Tag Archives: laugh

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.

Some Dirty Bastard has shat on the seat…

7 Jul

…were the words of disgust from the bargirl as she stepped out from behind the bar, face contorted with disbelief, coat hanger in hand. A few of us went silent, pints held inches from our open mouths.

“Erm, what’s the coat hanger for?”, someone asked. “Are you going to hang it out to dry?”

There was stifled laughter amongst my group of friends; I tried my hardest to get the image of a turd hanging gracefully on a washing line, swaying in the wind, out of my head.

“No. I’m going to knock it in with it.”

We fell about laughing. As the bargirl ventured into the murky gents toilets, talk turned to the culprit of such a heinous (but quite amusing nonetheless) crime. One friend, Ashley, was particularly quiet and wasn’t joining in much. Whilst most of us sniggered, and found the episode thoroughly enjoyable, he had gone quite coy. Fingers were soon pointed in the direction of Ashley.

“Shut up, she’s fucking livid” Ashley said, starting to turn crimson.

“Did you do it? Did you?”. We were all eager to hear his story, but after much probing, there was still no owning up from Ashley, despite all evidence pointing to him. He’d been to the toilets recently, and for quite a while. We carried on with the questioning until the bargirl returned from the gents, hand over her mouth, gagging.

“I can’t do it. It’s making me heave”.

With the evidence literally still sat there waiting, we ventured in to see the damage. As we piled into the gents, there were cries of both horror and joy. There, on the back on the toilet seat, was a perfectly formed baby toilet truffle, about 5 inches long. The damage to the fecal matter from the hook on the coat hanger was visible with a few vertical ‘stripes’ down the side of it where the bargirl had tried to hook it off the seat and into the bowl. This turd was sticking around it seemed.

With none of us brave enough to try and shift it, we spilled back out into the bar and returned to our pints. Simon grabbed Ashley’s phone from his hand,

“Just need to text…WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT??!!!”

Ashley’s head dropped. We all gathered round. There was the all the evidence needed to convict him of the crime right in front of us. A photo, taken on his mobile, which he’d been trying desperately to delete. We ribbed him mercifully.

“Why, Ash? Why?” one of us enquired.

“I just thought it would be a laugh, but then I saw her reaction”, he motioned towards the bar “and thought better of it.”

I wasn’t sure what to think, but things took a further twist.

“Ashley, in this photo, the shit is on the right hand side, but in the toilet, it’s slap bang in the centre. Why?”

“It looked better in the middle”, came Ash’s reply, and with that, we collapsed into fits of giggles once more

The Ouija board

7 Jul

Me and my mates were doing a Ouija board in the local park, when we were about 14. I drew a rough version up of a board on paper, with the relevant numbers, letters and ‘yes, no’ sections. We proceeded to try and talk to spirits, using a 2p coin as a guide, asking various questions and seeing where the 2p coin moved. Obviously, nothing happened, we all moved the coin a little, basically it was shit.

 

“I know, lets tear it up and bury it in the graveyard, and come back in the morning to see if anything has happened to it”, said Spock  (not the brightest). We all agreed that this was the only way to be sure of any ‘contact’ so we did just that. The next morning we went to the same spot, and removed the pile of earth from on top of our ripped up ouija board….

 

There were screams of terror, one girl even cried. The paper had magically joined itself together, in fact you would never know that it had been torn in the first place.To this day, they all still mention ‘that’ morning.

 

What i didn’t tell them was that i had drawn up a new version and swapped it that morning, whilst on my paper round…

Irate Fat Girl

14 Jun

The football team I play for held an auction which was used to raise money for the team and more importantly, charity. It was a good laugh; a few beers were put away and the food was free, which is always a bonus. One of the highlights for me was when my brother outbid me to pay £22.95 for fifty litres of fruit juice. It was a lot I was happy to lose and although my brother didn’t mind that much, little did he know that he would have a setback of a different kind later on that evening.

After the auction, a group of us decided to head into High Wycombe to see what havoc we could cause over there. It was quite good, nothing special, but we had a laugh, danced like spastics on speed and drank far too much alcohol. By 2am, most of the group had retired for the evening and there were only 3 of us left; my brother, Mark and I.

 We decided to head for the only place that was left open, a dingy nightclub which attracts all manner of reprobates to it. Putting this aside, I wanted a drink, and so I was happy to go along, even if it meant paying a £6 entrance fee (the money grabbing twats). Into the club we strolled and then headed upstairs, straight to the bar. Mark bought a round of beers, and as none of us had much energy left in us, we decided not to strut our stuff on the dance floor. Instead, we stood at the bar and chatted about the night’s events, although I think I did break into doing the robot for a while.

We hadn’t been supping on our beers for long, when an attractive young girl came over to where we were and asked my brother if he fancied a dance. At first he was reluctant, but after we goaded him for a while, he accepted the invitation and joined her on the dance floor. Now, at the time I didn’t really know why what followed happened, I had to wait for my brother to tell me. It was certainly funny to witness.

After they had been dancing for a few minutes, the girl turned to him and whispered in his ear.

“Make me jealous”, she said through hushed tones.

“What?”

“Make me jealous. Dance with another girl for a bit.”

 My brother was confused to say the least, but he didn’t really have much choice because no sooner had she made her demand, his dancing partner had turned to face another random bloke and was gyrating in front of him, all the while looking over her shoulder, winking at my brother. Not wanting to look like a complete lemon, standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, he decided to go along with what she had asked. ‘This is quite kinky’, he thought to himself.

Looking around him for a girl that he could dance with, he spotted a lonely looking girl dancing on her own, with a drink in hand. She was rather large and not very pretty and sweating quite profusely from her dancing. My brother stepped up in front of her and began dancing and the fat girl just gawped at him. This was probably down to the fact that he was doing the David Brent dance from The Office, his arms swinging from side to side as he squatted and sidestepped to and fro in front of her.

 “FUCK OFF” she barked, and her eyes went all big and bulbous, and veins in her forehead were popping out. As she said this she relieved the contents of her glass all over my brother’s head. She was not very happy, and my brother made things worse when he just started to crack up laughing at how she had reacted. It seemed to annoy her further, and she started jostling to get passed him, her arms slapping about like a pumped up sumo wrestler.

Eventually, my brother gave in and returned to join us, his hair now soaked flat to his head. Mark and I were in hysterics at the fat girl and also wondering why he’d stopped dancing with the good looking girl. When he eventually managed to explain, we felt we should go and ask the attractive girl why she wanted to be made jealous, but we couldn’t find her, she’d done a disappearing act. There was only one thing for it. First, we went to the toilets and helped my brother dry off under the hand dryers. Then we went back to the dance floor, found the fat girl, formed a circle around her, and danced like loons for as long as we could before she went mental again. We lasted about 20 seconds, before running away like naughty children.

Shitting off the wall…

23 Nov

Rowley whipped out his mobile phone and started to record me being sick. I hadn’t drunk an awful lot, but I’d been drinking on an empty stomach and so I was struggling to keep it down. Each time I felt some sick come up my throat I thrust my head forward and coupled this movement with a violent scream so that it looked like I was projectile vomiting. I know this is quite disgusting but we were merry and it amused us.

 

The sight of me appearing to be violently sick made Rowley laugh like a hyena. He struggled to hold his phone straight as he attempted to record me spewing onto the pavement. In fact, he laughed so much that he got a nose bleed. Until I witnessed this first hand, I didn’t think it at all possible. Rowley puts it down to the fact that he had a cold and had been blowing his nose a lot, but I still like to bring up ‘the time I made you laugh so hard you got a nose bleed’ with him now and again.

 

Anyway, when I saw that Rowley had a nose bleed, I asked him to pass me his phone. He handed it to me with one hand; his other was squeezing his nose, trying to stem the flow of blood from his nostrils. We were now both laughing at each other, and looking forward to watching the video back.

 

“Do you think we’ll get £250 for this on You’ve Been Framed?” I joked.

 

As I focused the camera onto Rowley, watching him try and mop up blood with leaves from the floor, I spotted something in the background on the screen. Taking my eyes away from the screen and looking at what was actually happening in front of me, I saw what it was that had caught my eye. On the head-height wall behind us squatted Ashley with his back to us, and he had his bum out.

 

“Rowley, look” I exclaimed, pointing out that Ashley was straining. We thought he’d gone home already as he was rather inebriated, but he’d obviously snuck back without us noticing. I returned to the camera and zoomed in, focusing on Ashley’s bum cheeks.

 

“Fuck me, he’s actually trying to have a shit” Rowley said enthusiastically and we both burst out laughing, not really believing what we were watching.  From the camera phone, I saw Ashley’s buttocks spread and the head of a fresh bog dolphin appear. Ashley remained focused on what he was doing, undeterred by the fact we were watching something that is normally private business.

 

I kept flicking the focus from Ashley back to Rowley, who was still bleeding from his nose, but when Ashley squatted even further, he got my full attention. The first turd was crimped off halfway through, by accident it appeared, as Ashley strained hard to get the other half free. Struggling to breathe, I had to get Rowley to take the camera and carry on the recording. We watched in amazement as Ashley quickly curled out another stool, which made a soft patting sound as it hit the pavement. As soon as it had left him Ashley adopted a standing position on the wall, still with his back to us.  There he stood, in silence, for 30 seconds or so, whilst Rowley and I rolled around on the floor in hysterics, being careful to avoid Ashley’s two steaming turds that sat proudly by the wall.

 

Still will filmed though waiting to see what he would do next. He didn’t disappoint.

 

Ashley quickly reverted to his squatting position on the top of the wall and steadied himself by holding onto a branch from a tree. Then, with his other hand, he began with the fastest bum wiping technique I think I will ever see. In one swift motion he would grab a leaf from the tree, swipe him arm downwards and round to his crusty sphincter.  He wiped as he passed his hand down and dropped the leaf to the ground. Then his hand would return straight back up above his head to grab another leaf, and the cycle would be repeated. I’m not exaggerating when I say he was getting through a wipe every 3 seconds using this method. He was going at it like a crazed man – to date it is one of the funniest things I have ever seen.

 

Eventually Ashley finished wiping. Still with his back to us, he pulled up his trousers and leapt off the wall, before running off up the road screaming like a small retarded animal. Rowley and I looked at each other and just carried on laughing. My jaw was actually aching I had laughed so much. There we were, seemingly alone, recording ourselves drunk, when Ashley had snuck back to find us and had become star of the show.

 

As you can probably imagine, the video spread like wildfire. We edited it so it cut Rowley and me out (although you could hear us wailing with laughter in the background still) and we would Bluetooth it to random people in the pub. One Friday night I sent it to a girl’s name that appeared on my Bluetooth and then looked around the pub trying to work out who had received it. I soon spotted a group of girls on the other side of the bar and they all gathered around to watch the video that an anonymous stranger had sent them. Through the cries of utter disgust, I heard one voice pipe up, “He’s wiping his backside like he’s on drugs”. That comments was enough to send a torrent of Guiness out of my mouth and across the table. I’d always wondered what a druggy looked like when they wiped their bum.

Save Yourselves…

17 Nov

My mates and I went through a stage of baring our backsides to passing cars despite being in our late teens. I called it ‘revisiting my youth’. My mother, when she caught us doing it one night, called it ‘being a stupid prat’. Predictably, we always got our bums out after a few drinks and it ensured that a night was rounded off with a good laugh. After a couple of weekends of ‘pulling moonies’ we got bored with the traditional approach of simply waiting for a car to near before we dropped our trousers, so one Friday night after the pub closed, we tried out a new technique.

 

At one end of the high street there was a large roundabout which had four turnings off of it; one obviously going into the centre of town, two headed off in different directions out of town and one led to the car park of a major supermarket. The shrubbery in the middle of the roundabout was quite unkempt and we decided that it would make an excellent hiding place for us to leap out at traffic from. Six of us took up our positions behind various bushes and trees on the roundabout and waited for the first car to approach. As it was late on a Friday night, cars were few and far between, but we were getting one every five to ten minutes.  I’d hear someone shout out excitedly from their hiding position, “Here’s one!”and then the road would be illuminated with the glow from the vehicles headlights.  This was our nod to emerge from the bushes and gather as a group with our arses out, surprising the poor driver. Most of them ignored us, a few laughed and there was the odd driver that would erupt into a fit of rage and circle the roundabout numerous times before we all managed to scarper in various directions.

 

On this particular night, we had been pulling moonies for about forty minutes and decided that the next car would be our last victim of the night. Once again we all got into our hiding positions and waited for the next car, giggling with drunken excitement. A few minutes later, we heard a car approaching. First out of the bushes was one of our friends Ben, a rotund chap who had been kicked out of the pub earlier that evening, not for being drunk, but for being hyper on Coca Cola. As he reached the edge of the roundabout, he dropped his trousers and bent over. The rest of us were making our way over to join him when suddenly someone shouted, “Shit, it’s the police!”

 

A quick look beyond the headlights of the car confirmed that the shout was correct and Ben was now in full mooney position, his crinkled scrotum dangling like a hypnotists chain in front of two bemused coppers who were in the car. Ben heard the shout and peered over his shoulder to see them looking back at him, and then to his right saw the five of us sprinting full pelt towards a retirement home across the road. He tried to pull up his trousers and follow, but he was in such a rush, he could only succeed in getting them halfway up before he started on a pathetic waddle towards us. Trying not to laugh, we made our way into the gardens of the retirement home. Previous escapades had seen us use this as an escape route as you could either climb a fence at one end of the gardens and get onto a little back road, hide behind one of the numerous fruit trees in the ground, or jump over a high hedge which took you into the garden of the house next door. From here, it was possible to leap a few more fences and make a clean getaway.

 

By now, the two coppers were out of the car and in pursuit of us. To his credit, Ben had picked up quite a pace for someone who only had their trousers half on and as we jumped over the fence one by one, he was almost up with the rest of our group, charging like a demented rhino. The two coppers were slightly further back, but gaining ground fast.

 

“Quick Ben you fat fuck”, shouted Mike, the fifth person to drop over the fence. Ben placed one foot on the fence ready to climb, but as he did so, his trousers slipped down once more. Struggling to regain composure, he saw that the coppers were now very close. Every time he went to place his hands on the top of the fence, his trousers would slip down and he’d stop and try and pull them back up again.

 

“Lads, save yourselves! Run, run, run” he shouted, and we pegged it without hesitation as fast as we could, leaving Ben to explain his actions to the police.

 

We all hid in a nearby park for a while, laughing over the events beforehand when my phone suddenly rang. It was Ben.

 

“I’m not answering it” I declared, “It’s probably the police”.

 

One by one, each phone went off until Warren plucked up some courage and answered his. On the other end was Ben, now alone. We arranged to meet.

 

Ben was greeted not with thanks, but with abuse. ‘Gutted you fat wanker’, ‘Ha ha, you retard’ and ‘Nice one, Braveheart’ were a few of the insults I remember. Ben did see the funny side eventually and was grateful that he’d only received a mild ticking off for his ‘immature and quite frankly, disturbing’ behavior, but he still reminds us from time to time about when he put his neck on the line for the rest of us. We in turn respond as you’d expect, by calling him a fat wanker.

American Football in Camden

10 Nov

For my brothers recent birthday, 8 of us decided to go on an all day drinking session in dirty but vibrant London town, Camden. The day itself was good fun; the shitty weather dampened our clothes but not our spirits and we enjoyed drinks in a number of pubs and bars throughout the day.

As the evening drew near, with all of us suitably inebriated, we decided that we should head back and carry on drinking closer to home. We made our way to the tube station, swaying back and forth across the pavement as we did so. On the floor up ahead of us, I spotted a large slipper. It was tatty and dirty, but to my drunken eyes it was a great find. Up to the slipper I ran, and when I reached it, I hunched myself over it. Then I peered over my shoulder to see the rest of the gang looking on with confused looks on their faces.

 “22…24… HUT, HUT”.

 I launched the slipper through my legs behind me as if I were an American footballer. My brother sprang forward and caught it superbly well and I sprinted off ahead waiting for the return pass. As I legged it forward, the others got excited and burst forward after me. My brother released the slipper from his hands and it arced through the air gracefully. I knew I had to increase my speed if I was going to catch it, so I upped my tempo slightly. A random bystander was pushed out of the way, my hand thrusting against his forehead to move him out of my path. The slipper landed delicately in my hand.

 “TOUCHDOWN!”

 We all cheered. Other bystanders looked on with utter disgust on their faces. There was only one thing for it. We formed a scrum, I placed the slipped under my arm, and we advanced forward in our huddle, all the way to the station, making weird groaning like noises. Unfortunately, the slipper was lost on the train journey home, but its memory lives on.

Heath Bobbins

12 Oct

When my group of friends and I were in our early teens, there was an 18 year old bloke that always used to be in the local park on his own, listening to heavy metal music loudly on his Walkman. Scary to look at, we avoided him as much as we possibly could. This was at a time before paedophiles had been invented, so we couldn’t accuse him being one. Instead, he was known as the Crazy Man.

During one summer holiday break we got talking to him, and although he was quite strange, we would hang around with him despite protests from all of our parents. I shall call him Heath, not that it is his real name, but it does sound very similar, and if you were one of the people that also knew him, he will be instantly recognisable from this story. Heath was a loner, but he looked out for us once we’d ‘made friends’ – giving us money he’d stolen from his mum so that we could buy multi-packs of Chewits and numerous packets of stickers for our sticker albums. He would let us try his cigarettes, and sometimes, if he was in a good mood, even give us a can of beer.

To say Heath was unhinged would be an understatement; I’d seen him flip out and go mental on numerous occasions; be it at someone who had told him to pick up his rubbish, or at one of us for taking the piss out of him too much. Despite this, we grew to like Heath, and a lot of the time made a concerted effort to laugh with him, rather than at him. Sometimes though, it was just too hard not to, for we witnessed some truly spectacular Heath events. In no particular order, these are some of the wonderful things Heath did during the time I knew him:

– After getting fed up with his life, he tried to hang himself from a tree in the park with his old school tie. When in the tree we begged him not to do it, but he jumped anyway. The tie snapped. A month later he tried the same thing with one of his dad’s ties and the same thing happened, the tie snapped again.

– We made a small bike ramp over an old tree stump which we were riding over. Heath came over and asked to have a go. After taking an almighty run up, he hit the ramp, crashed, and broke his collar bone.

– From my mate’s kitchen window, we saw Heath coughing and spluttering outside during a hail storm and called him over. He could barely talk and it looked like he was struggling to breathe. He then started rubbing his throat frantically and after about 30 seconds said, “Ahh, that’s better”. When we asked him what had happened, he told us that he’d swallowed a hail stone the size of a golf ball and it had been stuck in his throat, so he had to melt it by heating his larynx up.

– He had a (not serious, but rather ugly) cyst removed from on his face, between the top of his nose and the corner of his eye. The cyst was about the size of a malteser. It grew back, three times.

– When the resident of one of the houses that backed onto the park told Heath off for being too loud, Heath started trying to climb over the high wooden fence to get to him. When he realised that he couldn’t get over, he picked up his own bike and threw it into the man’s garden in a fit of rage. He never got it back.

– He actually had a girlfriend for a brief period, a large girl by the name of Sarah. Quite disgustingly, he would get his todger out, hold it between his thumb and forefinger, and then waggle it at her saying, “Come and have a play”.

– Heath hated frogs, so much so that he would seek them out at the stream that ran at one end of the park, and then pull them in half by their back legs, or throw them against a wall to kill them. It wasn’t until we all turned on him and called him a fucking sick bastard that he stopped. His hatred for frogs before this was very disturbing.

– Heath liked to collect batteries; used batteries that no longer worked. In fairness, he did get through a packet every couple of days, such was the amount of time his Walkman was on, but I don’t really see the point in collecting batteries. I remember him bringing out his collection one afternoon and he had hundreds of them.

– He found a bit of work with one of the local builders, doing a spot of laboring. One job he helped on was the construction of a base for a conservatory. Heath was instructed to mix up the sand, cement and powdered dye so that the two builders could get on with the brickwork, which he did, and the base was built in a day. Three days later however, the builders were called back because when it came to installing the conservatory, the brickwork moved about and still hadn’t set. Opening up the garage, they found the reason why. Heath had just mixed up the sand and dye with water. No cement had been added.

– He once knocked the turban off the head of the owner of the local corner shop, put it on his own head and started doing a weird Bollywood type dance.

– When he got really angry, or when trying to impress the younger kids, Heath would see how many times he could wrap a swing around the top support pole in one push, and then walk away with his hands in the air, fingers pointing skywards, nodding his head enthusiastically.

– Someone once sold him icing sugar instead of cocaine. Heath was not a happy bunny. Two weeks later they sold him mixed herbs as weed.

– We once gave Heath one of those ‘comedy’ exploding cigarettes. After it had disappointed us with its tiny bang, we had to run away from Heath for half an hour as he chased us, intent on revenge.

– He would climb onto the church roof and sing heavy metal songs to the empty graveyard, as if he was in concert. He once did this on a Sunday morning, when a service was on. Inevitably, he got told off, but Heath responded in the only way he knew how to; by running into the church and shouting ‘GOD’s NOT REAL’ over and over again.

– We built a rather impressive base in the woods, complete with roof. We went back the next day to find that Heath had demolished the whole thing in a drunken rage, and taken a poo on top of the debris.

Despite these incidents, we all grew to love Heath in a weird way. He was part of the town furniture, something that you could guarantee a visitor they would always see. Heath’s whereabouts nowadays are unknown. I did see him years ago when he must have been about 24, and he recognised me instantly. Wherever he is now, or whatever he is doing, I hope he’s happy, because he certainly entertained me on numerous occasions throughout my youth. Not in that way, you pervert

‘Armless Fun

26 Jul

I drunkenly pushed my way to the front of a crowded bar (the Toad – High Wycombe), and managed to get a spot behind a gorgeous blonde. She was served and then turned to walk out through the crowd, but as I was so close to her I succeeded in spilling her drink as she bumped into my arm. I apologised profusely and offered to buy her a replacement, and she was absolutely fine about it.
I ordered her and I a drink, as well as a shot of sambuca each, and placed them down on the bar in front of us.

“Here you go, I got us a shot as well”

She smiled.

“One, two, three, down it!”. I picked up my glass, threw the sambuca down my throat and then…just..stopped. Before I knew it, I lost control of my body. I couldn’t help myself; a smile formed across my face and then I just cracked up laughing.

I’d never seen a thalidomide scoop up a shot glass and down the contents before.

It was the action that, in my less than sober state, I found amusing for some reason. Her arm and action was like a little mechanical digger.
Again I apologized, and I felt like an utter cunt. I spluttered out a number of variations of ‘sorry’ whilst trying to hold my laughter in, but in my head I kept seeing the scene from Men Behaving Badly when Gary has that special ‘beer glove’. To her credit, the girl was very good about it and after I eventually calmed down, we got chatting. We shared a few more shots that night, and all was well again.

What a fucker though, laughing at a thalidomide.

The Intruder

21 Jul

As he chased me down the hallway, I knew deep down it was either me or him. This black bastard had forced his way into my home and was intent of getting me. I scurried up the stairs and headed towards my bedroom. As I looked over my shoulder, I saw that he had followed me and was clambering up the first step.
He was by no means a big lad, but he was quite gangly, and the way he carried himself was very imposing, with arms spread wide in a threatening manner. I was both livid that he’d had the cheek to come in unannounced, but also very scared about what he would do. He reached the landing and turned to face me.

A standoff ensued.

I stood in the opening of my bedroom door, too scared to say a word.

He looked back menacingly, and kept making small movements towards me before stopping again.

“FUCK OFF”, I bellowed.

He remained where he was. I felt a bead of sweat trickle slowly down my face, tickling me slightly.

Suddenly, he pounced and hurtled towards me.

I leapt backwards and jumped onto my bed waiting for his next attack. He was now in my room and he began approaching me slowly after his initial burst of speed. I decided to take action and I reached over to the bedside table and picked up the only object I could find to defend myself with; an empty mug. Deep down I knew it would be as good as useless, but now I was armed it seemed to make him think twice about coming any closer. My hand gripped the mug handle tightly, turning my knuckles white.
He was staring at me watching my every move, waiting for me to lose concentration so he could get to me.

‘One more step and I’m going to twat you so fucking hard’ I thought to myself. It was as if he’d heard my thoughts, or had I said them out loud? I wasn’t sure, I was too frightened to think straight, but he came at me once more.
I launched the mug from my hand with all the strength I had left in me. It cannoned off his face and he fell to the ground, with the impact causing the mug to smash. He lay on my bedroom floor, motionless, but I was wary of leaving the bedroom. To do so, I would have to step over his body, and I’d seen in the movies that you should never assume someone is dead. I waited for a further two minutes before I’d plucked up enough courage to get past him. I stepped down gingerly from my position on the bed and I was on the floor, moving slowly towards the door, pushed up as close to the wall as I could get.

SHIT! One of his legs twitched, and I panicked. All reason and thought left me and I smashed my foot down on his face. It was over now, I was sure of it.

I fucking hate spiders.

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