Tag Archives: laugh

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.


Comments Overheard

6 Sep

These are things that I’ve heard people say over the last weeks or so. More will follow if I happen to overhear anything remotely interesting or stupid. I should mention, I don’t deliberately eavesdrop, much.

 Old lady to an old man, probably her husband, in the local park:

“George! Don’t look directly at the sun, you’ll burn your rectums!”

 Lady, in her thirties, to her son, who looked about six. This was outside a Chinese Takeaway:

“Jack, will you leave that bloody Rubik’s Cube alone for 5 minutes?”



In the office:

Girl 1 – “Oh my God, did you hear about Kate at one of our resellers?”
Girl 2 – “Kate Kate?”
Girl 1 – “Yeah, Kate!”
Girl 2 – “Whaaaaaat?!”
Girl 1 – “Well she had a brain tumour and died. She died Saturday”.
Girl 2 – “Oh my God! I knew she was ill. Oh my God!”
Girl 1 – “Yeah I know!”
Girl 2 – “Did you know her? Are you going to the funeral?”
Girl 1 – “Erm, kind of knew her. Well, we were friends on Facebook.”
Girl 2 – “Oh my God! What you going to do?”
Girl 1 – “I just deleted her as a friend.”


I have to work with these people


In the local park, a young girl to her father:

“Daddy, you look pretty today. You’re belly is very fat though”


It the office again, a different girl this time:

“How do you spell ‘whoa’ so that it says  ‘whoa’ and not ‘wow’?

 In Tesco. I’d like to know what this was about; a gentleman aged about 19 to his friend:

“Listen to me, I did not, and I repeat NOT, have a wank on the train”

 In Tesco again, the following night. Young girl to her mum:

Girl – “Mummy! I need a wee!

Mum – “You’ve just been for a wee!”

Girl –  “I still have some stuck in me”


In a pub, a man, mid-forties, gesturing to a Capri Sun carton drink behind the bar:

Man – “How much is one of those?”

Bargirl – “One pound eighty”

Man – “One pound eighty?! Are you taking my dog for a shit?”

Man ordered a lemonade. It cost him £2.10.


At the newsagents this morning, two men in their late twenties:

Man 1 – “Good weekend, mate?”
Man 2 – “Yeah, great thanks. You?”

Man 1 – “It’s confidential”.

10 Reasons Why I Hate Camping

31 Aug

Camping; a great British pastime that to me is one of life’s truly overrated experiences. Sod ‘getting in touch with nature’ and all that malarkey, give me a holiday where I can chill out and not have to worry about collecting sticks and trying to keep warm please. I went camping once and I’ve vowed never to go again. If I ever get even a little bit tempted to join friends on their camping trips, I always remember the reasons why I hate it so much. Then I spend the next few days sat at home in my warm house, sleeping in a comfortable bed, smiling to myself in the knowledge that one of them will be stumbling to a nearby bush in the early hours of the morning to urinate and will probably tread barefoot in fox’s shit. With that in mind, here are those reasons why I hate camping so much:

 1)  It could be the middle of a glorious summer, a delightful heat wave period, but rest assured, as soon as you pitch a tent it will start raining. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop, and it is impossible to keep anything dry. Clothes, personal belongings (such as phones and wallets), seating and even food will soon be damp. Don’t even think about trying to start a raging fire for you and your fellow campers to congregate by. Instead, you’ll be forced to huddle around a smouldering pile of sticks in an effort to keep warm.


2)  Once sat in your huddle, there will always be someone in the group who will get out their guitar that they have brought with them especially. After a few minutes of strumming out-of-tune chords, they will try and get everyone else to join in with renditions of Kum-By-Yah or some other song that nobody really likes nor indeed knows the words to. A few campers will start clapping along. It is at this point you should consider going home.


3)  The food is always terrible. As it is neigh on impossible to plug in a freezer, tinned foods are on the menu for the majority of the camping period. Granted, a few sausages may be cooked on the first night, but after these have been consumed you can only look forward to a diet of sludge. Any meat that is cooked will be nice and crispy on the outside, and raw on the inside. Unless you have a cast iron gut, you’ll be squatting in the bushes in no time at all. This leads me nicely onto my next point


4)  There are no toilets, or if they are, you need to go in prepared. By prepared, I mean you’ll need overalls, wellington boots, a nose clip, a gas mask and a step ladder so you can hover above the mountain of filth that has already accumulated. If there are no toilet facilities (because you’ve chosen to camp in some woods rather than a site), then you’ll have to make do with a bush. How great is that! If neither of these choices appeal to you, you have the option of holding it in until you get home. What a fantastic holiday experience.


5)  Due to the above reasons, most people will be in a pretty bad mood, and conversation will therefore be mundane and quite frankly, annoying. Typically, some cad will start to tell ghost stories as the night draws in, so you can all scare yourselves shitless, hoping you’re not going to bump into one when you venture out of your tent, or not get murdered during the night.


6)  Sleeping is impossible. If you’re not sat with your eyes wide open, saying “what’s that?” worriedly at every noise you hear and thinking the worst, you’re laying shivering in a sleeping bag, with only the tent canvas between you and the wet grass. The wind will blow the sides of the tent in, sticking it to your face as it is so wet, and there will always be, without fail, an earwig or beetle underneath your sleeping bag in the morning.


7)  The games you are forced to play such as Rounders or some other nonsense sport, which always results in the alpha male of the group smashing a ball with a lump of wood into a nearby field so that a group of children and women scamper after it, trying to avoid the cow-pat landmines. The same resulting arguments always follow during these games; ‘I was no way out!’ or ‘Those aren’t the rules!’, for example.


8)  I’ve mentioned earwigs and beetles somehow getting into the ‘sealed’ tent, but there are loads of other bugs and creatures too. Moths as big as dinner plates swarm around the campsite, like crazed drug-fuelled creatures looking for their next hit of light. Then there are the mosquitoes which just love biting everyone as much as they can, as if they are saying “Ha-ha, you’ve gone camping!”. Spiders and stag beetles roam the site, kicking lumps out of anyone they see. Wearing knuckle dusters and smoking any dropped cigarettes, they’ll pounce when you least expect it, shouting, “Wanker!” at you as they launch their attack.


9)  The tent itself is one of the most annoying things about camping. Putting the thing together in the first place is akin to a challenge you’d find on The Krypton Factor. Again, arguments will ensue, normally about which piece of the frame goes where. There is a high chance that at least one peg will be missing, so the tent will have to be weighed down from the inside. I am also under the impression that the manufacturers base their tent sizes on dwarves. ‘Two man’ tents are only really suitable for a child, a six-man tent can fit 3 people at a push; you get the idea with that one. Then there is the sweaty condensation that forms on the inside of the tent, so that it clings to you should you be so brave to put your face anywhere near it. The zips are so loud; some are known to be louder than a Boeing 747 taking off. Tents are rubbish. I’d rather sleep in my car.


10) The air of depression in the car on the way home, once the camping trip is over. It’s the realisation that you’ve wasted a few days of your life to live outside. All your clothes are dirty and wet, and you have to take all of your rubbish (which by now smells a great deal) back home with you. Why did you go camping? Why?!


People always tell me, ‘camping isn’t like that anymore, they have showers and everything!’. Well I should fucking think so! A shower is the minimum I’d expect if I was going on holiday. The absolute minimum! Plus, surely staying on a campsite is the cheats way to camping? Any excuse for them to say that they’ve been on holiday really, but it’s not proper camping. It’s not too dissimilar from me pitching a tent in my back garden, and then nipping inside to use the shower every morning.


I just don’t know what the big appeal is about the ‘Great’ Outdoors. I think maybe it stems from the youthful enjoyment of building a den with your mates, and pretending you were on some sort of great adventure. There can’t be any other reason for it. Sometimes, I do have a guilty admiration for those people that enjoy camping, but then this admiration soon passes and I think to myself, ‘Grow up and have a proper holiday’.


I hate camping.

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.


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.

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.


14 Aug

I bought you some flowers the other day,
You seemed happy to receive them.
‘But why’ you then asked, inquisitively,
Probing me for the reason.


The flowers I gave you were merely a gift,
A motive my Dear, I don’t need.
‘But surely there is?’ you asked me again,
And I began to regret my fine deed.


I love you lots, is that good enough?
I missed you today whilst away.
They’re for being you, for looking so lovely,
You’re perfect in every way.


‘Don’t give me that bollocks’, you started again,
Your eyes staring intently at mine.
I coughed and I spluttered and searched for an excuse,
But decided to confess to my crime.


‘It wasn’t the dog’, I said in a mutter,
‘That pissed on the carpet last night.
I got home drunk, and thought our room was the loo,
And that flowers would make it alright?’


‘The flowers are lovely’ you said with a frown,
‘But there’s something I need to tell you.
Not only did I clear up your urine today,
You left a small nugget of poo’.

New Girlfriend

14 Aug

When I was 19, I started dating a girl named Rachel who I met down my local. We’d been seeing each other for about 3 weeks when I sensed there was a problem ‘between the sheets’. Rachel didn’t say as much, but I could sense it and there was an underlying doubt in my mind that she was not impressed with my sexual performance, so to speak. No matter what I tried, she didn’t seem satisfied, and I could tell that she was blatantly faking her moans and groans of pleasure. It hit me hard; I was only 19, my girlfriend thought I was useless in bed, and as the relationship progressed a few weeks further, I found it more of a chore to put in the effort when having sex as I knew that she wasn’t enjoying it. ‘If only she’d tell me or show me what she likes’ I thought to myself time and time again, ‘then this relationship would be perfect’.

 I was in a position that I hadn’t found myself in before. I couldn’t go to my mates and ask for their advice; I had far too much male pride to do that, and I knew that if my suspicions should come out then they would rip the piss out of me non-stop. Knowing them, they would have offered to have a go on her themselves. I also couldn’t ask Rachel’s friends because, well, that would just be strange. Sitting in my room one night after I’d got back from Rachel’s house, I decided to go and talk to the only person that I thought would be able to give me advice; my Dad.

 Now, this in itself was a big thing for me. We’d never had ‘the chat’, and we didn’t really talk about things like this with each other, apart from the odd ‘Don’t get many of them to the pound’ comment my Dad would make in the car when we drove past a busty female pedestrian. I inhaled deeply and went to the front room, where my Dad was watching the TV.

“Dad”, I said quietly. “I…erm…Can I talk to you about something?”

My Dad, eyes remaining transfixed on the TV, muttered “Yes” and so I began explaining to him in great detail about my fears; about how I didn’t think I was satisfying Rachel, about my constant worry that she’d leave me for someone else if I couldn’t please her in the bedroom and that I didn’t know what to do to make things better. It was a long outpouring of my feelings, and I had to check twice that my Dad was actually listening to me as he remained focused on the TV. After I’d finished, he finally looked at me,

“Son, you don’t need to worry about things like that”. He took a sip of his coffee before he continued, “What you need is a pillow.”

“A pillow?”, I was confused.

“Yes son, a pillow. When you’re doing the dirty, slip a pillow underneath her bum. Works all the time, you can’t fail to hit the spot, she’ll love it. Trust me, when I first started dating your mu..”

“THANKS DAD!” I cut him off before he could go any further and retired to bed optimistic about my future with Rachel. The following day was Friday, and we were going out for drinks before staying the night at my house.

Friday came and drinks were enjoyed. We had a good laugh and my sexual fears and frustrations temporarily disappeared. It wasn’t until the walk home that I started to get a bit nervous about doing the deed again, but my Dad’s words of advice the night before were still ringing in my ears. We eventually got home and I checked the front room to see if my parents were still up. There was no sign of them, so I assumed that they were in bed. Rachel and I headed upstairs, and being quite merry, it wasn’t long before we were kissing passionately, and undressing each other, whilst trying to keep quiet so that we didn’t wake my parents, who were asleep in the next room. Before I knew it, I was on top of Rachel’s perfect, naked body and thrusting away. As usual, I was getting nothing in response, so heeding my Dad’s advice, I reached for pillow. I withdrew temporarily, and lifted Rachel’s legs and pert bum off the bed, sliding the pillow under her. Within seconds I was back inside her sponge cavern and was starting to build up a nice rhythm. I then saw something that will stay with me to the day I die.

My Dad stealthly rolled out from under my bloody bed, gave me a quick thumbs up and crept, on all fours, out of my room. The thing that perplexed me the most was his grin – he looked so pleased that I’d done what he told me to do. It was enough to end my night’s action. I feigned a headache to Rachel (who fortunately didn’t witness any of this) and we went to sleep. All I could think of whilst I lay in bed was my Dad’s big, cheesy grin; like a Cheshire cat.

I got a lock on my room after that.

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