by Sloan, Phil
The owner is still going ballistic. His wig seems to have developed a life all of its own and is moving about all over his sweaty pate. ‘It’s nothing to do with you lot eh? Well explain that then!’ he yells pointing at a trail of shitty footprints encrusted in the carpet leading straight over to the bed that Kid L is sleeping in.
Kid L takes a sneaky peek under his bed covers and starts to look a little sheepish. The owner spots this guilty glance and rushes over to the bed and pulls back the blankets. It is not a pretty sight. Kid L is lying in what looks like that deep river of chocolate crud that the child with ‘body image issues’ drowned in during the movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
(Actually that’s quite enough of the politically correct old bollocks about ‘body image issues.’ I meant to say the obese obnoxious little fat kid in the original film and not the pointless remake version either.)
Within Kid L’s bed there is definite proof that shit really does stick to a blanket. Sticky flaky bits of turd are all over him and this instantly gains Kid L the new nick name of DUNG BEETLE, as those insects just love rolling around in their own excrement. There is no need to call in the CSI boys just yet to carry out the proposed forensic testing, our friend Dung has been caught red handed…well brown handed I should say.
The bed looks like a farmer has unloaded a lorry full of slurry into it. The shite is everywhere. Considering that Dung started in the hallway and then finished off within his pit, the dirty bastard has probably lost nearly half a stone in weight!
To his credit Dung instantly makes a stab at fronting it out ‘This isn’t my Tom Tit (Shit) I swear to you. I’ve been framed. My Eartha Kitt is a nice reddish brown colour and consistency. This stuff all over me looks like rusty motor oil. One of these other cunts has stitched me up by taking a chod in my bed planting the evidence and making me look guilty. Come on, who was it?’
He stares at the three other lads in the room, but they are having none of it.
‘Well someone has to clean all this horrific mess up,’ says the owner.
‘Good luck with that,’ crows the Dung Beetle Boy. ‘Thems the breaks of the inn-keeping trade, you knew the dangers when you opened this guest house. You are shit out of luck fella. I am certainly not cleaning up someone else’s Top Ten Hit (Shit) I’m off for a shower.’
The owner is incandescent with rage by now and it looks like he is going to take a swing at Dung with the baseball bat as he skulks off towards the bathroom but instead he just mutters like a broken man, ‘You have five minutes to get the fuck out of here before I call the police.’
He slams the door to Room Number 2 (ironic really as some posh folks call a poo, a number two) and the three guys howl with laughter, baying like hyenas on mescal.
‘Can you believe the balls on the Dungster?’ admires Kid J. ‘I almost believed that someone else had dropped that load and that it wasn’t him.’
Burke, still sporting a huge lump on his forehead just feels nauseous as the soiled bedding stinks worse than the port-a-loo’s at The Glastonbury Festival after a week of hippy faeces has been passed through them, remarks: ‘I think we had better get our shit together and depart.’
Another round of giggles and then clothes get chucked in bags. These guys know when they have outstayed their welcome. It’s time to leave before the shit really hits the fan, oh arse it already has!
The first thing the three of us in Room #3 know about this crud kerfuffle is when the owner comes and knocks on our door about ten minutes later. He spends a good while hammering on the door before we all finally wake up and Village tumbles out of bed to open up.
‘Right you lot, OUT!’ says the wig wearer without any ceremony at all.
‘What’s the problem chief?’ Village asks.
‘Your mates are animals. One of them has taken a shit in my plant pot, bed and floor leaving me to clean it all up, so the lot of you can just leave, right now!’
‘OK fella but how is his loose bowel movement our problem? I apologise that he is a massive tosser with a dodgy ring piece but really it’s not our fault there’s a grim old mess. I’ve only been in bed for two hours and I need my beauty sleep!’ Village protests.
‘Look I am giving you ten minutes to leave and then I am going to call the cops,’ he snaps and then buggers off.
The three of us get packed to skank off as soon as we can and walk along the hallway to Room #2, the scene of the crime.
The poor owner is down on his hands and knees scrubbing shit off the carpet and walls with a brush and bucket of soapy water. What he is completely unaware of is that flecks of brown watery shite are now stuck to his unconvincing fake mane.
Kid M is droning on to the fella about how Dung is a right prick and well out of order. However he stops well short of actually offering any assistance in the clean-up operation.
I nudge Village and Kid M to craftily point out the poo flakes hanging on to his fake barnet and the three of us are barely able to contain our laughter. I am biting the inside of my mouth so hard to try to stop the giggles that I actually draw blood.
Just as we are all about to explode a young lad of around seven or eight years of age appears in the hallway. Looking down at his father he says ‘Papa you have some on your trousers.’
We all look down and sure enough there is a huge patch of Dung Beetle’s brown do-do now attached to the bottom of his trendy slacks.
This is too much for us to handle, so the three of us leg it down the stairs and out the nearest exit before totally pissing ourselves. Village is near hysterical and will probably need a slap around the face to help him regain control before the yellow stuff flows.
For years to come the words, Wig, Shit, Papa and Trousers will send any one of us into convulsions of laughter.
We finally calm down and take a wild stab in the dark as to where the rest of the crew have ended up and sure enough there they all are in the local bar a few hundred metres up the road.
Although it is not even seven o’clock yet the publican has opened up early for us and the smell of cooked breakfast is in the air. He is even serving up pints of lager to see us all, once again well on the way to Groggsville. Top man, top wages!
Cigarettes are passed around (I still need to go some way to smoke through the carton of 200) as everyone gets to hear about the open sewer that once was Dung’s bed. To this very day he still denies having an accident and insists that he was set up by MI6 or some other shadowy Government body.
Has Dung Beetle’s weak arse pipe got him into further trouble over the years with a huge follow through of hot liquid plop laid in the marital bed not too long ago covering both him and a very unimpressed wife in shite?
You’ll have to ask his wife because I am keeping well schtum. Let’s just say that there was a badly soiled double mattress fly tipped not too far away from their flat recently.
CIGARETTES SMOKED THIS IN CHAPTER: 5…..66 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 2 PINTS AND A FERNET BRANCA
PART THREE: BRIGHTON
Chapter Twenty One: Back to the Present AKA Flab in the Future
Somewhat predictably, as it is now mid-afternoon on Sunday and we have been drinking since the pub opened, the crew is completely mashed.
However the big twist is that we are no longer in 1993 but have leapt forward in time twenty years, back to the present day.
Welcome to the year 2013, a world where people are obsessed with ‘their status’ and with gathering as many online friends as possible, friends they will never actually meet so may as well be imaginary ones.
This is the future, where people name their child Sky, not after the beautiful blue dome above our heads but after the TV channel they were watching when the kid was conceived. Probably the result of a bare back quickie during the advertisement break of an all new show called ‘When Anal Bleaching Goes Wrong!’
In 2013 the machines really have taken over the planet, the internet is king. The majority of ‘The Nation of Idi
ots’ that we have raised, seem to have a mobile phone constantly fused to their hands 24/7 and are unable to engage in even a simple conversation without reverting to moronic text speak or adding the word ‘like’ to every sentence.
The great unwashed masses continually utter the phrase ‘You know what I’m saying?’ in every sentence they utter. Of course I know what you are saying you huge bell end I do speak the Queen’s English! You don’t need to ask me over and over again.
The words ‘At the end of the day’ are just verbal diarrhoea and you really don’t need to insert this really annoying phrase repeatedly into your conversation, but at the end of the day you can’t blame the children. I blame the parents. What sort of example do we set them?
We are the most selfish, self-absorbed, generation that nature has produced, always looking for ‘Me Time.’ It’s no wonder our children are a dead loss really when we are their role models.
This Sunday afternoon in May 2013 sees ten middle aged men, most of us with kids of our own, hanging around a bar in Brighton getting pissed, when we should be doing ‘family stuff’ like arguing, shouting and swearing at our loved ones.
Our excuse for a day on the beer is that an old school mate is getting married for the second time and this is his stag party. Twenty years ago in 1993, the bright young things we used to be would have been on it for a full weekender. Now all we can manage is one Saturday night out that we spent in a club with a crowd that was at least half our age, looking like a bunch of sad old perverts on a day release from the local nonce prison.
To make me feel even more out of place I ended up wearing another man’s shoes, that were these big pointy things that were as long as a pair of skis. The bouncer on the door to the club had deemed that my shoes that I had on looked too much like a pair of trainers (traineresque, if such a word even exists?) and I was not going to be admitted entrance until another more kindly bouncer took pity on me.
He lent me a spare pair of his own fashionably over long shoes that had unfortunately seen much better days and were curling up at the ends, making them look like they were owned by a court jester or The Genie in the Lamp from Arabian Nights.
I got ribbed remorselessly by the guys and could not even walk about normally in the borrowed shoes as they were far too big like two canoes. I ended up shuffling round the club like an OAP traversing the North Pole on a Zimmer frame.
There comes a point in every geezer’s life where he realises that he is no longer ‘with it’ that his time has come to settle into middle age and that The Grim Reaper is hovering close by. Last night was my moment, standing there in a ridiculous pair of clown shoes thinking ‘Roll on Death.’
To escape the depression, we got up double early this morning on a mission to get upside down just for the sheer hell of it. I always find the Sunday afternoon session the best bit of a stag do anyway as you all laze about reminiscing and telling new stories as you get your beer buzz going.
The ten guys sitting here slowly getting hammered are: Euro, Village, Mule, Burke, Gap, Second Time Stag Boy and four other, new recruits who are various mates/family of the main man.
All of us are now on the wrong side of forty and starting to suffer the ailments of the borderline oldie including:
Weak eyes that require spectacles to correct vision: 4 out of the 10 dudes.
Double chins and Bay windows: 6 out of the 10 dudes.
Hair loss: 5 out of the 10 dudes.
Bald Bastards: 2 out of the 10 dudes.
‘Crows feet’ that are deep enough to use as a magazine rack in which to store copies of HEAT: 3 out of the 10 dudes.
Erectile Dysfunction that needs medication: Don’t know how many out of the 10 dudes. Statistically at least one, but who the fuck is going to admit this to their piss taking friends?
Even with our looks and dress sense fading we all like to think we are all still trendy teenagers acting cool. We are all sure we could pull at the drop of a hat (some hope) but one thing is for sure we all speak the same old bollocks that we always have.
It is a great tale and we all crack up as we sink another pint. Then Mule asks the gang ‘Has anyone seen Deviant recently? I wondered if he’d managed to wank himself to death yet?’
‘You ain’t seen him because he’s inside,’ replies Gap.
‘Inside a sheep?’ laughs Mule.
‘No he’s in the clink, in the nick, locked away at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. He is in prison. He got caught stealing his neighbour’s underwear off her washing line the sick bastard. She complained to the police who went round to Deviant’s house where they found a huge collection of stolen scrundies or nicked knickers if you will. The cops said it was the largest haul of undies ever found in the UK. There were hundreds and hundreds of pairs of them that he had robbed. There was a story in The Currant Bun (Sun) so it must be true. There was a photograph of Deviant in the article as well so I know it was definitely him. It had the word PERVERT in massive letters under his mug shot. It was a work of genius and must be true or they wouldn’t be able to publish it in a newspaper, would they?’
‘What a crock of shit,’ says Mule, ‘Deviant wasn’t that twisted was he?’
‘I’ve got a picture of the newspaper article on my phone and I’ll prove it to you then,’ replies Gap whipping his top of the range mobile phone out with a flourish.
Sure enough, there it is in black and white. Looking at his photograph, Deviant had certainly changed from hunk into chunk over the last two decades. He had got sent down for purloining nearly one thousand pairs of panties from the local community. He was not choosy either, big or small if the undies were there for the taking he would teeth them.
He genuinely was one sick puppy and had been well nicknamed by the posse!
Mule is shocked, ‘That’s the last time I have him round my gaff. Don’t want him going down my wash basket and my wife’s draws ending up in The Deviant Summer/Autumn Pervo Collection ready for sniffing.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that happening mate, he’d be more likely to nick your pants,’ Gap says to start the wind up going, ‘he always did have the glad eye for you fruity fella.’
‘Fuck off! You’re just jealous geezer,’ Mule counters, ‘after all it was your front tooth that he used to wear lovingly around his neck on his chain for years!’
Gap knows he is well beaten and skulks off to chuck a tenner into the fruit machine to end the conversation before his stag do tears are mentioned for about the millionth time in the last twenty years. He may as well sling the cash down the nearest drain but it does save him from getting the inevitable shit ripped out of him yet again, so it’s worth every penny.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 11…..55 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 3 HALF PINTS AND TWO CRABBIES
MY OLD BLADDER CAN NO LONGER HANDLE A HEAVY PINTING SESSION WITHOUT AT LEAST TWENTY TRIPS TO THE BOG!
Chapter Twenty Two: The Stag, his Scrubbers and a Very Bruised Penis
The afternoon in Brighton meanders on for the middle aged crew. Alcohol is consumed and cigarettes smoked but not actually inside the public house of course. This being the year 2013, smokers now have to get up off their arse and walk outside to smoke in designated smoking areas if they feel the need to suck down a tab or two.
Even with this extra enforced exercise the Health Police still have the front to call smokers unfit layabouts, what a bloody liberty!
The lads have got well tucked in and by now the stag is completely off his face. We all know that he is a massive quim hound who just cannot stop chasing skirt. He once told me that he really believed that he had a problem and thought he may be a sex addict.
My advice to him was just three words: Have a wank!
It’s no wonder his first marriage fell apart as he couldn’t keep it in his pants and his ex-wife was nicknamed Margarine because she spread so easily, I guess it was a recipe for disaster really.
When his divorce came through he went off the rails a bit and
took six months sabbatical from his job and went off to see a bit of the world and to ‘find himself’.
This just meant dogging it around a lot and sleeping with trashy women across the globe. He has kept his cards pretty close to his chest since he came back but he is seriously drunk now and feels that he needs to unburden himself so he starts to tell us about some of his misadventures:
“I feel that I can really trust you guys so I’m going to tell you about my recent trip. It was amazing. I started in The States, did Route 66 and all that jazz for a few months, then did a month in Oz which was awesome and finally spent ages in Thailand mainly kipping in a hut on the beach doing bugger all. It’s such a spiritual place that I just connected with myself there.
I was in a pretty dark place after my marriage collapsed but soon cheered up in the land of the Thai when I hooked up with some like-minded travellers. We found this amazing brothel down one of the side streets in Bangkok. You were sat at tables facing a small stage that women were paraded around on. You could take your pick and escort them to one of the rooms out the back to get a bit of the old jiggy-jiggy going.
The prostitutes all had these huge badges on them that had a number ranging from one to six followed by a letter from A to F.
It was some kind of complicated pricing system that we never could get our heads around as they seemed to charge whatever they thought you could afford to unload your nut sack.
Me and the guys I was with imagined that the numbers were a rating of prettiness, while the letters were some sort of scale of vaginal tightness.
For instance an ‘A’ rated woman was muscular enough downstairs to fire out ping pong balls or to snap your little pencil in two. A ‘D’ grade pussy was as loose as a wizards sleeve while the ‘F’ rated twat was as tattered as an old wind sock and had had way too much traffic through it.
As for the numbers on the badge how can you rate attractiveness? They say that beauty is in the eye of the beer holder and let me tell you they are not wrong! After all in Thailand one man’s meat is another man’s lady boy!
