by Sloan, Phil
On the screen a woman has just taken her top off and has the largest top set you’ve ever seen. The gang next door are watching the same channel as someone yells out ‘Bloody hell she’s got some shopping on her!’
She plays around with her top bollocks for a minute and then whips off her skirt, now we’re getting somewhere. But she’s packing meat and two veg, she’s got a cock! A huge groan comes out of the other cabin. This is ‘The Crying Game’ all over again.
In the movie there’s a knock at the door. It’s the post woman with a special delivery. In she comes, whips off her top as obviously she’s run out of paper so she needs her tits signed as proof of delivery of the parcel. The two start deep throat kissing and soon postie has her skirt off as well.
Who’d have thought it? She’s got a nob as well. It’s a cock in a frock! What the fuck are the odds of that happening in the real world?
It seems a bit greedy to have breasts and a penis but let’s face it, if man had evolved both a vagina and a cock, the human race would still be living in caves shagging themselves stupid. There would be no society or inventions like the wheel or the laptop. What would be the point?
Why bother going out on the hunt for a life partner when you’ve got all you’re ever going to need in doors? You wouldn’t have to tell people ‘to go fuck themselves’, they already would be if they had any sense.
I’m not sure this movie has got the mass masturbation appeal for it to ever cross over to the mainstream. Seems the only people likely to enjoy watching it again are the two bods starring in the frigging thing anyway. Still live and let live! They’re enjoying themselves and who is anyone to judge what turns others on. Let them get on with it.
Just as they are about to get down to some serious action, the gang in the booth next door shout out to whack Channel 5 on pronto.
Kristall turns the channel over saying, ‘I’ve seen that movie a couple of times before anyway. Honestly it doesn’t really get any better. It was on the TV at home the other night. My parents were watching it.’
The next channel is showing another head spinner called ‘Grandmothers Lust.’ Don’t even want to describe what was going on in this one. But it did what it said on the tin. Just leave it. This wasn’t exactly ‘Help the Aged’, more like ‘Hump the Aged.’
On Channel 3 there are two individuals dressed up in overalls and they are slowly unravelling a huge plastic sheet and covering up the floor of a large room. Think that some DIY programme has slipped into the videos by mistake.
‘Move on geezer,’ prompts Deviant, ‘I want to see some real muck. This has been well tame so far!’
We flick over to Channel 4 in the booth to catch a bit of ‘Anal Action 17’ just in time to catch sight of a huge bell end coming out of the place where the sun don’t shine, covered in what looks suspiciously like bits of sweetcorn. By now my guts are well turning.
Can’t believe this film has had more sequels than ‘Police Academy.’ That just doesn’t seem right somehow.
We turn back to the DIYers on Channel 3 but they are still unrolling loads of sheeting. There’s no action whatsoever.
Channel 6 is showing a straight fuck flick. It’s almost a pleasure to watch two people of different sexes having sex and I must admit to getting a bit of a lazy lob on. Crammed into this tiny booth sitting next to Kristall is definitely making the blood go south.
We see the ‘cum shot’ which instantly turns the models face into a plasterer’s radio and then press the button back over to Channel 3 to find out what the hell is going on with the painters and decorators. Wish we hadn’t.
The sheet is now in place covering the carpet and the bloke is lying down on his back looking up at the woman who is squatting over his head. She then unloads the contents of her bowels all over his face. From the looks of it, she has not made a Number 2 in about 6 weeks and will be considerably lighter in weight, very soon. She is shitting like a race horse all over the fella’s mug and he looks as if he is proper loving every minute of it.
This is all wrong. How can this be pleasurable? The stench alone would put me right off, let alone the feeling of being covered in someone else’s faeces. I got a massive bollocking for doing a ‘Dutch Oven’ on the Mrs at home once.
A ‘Dutch Oven’ for the unenlightened, is where you release an anal hand grenade (fart) in your bed and then hold your other half’s head under the duvet to let her ‘enjoy’ the aroma of your back door wind. Why this is called Dutch or an Oven is anyone’s guess. It’s not very good foreplay is all I can tell you.
The movie is unsurprisingly called ‘Shit Lovers 5’ and I can’t believe there are four other movies with the same theme before this one. If I was a porn star (some hope with my tiny wedding tackle) I’d sack my agent for getting me a part in this monstrosity.
Deviant’s had enough. ‘Turn it off for fucks sake, there’s a woman present.’ Although worryingly Kristall has said nothing and actually seems to be enjoying this particular film more than any other of the hideous, kinky stuff we have sat through. Bet she’s got a glass coffee table in her home, say no more.
I turn to the last channel, number 2, to see a woman on all fours with an Alsatian behind her. The dog is well excited and his little red lipstick is hanging out, ready for action. All I’m worried about is whether the dogs had his nails clipped or there’s going to be some severe back scratching going down.
This unfortunate chick is about to quite literally get it ‘doggy style’. She must be high as a kite on heroin or been fucked into insanity to even consider a bit of canine intercourse. The title of the film comes up on screen.
It’s called ‘Handsome Dog.’ To be fair, the dog has a rather fetching grey beard look going on, his teeth look clean and he has a nice luscious coat of fur, so it’s a great title.
Luckily at the very moment when the bestial deed was about to be performed the screen goes black. Our money has run out. What a touch.
We pull out a packet of smokes and light one up each.
‘Was it good for you too?’ enquires Kristall of Deviant and myself, with a big smirk.
The three of us look at each other and crease up. The gang in the second booth come out and hear us all howling with laughter and think you lucky, lucky bastards! What have you all been up to? Bit of mutual masturbation? Spit Roast?
After sitting through those vile videos, I decide there and then that my relationship with HCP (Hard Core Pornography) is well and truly over.
Well at least until tomorrow or maybe the day after.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 6…..172 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: ZIP…..NO BAR AVAILABLE…..SHOULD HAVE TAKEN A HIP FLASK FULL OF WHISKEY TO KEEP US GOING
Chapter Seven: Somewhere A Village Is Missing Its Idiot!
Now is as good a time as any to introduce Kid C who is already a legend in his own right. He’s a top fella to have about as he’s always got a great story to tell and gets his round in. We’ve found the Joker in the pack!
While sober he could hold a conversation, charm the birds from the trees and was centre of attention.
However tip alcohol or illegals down his ‘sheep and goat’ and he became the modern equivalent of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde….simply fuel Kid C with excess loopy juice and he changes into The Village Idiot!
Kid C was also known as The Beer Messiah, but his was no second coming. The state he would get in, by closing time, his girlfriend was lucky to get the first!
Here is a choice selection of some of the Village Idiots Greatest Hits so you can appreciate the full extent of his lunacy:
1] One night in the local he had necked some E’s like smarties and was way off his head. He was walking around the boozer on his own trying to talk to people who were avoiding him like a dose of the clap. He finally pitched up at one end of the bar and sat there talking to a painting that was hanging on the wall. The portrait was of some lord or other in all his 18th century finery. What he thought of The Village Idiots ra
nt we’ll never know. Eventually after half an hour of trying to communicate with an oil painting The Idiot bellowed out ‘This bloke is a fucking arsehole and won’t answer any of my questions!’ and went wandering off to the kebab house. He returned a full hour later with a bag of Jelly Babies. Still don’t know why.
2] Village is always the first to down the shots. He does the full lick of salt off his arm first followed by the Tequila and finally chomps down on a slice of lemon shouting out ‘You fucking love it!!’ However once he was a couple of bevvies over his limit he was prone to strip off in the pub. He would stand there completely starkers with everything hanging out. People would laugh hysterically and point, because Village is hung like a hamster downstairs which is probably doing the hamster a disservice. Why he feels the need to show the world his tiny old chap, is just one more reason to love the guy. If the Government really want to put the general public off binge drinking, they should print a photograph of Village in the nude on every beer bottle, with the message ‘If you drink to excess, this could be you.’
3] His pissed up attempts at chatting up the ladies were always a disaster and often ended in a black eye or swift kick to the groin area. One night on the tube in Central London he was sat opposite a good looking girl who had a big heavy coat and a skirt on, so you could see she had a great set of pins, but the top half of her body was a sight unseen. Village was trying to make conversation but was making no sense whatsoever. He finally leant over and touched her ankle, then her thigh, saying ‘From here to there, I like. The rest I don’t know.’ Then he shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that it was her loss that he could not give her the full once over. The poor girl just did not know what to say and got off at the next stop. I wish she had lashed out at him, would have served him right and more importantly, made me laugh even more. Village should not really be allowed out in public unattended as the fella is a total fucking liability.
4] After a week away in Ibiza with the lads on a boozy holiday, he was feeling in a terrible old state and went straight from the airport to the Doctors with heart palpitations. He was in a right mess, sweaty, feeling faint and had convinced himself he was going to die. The Doc took his blood pressure first using a Sphygmomanometer - I had to look this up - which is that cuff thing they attach to your arm to test your blood pressure. He looked at the reading, frowned and took the device off his arm muttering that it must be broken and pulled a second one out his drawer. Again the cuff went on Village’s arm and again the Doc looked confused and said ‘You seem to have the blood pressure of an eighty year old man. What have you been up to?’ Village explained that he had been away with the lads for a week and had probably drunk in excess of fifteen pints of beer. The Doc says that fifteen pints over a week should not get your body in this state. Village said sorry Doc, that’s fifteen pints A DAY! This fella read him the riot act with a major tongue lashing. Your liver will be fucked [am paraphrasing here] think of your health lad, you just can’t go on like that. Cut down now or you will be in all sorts of bother later in your life. Village took the rocket, left the surgery and went straight to the nearest public house to get a hair of the dog. Men of medicine know nothing about hangover cures!
5] When he DJ’ed on a local hospital radio station on Sunday afternoons he always started his show with the tune ‘Don’t Fear The Reaper’ by The Blue Oyster Cult. He also pretended he had had a request for a Mr Richard Head (think about it) who was having a vasectomy that afternoon. It made him giggle as he never actually had a request for real the entire time he worked there.
So Kid C, even though you are certainly a sandwich short of a picnic and a couple of drops short of a piss, we now salute you evermore as Village Idiot!
You are officially FAF [Funny As Fuck!]
Keep on Keeping on dude. Don’t go changing.
Chapter Eight: Amsterdamgoodpissup!!
Friday afternoon rolls on and we are all knuckles deep in alcohol.
The stag, Kid J, has been bricking his pants all day with the anticipation of knowing that we are going to get him. Everywhere we go he is super suspicious that a stripper will appear to inflict maximum embarrassment.
It could even be a male stripper as the whole idea is to humiliate not titillate the stag. If he enjoys the punishment we have dished out, then we have failed. He refuses to drink beers or eat anything that has been handed to him for fear of being spiked with some LSD to make him lose his tenuous grasp on reality. He is Captain Paranoid.
As the day is marching on he is getting more and more worried about his fate but nothing is going to happen to him on Dutch soil. Oh no, Kid J has a grand finale coming when we get home. He is the climax, ‘the money shot’ he just does not know it yet. He has got to sweat it out for two more days.
Once we are back in Blighty on Sunday night then he needs to panic as the fun will begin - for us! There are a whole gang of blokes who could not afford to join us in Amsters, call them the B team, who will be waiting for him in the pub.
They are more than willing to make him suffer. Handcuffs, Nudity & Pain are all on the agenda for stag boy and then some. We have also invited his close family and even his fiancé along to witness the carnage in store.
He’d be better off claiming asylum in Holland than going home but he obviously does not know this yet.
In a vain attempt to avoid impending ritual doom at the hands of his friends the stag had organised an activity for late afternoon, a bicycle tour around the town centre. We all went to a cycle shop where the owner, a whinging old coffin dodger, had the maddest moustache I have ever seen in my life. It was huge and waxed into massive spirals looking like he had a piece of Swiss Roll stuck on either side of his gob.
His facial furniture was a proper work of art and must have taken hours each morning to get ready for display. We got a photograph taken with him standing in the middle of the crew while we all shouted out ‘Qis Tache!!!’ over and over again like a group of seven year olds. That means ‘look at his moustache’ in the Queen’s English.
The guy took ages getting bikes out for us all and then insisted we all wear crash helmets to protect what little brain cells we had left after the alcohol had eaten most of them away over the weekend. This brought random shouts of ‘HELMET!’ from the gang.
This was one of our favourite sayings back in school driving the teacher’s crazy by yelling it out during lessons ‘HELMET!’ during assembly ‘HELMET!’ or in the playground ‘HELMET!’ The longer version of the yell was ‘CHERRY RED HELMET!’ or cutting that down to size ‘CHELMET!’
You could really get the staff narked by doing a double call with the first fella screaming ‘HEL!!’ then someone else would yell ‘MET!!’ Very, very juvenile but it still makes us laugh today.
One of the gang got hauled up in front of the head master who asked him why we were obsessed with the word and what it meant. Trying not to piss himself with laughter, he said that he did not know it was just a phrase that we all found amusing.
I always wish that the head had turned around and said ‘Come now lad we all know you are referring to your bell end. Stop shouting out about your purple headed warrior and get on with some work you spotty little teenage geek.’ Would have been a classic but the head missed his opportunity and besides may well have been sacked for talking about cock with a pubescent lad in his office.
So there we are back at the cycle shop and are all kitted out and ready to go. We get all of 200 yards along the road before we pass a boozer. ‘One for the road’ someone shouts. Cycles are parked up and we go in to get absolutely sozzled, for a change.
We ended up pushing those damned bikes back to the shop late in the evening as we were in no fit state to cycle them back. I did wonder why the bikes all looked like they had never even been ridden. It was probably because they were always hired out by hard drinking unfit Brits who could only get as far as the first bar before deciding what a ridiculous idea it was to go cycling anyway.
You don’t ride a bicycle at
home so why do it here for fucks sake? Bikes get abandoned and beer gets tackled.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blurred beer bubble. When you are out on a session, time seems to stand still but then go really fast. You look at your watch and sometimes hours have passed by in what you could have sworn were just a few minutes.
This is the exact reverse of ‘work time’ where you think hours and hours have passed by, yet it is just thirty seconds since you last glanced at your time piece. I’m sure that the work hours between nine and five during the week are in fact crammed with more minutes than your hours of freedom but perhaps that’s just me.
Maybe if you actually have a job that you enjoy and love then this ‘time freeze effect’ does not happen. As I know no-one in the world this state of affairs applies to, I could not actually tell you for sure.
“PISSED UP CONVERSATION #2:
‘Lads I’ve got a plan,’ brags Kid F. ‘Seeing all those punters waiting to get their hands on some boneless mutton trunk in pitta bread from the kebab shop made me think of the perfect business plan for post pub entertainment. After closing time, what three things does a true lad need? I’ll tell you: food, lift home and a bunk up! So let’s launch Kebab-ya, Cab-ya, Shag-ya.
‘You rock up to the late night fast food emporium once the pub kicks you out to get a doner, or shish if you are feeling posh, then a cab turns up driven by a hooker who takes you home and accompanies you in doors to make the beast with two backs. It’s a sure fire winner. You can charge 200 sheets per person per night and we are sorted, we will be minted.’
Village sees a down side saying ‘Kid F, don’t want to piss on your parade, but prostitution is illegal back home, so by running Kebab-ya, Cab-ya, Shag-ya, this would make you a full on pimp.’
