Tag Archives: life story

Things I Found In My Attic Today

21 Sep

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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Take Me Out Part 2

13 Sep

After sending my tongue in cheek application form to the producers of Take Me Out (see here: https://kylejwilkins.wordpress.com/2011/07/07/take-me-out/) I received a number of voicemails asking me if I would still like to go on the show. I think it is up to 5 currently.

 This was then followed up yesterday with the following email: 

From: XXX.XXXXXX@talkbackThames.tv
Sent: 12 September 2011 18:30:32

 Hi there.
Apologies for the ‘out of the blue’ message.
You recently applied to be a contestant on the third series of ITV1’s ‘Take Me Out’ hosted by Paddy Mcguinness.

We have tried to contact you offering you the opportunity to audition for the series and have yet to hear back whether you are interested.
If you are still keen, please email us back as soon as possible with a contact number as the deadline for applicants is fast approaching.

If, since you applied, you have found love or are no longer interested, then feel free to ignore this email.
Feel free to pass the application form on to anyone else you know that would be keen to apply.

All the best

XXX XXXXXXX
Associate Producer
TAKE ME OUT

 

I sent this reply this morning:

 

Hi,

Many thanks for your email. I must admit that I have received a number of voicemails, but as I’m quite tight with my money, I didn’t want to call back; instead hoping that I’d catch your next call at whichever inappropriate time it was that you chose to call me.

I am afraid to say that since applying to be on Take Me Out, I have actually found love. People say love is blind, well in my case, that is spot on, as Jane is actually blind (well, partially sighted anyway). We met, funnily enough, on a blind date as well, which one of my work colleagues set up.

When I first saw Jane, I was mesmerised; completely blown away. She looked stunning and really trendy too; just my type of girl. She looked so cool in her little sunglasses. I already knew that she was hard of sight so this came as no shock, however, quite why she wanted me to wear a red carnation to identify me was a bit strange, as she didn’t even notice me approach her at the table where she was sat!

Since meeting Jane, my life has improved a great deal. I’m excelling at work, I’m constantly happy and it’s great to have someone depend on me as much as Jane does. I am her eyes, she is my plaything. It’s a great relationship. She likes to leave me romantic notes around the house and although her handwriting isn’t the best, it always brightens up my day. In return, I leave little jokes and amusing anecdotes in Braille on the back of door handles so she gets a little giggle when entering a room. We even recreated the Lionel Ritchie ‘Hello’ video the other day when we decided to indulge in a bit of role-play.

So, it is with regret, that I am going to have to decline your offer of a place on the show. I do have one request though. When Paddy Mcguinness says ‘Let the Toffee, see the Apple’, for example; perhaps he should change this on the new series to, ‘Let the Toffee, see, or indeed feel, the Apple’, because not everyone can see.

Many Thanks.

 

I await a reply.

Cool Runnings

7 Sep

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Escaping the Hooligans

2 Sep

One of my narrowest encounters with pain and fear is also one of the funniest things that I have ever witnessed. The scene was a pub in Shepherds Bush early on a Saturday afternoon. I was with my girlfriend having a quick pint before we headed into central London to do a spot of shopping. Around us there were quite a number of QPR football supporters, all in good spirits ahead of their home game later that afternoon. The atmosphere was jovial; a few songs were being sung and all the non-football supporting customers looked to be enjoying the upbeat mood in the pub.

 

We had nearly finished our drinks when we saw two men run through the door of the pub over to a group in the far corner. I heard one of them say something like ‘Leeds are here’. The group immediately stood up and started making calls on their phones. My girlfriend and I were sat in the opposite corner of the pub, on the same side as the entrance. Peering out of the window behind me, I saw about 30-40 grown men swaggering towards the tavern, and they didn’t look like they were going to pop in for a quiet drink. Other men inside started making their way to the door and the atmosphere turned from cheery to one of dread very quickly. I told my girlfriend that we’d wait where we were and to try keep out of the way.

 

“LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS”

 

The shouts got louder and more raucous as the hooligans approached. They were now in line with where we were sat, but fortunately, we weren’t the intended target of any impending violence. A few bricks were thrown towards the front door, and the blokes inside the pub were now spitting with fury, itching to get outside and do battle. My partner reached across the table and held my hand.

 

“Don’t worry, just sit here” I told her, trying to hide the fact that I was shitting myself at the prospect of getting caught up in the mayhem.

 

Suddenly, the QPR ‘supporters’ rushed from inside the pub towards the Leeds mob with a battle cry of “RRRRRRRR’s”

The two crowds met and started beating seven shades of shit out of one another. We stayed where we were, trying to stay calm, but this was incredibly hard when windows of the pub were being smashed around us. I went to ask my girlfriend if she was ok, when I saw her eyes widen. She wasn’t looking at me; she was gazing over my shoulder. I turned round quickly.
Coming towards the pub was a 20 stone Leeds hooligan, arms raised, with a manhole cover in his hands. He was laughing as he got closer, taking enjoyment from what he was doing. He kept motioning as if he was about to release the manhole cover towards the window behind which we were sat, but then gripping it in front of him. I’m not ashamed to say that I was too scared to move. I should have ducked under the table or moved: anything but stay where I was sat. The hooligan was now right up against the window, gurning with delight. He raised the manhole above his head once more and started making his way backwards.

 

‘This is the one’ I thought. I knew that this time it was coming through the window.

 

“Get under the table”, I ordered my girlfriend. Little did I know, she was one step ahead of me and was already in relative safety, tugging on my trouser leg, trying to get me to join her.
I sat and watched as the beast moved another step back, and then another, with the manhole still raised above his head. He took one more step backwards and then…collapsed! His leg had gone straight down the uncovered drain and I stared openmouthed as 20 stone of twat hurtled towards the floor, smashing his ballbag onto the corner of the drain hole. The manhole cover crashed to the floor, narrowly missing his head. He now had one leg resting horizontally on the pavement, with the other one dangling down the drain. It was one of the biggest senses of relief I’ve ever felt. I slipped down from my seat and under the table, pissing myself with laughter.

The police arrived 5 or so minutes later and we were escorted to a taxi once they’d dealt with the thugs outside. I look back at how close I came to getting showered in glass, but all I can do is laugh about it. It was fucking funny watching him fall down a drain which he himself had uncovered. The scumbag.

The Daughter of Bob Geldof

1 Sep

I’d always secretly fancied Peaches Geldof since she first started appearing in the newspapers at 16. I’m not sure if it was the trying-desperately-hard-to-be-cool aura she gave off, or the fact that she looked as if she’d let you wank into her handbag without batting an eyelid.Yes, she wasn’t the type of girl I’d typically go for, but there was definitely something about her that I found most alluring, and so, I had a big crush. With her being the daughter of one of the most famous men in the country, and the fact she’d started the make a name for herself as a ‘celebrity’, I knew my chances of anything happening (should we ever meet) were incredibly low. Fate, however, works in a funny way, and it was on a sweaty summers day that I finally got my chance to chat up Peaches Geldof.

It was a Friday and I was in Camden for a meeting with a client. It was nothing too fancy; I was in casual attire and we held the meeting over a pub lunch – all went well. It went so well in fact, that an agreement was met earlier that I had expected, and so I had a couple of hours to kill, rather than go back to the office until the end of the day. I went into the Arizona Bar for a pint, whilst I perused the newspapers and contemplated what to do next. Out the corner of my eye, I noticed a girl come into the bar and ask to use the toilets. I didn’t pay too much attention to be honest; I was deep in thought. It was only when I heard the girl return that I did look up, and to my surprise it was Peaches Geldof, dressed all fashionably, with sunglasses on despite being inside, a leopard print dress and finished off with a moody pout.

‘It’s now or never’, I thought, rather hastily to myself, and I called out her name.

“Peaches!”, I shouted. She turned and looked at me as if I’d farted in her mouth.

“Erm, can I get a photo with you please?”, I enquired, rather less boisterous than my first call.

Peaches smiled almost awkwardly, and then agreed to the photo and came over to my table. As we got chatting, I lied to her about my ‘love for fashion’, and talk turned to Peaches wish to bring out her own label. I explained that I may be able to help her, and offered her a drink, which she accepted without hesitation. As we continued to chat, I forgot that I was talking to quite a famous person; to me she was just another girl down the pub, although as the drink intake increased, she was beginning to look very attractive indeed, and my confidence levels soared tenfold.

“Peaches?”, I said softly, and I began to trace my finger up her ankle, following the outline of a garish flower tattoo she had running all the way up her leg.

“Do you fancy getting a hotel room?” I continued, finger now at the top of her thigh. Peaches blushed. She tilted her head forward slightly, and then looked up at me. A smile formed across her delicate lips,

“Not yet, mister! Let’s have a few more drinks first”.

‘What a tease’, I thought, before agreeing. We made our way to another small pub, of which I don’t remember the name, where Peaches was good mates with the owner. We started on shots of sambuca; I don’t think I spent any money, much was the willingness of the bar staff to keep our drinks topped up. After an hour a so, Peaches took me by the hand and led me up some stairs at the back of the pub. I asked where we were going,

“It’s ok. I stay here a lot – I basically have my own room”, slurred Peaches. Her faux New York/London accent was turning me on something rotten. As we reached the top of the stairs, she pushed me into a room and we started kissing. It was drunken, sloppy kissing, but it was passionate. My hands began to wander, but every time I ventured south towards her cock-slot, my hands were pushed away. I had a raging erection, and I was willing Peaches to take it in one of her grubby little hands. But she wouldn’t.

We carried on kissing and I think she sensed my sexual desperation. “I’m sorry, we can’t shag”, she said, every word punctuated with a kiss. “I have a fiancee”

“Well why the fuck am I here then?” I asked. I remember feeling both angry but incredibly aroused by the fact that she’d used the word ‘shag’.

“We can watch each other?”, Peaches mumbled. Well, that was enough for me, I was naked in no time, and I slipped her out of her dress. She lay onto a bed and began strumming away like George Formby on speed, whilst I stood over her, tugging myself silly, trying to aim my pulsating bell-end at her mouth in case I had a chance of receiving a sly suck. The site of a drunken Peaches Geldof, fwapping away blissfully, was mesmerising. My whole body tensed as an arc of gooey mess shot from my rigid rod and landed on Peaches’ leg.

“THAT’S FOR ‘DO THEY KNOW IT’S CHRISTMAS?’ YOU FRIGID TWAT”, I shouted as my first release trickled off her leg onto the bed. Peaches was in a daze, but carried on rubbing her flaps slowly. I felt the urge to go again,

“AND THAT’S FOR LIVE 8, YOU SHOWER OF SHIT”, my jism landed a good foot short of hitting her again. I knew it was time to leave. I dressed hurriedly and fled, leaving Peaches half cut and half naked in the upstairs of a pub.

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.

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.

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