night. A great time was had by all I’m told; sambuca shots were downed, jugs of sickly sweet cocktails were shared, and the newly acquainted group shared laughs aplenty.

 

Eventually, 2am came, and with it, closing time. The gang made their way over to Dennis’ Kebab Van (now a small celebrity after being bigged-up by rotund comedian James Corden – who would have thought he liked junk food?-  Cracking tits though). Food was purchased and Chloe was intent on going back with Ray for the night. As Ashley had already arranged to stay at Ray’s as well, the trio finished their food and headed for the taxi rank.

 

The taxi journey itself was uneventful; I’m not sure if Ray tried to get his fingers wet or not, but with Ashley sat in the back of the taxi with him and Chloe, it made things rather awkward; after all, he didn’t want his best mate to look like a gooseberry. Time was passed with drunken conversation and banter, rather than the attempted sneaky blowjob Ray had been hoping for. Soon, they arrived home and headed for their bedrooms, with Chloe obviously joining Ray in his king size bed, and Ashley heading off to the spare room to sleep on a single mattress

 

The inevitable happened; Ray and Chloe exchanged bodily fluids and then passed out, whilst Ashley failed in a half-hearted attempt to relieve himself of his own bodily fluid before passing out. However, at around 4am, he woke from his drunken stupor with a raging headache and decided to go downstairs to acquire a drink of water.

 

To get downstairs, Ashley had to pass Ray’s bedroom, which was on the opposite side of the landing. Still drunk and feeling a little mischievous, he decided to take a peek into the bedroom to see what the two lovers were up to. He sneaked over to the door slowly, trying to avoid the creakiest floorboards. Then, he opened the door slowly, pulling it towards him so there was a gap big enough for him to slip through. As he peered over at the bed, he could see both Chloe and Ray asleep, with Chloe on her back nearest the wall, and Ray in the centre of the bed, facing her. The cover was pulled over both of them.

 

Dismayed at not even seeing a female nipple, let alone a hint of boob, Ashley saw how snug they both looked in the big spacious bed. It looked incredibly inviting, so, forgetting the reason why he had got up in the first place, he decided to get in with them. He tiptoed across the bedroom, pulled the corner of the duvet back and slipped in. Then, he pulled the cover over his whole body including his head and promptly fell asleep.

 

Ashley woke feeling hot. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep and he struggled to remember where he was. Then he heard movement next to him. Still he stayed under the covers, racking his hungover brain, trying to retrace his movements. Unexpectedly, he heard a small groan. It was a female groan, he was sure of it. Everything came flooding back to him. He knew exactly where he was.

 

Peering from the top of the duvet, Ashley saw that it was still quite dark, but he could make out the figure of Chloe sat on top of Ray, riding him like a nimble jockey. Ray was laid next to Ashley in the bed, with hands behind his head, unaware that his mate was next to him. Ashley’s initial feelings of shock and then slight horniness quickly dispersed; he now felt like a complete pervert and at a complete loss as to how he could get out of the situation. He couldn’t sneak back out of the bedroom as they’d easily see him, and he didn’t really want to take the chance that Ray and Chloe would fall back asleep once they’d finished their energetic early morning ritual. Instead, he chose another option. An option that has ensured this story gets told time and time again amongst friends.

 

Keeping his legs flat to the bad, Ashley thrust his back and head forwards up off the mattress so that he was sat bolt upright. The duvet cover slipped off of his face, revealing him like a prize on a game show. As he reached the position where he was completely vertical, he waved his right hand in a cheery fashion and said a hearty ‘Helllllooooooo’.

 

Chloe immediately grabbed for something to cover her pendulous breasts with and jumped off Ray’s cock just as quick as she’d hopped on.  Still, Ashley sat in his bolt upright position with a huge grin on his face, maintaining the little wave with his hand, just staring into the same space. Chloe was now screaming at him asking him what the fuck he was playing at and Ray was chuckling to himself, still slightly pissed and a bit annoyed that his early morning shag had been rudely interrupted. After a good 30 seconds of waving, Ashley rolled off the edge of the bed, did a forward roll and left the room, crying with laughter.

Taste My Special Sauce

23 Aug

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I didn’t have to wait long.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“FOR?”, he managed to spit out.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

AB#2– Stalking Mary

7 Aug

After my near escape from almost certain death last week I have decided to take up a new hobby; stalking. This I feel is a lot safer for myself, and will give me the added buzz that my life is so desperately lacking at the moment. My target is to be Mary O’Connor over the road, a 40-year-old woman that lives alone. I have chosen her for a few reasons.

 

Firstly, as already mentioned, she lives alone; so this will make my hobby a whole lot easier and thus more enjoyable. Secondly, she is quite decadent. Small in stature, nice little but perfectly formed breasts, with nipples like raspberries, and eyes so deep; sheer beauty. Thirdly, I think I can get away with it for a bit longer with her as we are already sort of friends: I once threw my frog-themed wellington boot into her garden and she spoke to me.

 

I have decided to tell you how I am to go about this task, and in the near future will let you know how I have got on. Trust me; it will be a lot of fun. My first plan is to act like I am obsessed with the same things as Mary, but in a fun way. For example, I am going to start conversation with her every morning when she collects her milk and I collect mine from the doorstep. I will ask her what her favourite food, singers and hobbies are, and state that mine are the same. Once I have found this information, I can learn more about each one using the internet and then blurt out random facts the next day.

 

I can see it now; “Ah yes Mary, Hootie and the Blowfish are my favourites to – were you there in 1987 as well?” I’ll give this a week or so and then start copying the way she dresses (I still have my mothers’ clothes in the attic). I’ll copy the way she styles her hair, and perhaps even her little idiosyncrasies.

 

My phone will probably be my new best friend for the next month or so. I plan to ring Mary. A lot. If she doesn’t answer, I plan to keep ringing her back until she does, leaving a message on the answer machine every time. I have seen this on both films, and soaps and looks a good tactic to use. I’ll start off with things such as, “Hi it’s me, just seen something that reminds me of you, ring me back”, and get progressively worse, maybe becoming tetchy and angry with each message I leave. I plan to end with, “Do you hate me?? What have I done wrong, Arrrghghhhh!!” and leave an almighty, deafening scream. When she does eventually answer, I’ll act like nothing is wrong, and that maybe she is the strange one for believing I was angry.

 

The next stage will be to make random appearances at places she is at. I’ll follow her car to local supermarkets and accidentally bump into her, “Fancy seeing you here!!”. I will attempt to find out when and where she is going out for dinner with friends, and book myself a table in the same restaurant. For added stalker value, I may even wear the same dress as her. I know she visits her Mother on a Sunday, so I plan to become her mother’s gardener on this day. At this point she may start to get worried. If I can keep up with this for maybe two or three weeks, I’ll begin to get a bit more aggressive in my approach to stalking Mary. I already know where she works, but I will find out about those people she works with. Then, when in conversation with her, I’ll make snide comments about them that will freak her out.

 

For example, “You know Bill in your office? I’d love to see a lorry reverse over him, and his rotting corpse be scavenged by crows. Sorry, did I say that out loud?” I’ll follow this up with a violent shake, and my best evil laugh. The final part of my stalking expedition will be the abuse in a public place. When Mary has maybe sussed me out, or is definitely worried by my presence, I’ll follow her everywhere, getting worse with the insults. I can start off lightly with phrases like ‘liar’, ‘cheat’, and then move onto ‘baby killer’, ‘husband murdering bitch’, etc. This will be fun, I am sure. I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

Rot in Hell, Mary, you fat whore

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.

Cat Murder

13 Jul

My first proper job was working as a labourer for my uncle, who is a builder. A few months after I’d started, he went off on holiday for two weeks but he found me some work with one of his mates, Spud. Working with Spud was interesting to say the least, with our working day interspersed with about 8 tea-breaks (whereas with my uncle we’d have one at 10am and then a break for lunch), new methods of doing things (instead of using a chainsaw to fell a small tree, he asked me to climb it and repeatedly jump on one side of it until it bent over enough for him to hand saw through the trunk), and all in all a much more laid back working environment. A little spot of rain? That meant it was time to retreat to the van for a tea-break, regardless of whether or not work was actually being affected. Run out of sand or cement? It didn’t matter, we’d drive for more supplies, but go to a builders merchants 10 miles away rather than the one down the road. It surprised me at how much work Spud actually managed to get, but he blagged it somehow, and if I’m honest I did actually like working for him.

 

He asked me to do all manner of things during the two weeks (and subsequent times) I worked for him, including driving a JCB and a dump truck even though I had no previous experience of doing so, he allowed me to lay the inner block course of a porch with no level, insisting that ‘the plasterers would level it up’ and of course constantly asking me to go and check out the home owners top drawer. The one time that really sticks in my mind though is when he asked me to cover up the murder of a cat. We were working on an extension on a house, and the owners had two cats on which they doted. We were under strict instructions to not let the cats out of the kitchen at any time, which was a bit of a pain in the arse as they would make a break for freedom as soon as I opened the patio doors which separated the kitchen from the extension we were working on. They escaped 2 or 3 times, but they would come casually strolling back a while later, and thankfully when the owners were still at work. One time however, I noticed that one of the cats was missing.

 

Spud and I were putting new flooring down , running from the kitchen through to the extension, and of course we had to have the doors open so it ran all the way through. The cats were wandering to and from the garden and not really going off too far, so we thought it safe to carry on as we were. In the afternoon, after our 6th tea-break of the day, we came back from the van to continue work. The first thing Spud had to do was nail down a few floorboards which he’d lifted so that he could get to some radiator pipes. Once done, we carried on laying the flooring. It wasn’t until an hour or so later that I saw one of the cats, come in from the garden, and I remarked that I hadn’t seen the other cat for a long while. Spud went quite pale. I heard him whisper ‘fuck fuck fuck’ to himself, and then, still knelt on the floor, he turned his face to look at me.

 

“You know yesterday when I was emptying the bags of rubbish into the skip? Well when I tipped one of them out, one of the cats fell out. The little bugger had been snooping inside it. I didn’t even realise it was in there.”

 

“But I’ve seen both the cats today, Spud”, said I, starting to panic just because of the look on Spud’s face.

 

“Yes, but I emptied a few more earlier, and one definitely felt heavier than the others. Fuck!”

 

It was at this point I remembered that the skip had been collected during our tea-break. Shit!

 

“Right, this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to rip up the flooring we’ve done so far, and we’ll shut the doors again and work in the new extension. We’ll say we haven’t been inside the kitchen at all today. Can you do that for me?”.

 

Before I had time to respond, Spud was already busy with a jemmy, lifting up a good few hours of work. He was actually asking me to cover up the disappearance of the cat, and I knew the owners would find it hard to believe that we hadn’t been in the kitchen at all.

 

“Oh, FUCK”, I heard Spud shout again. This time he was looking at the radiator which he’d disconnected earlier. “FUUCCCK!”

 

We sat there wondering what to do. I suggested coming clean but Spud was adamant we couldn’t and told me under no circumstance should I say what had happened. We had about an hour to decide what to do. We downed tools and sat racking our brains, the other cat seemed to be mocking us; rubbing it’s face against my knee as I sat in silence on the floor, thinking about what the owners would say when they got back from work to find their ‘baby’ missing. Spud meanwhile, was visibly sweating. Ten minutes passed and still we couldn’t come to an agreement on what to say. The cat that was mocking us did a feint ‘meow’, and then another. Only it wasn’t coming from his mouth.

 

“Spud, listen!” I shouted. We both waited again, and there it was, another feint meow.

 

“It’s a cat ghost!”, Spud exclaimed, now perking up. “Where is the little fucker?”.

 

It took us about 15 minutes of listening intently to work out where the noise was coming from. Spud grabbed the jemmy and lifted the floorboards under the radiator which he’d disconnected earlier that day. To our enormous relief, the most dusty looking cat I’d ever seen jumped out, looking like a massive mothball. Spud called it a furry twat, and then proceeded to lay flooring like a man possessed. It had been a lucky escape.

Taxi Abuse

13 Jul

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

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

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

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

 ‘Been busy tonight?’

‘What time do you finish?’

‘What football team do you support?’

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

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

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

 “I’ll drive how the fuck I want”

 “Well can we get out then?”

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

 Once again I looked at Rowley. I whispered,

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

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

 We were now only a few minutes from my house.

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

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

 “How much do we owe you?”

 “Eighteen quid”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Rowley?”

 “Yes mate?”

 “I’m fucking starving”

 We both began pissing ourselves again.

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

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