by Sloan, Phil
The hen house was a real depressingly sleazy place and was totally degrading to the women involved. I can honestly say that we only went there for six or seven nights running before we all got bored of it!
I would always go for a 2B (or not 2B that was the question) and hung out of them like a toboggan. When in Rome and all that….
Anyway I got a real taste for whoring which continued when I got home after my trip. I just felt it was too much effort chasing a real woman when you can just pay to off load your dirty water.
I started using this local escort agency that I found online. You selected a hooker you liked the look off on the website, gave them a call and shortly a beautiful brass turned up in lush lingerie, so that you could have your wicked way with her. It was £150 a time well spent.
Like shouting in a takeaway pizza but without all that stuffed crust nonsense. The agency offered a great service, the women turned up I got laid, they got paid and then they went. I started shipping one in on a weekly basis at least.
Often one of the girls would ring me claiming to be ‘in the area’ and wondered if I wanted some company. Late at night after a few bottles of rouge I thought why the devil not? It was kind of like a ‘booty call’ only you had to put your hand in your pocket for it.
However my fuck habit was getting way out of hand. One night one of my regular bits of slap and tickle came round for some horizontal action. Before we got down to it she asked to use the bathroom. ‘No worries,’ I replied ‘but use the toilet in the spare bedroom as the one in the main bathroom is broken.’
To which the prossie replied ‘Bloody hell mate that lavvys been busted for months now. You said you were getting it fixed last time I came round why haven’t you had it sorted yet? Nice house like this you should be looking after it. Get the plumber round tomorrow.’
Fuck me I was getting nagged at by a call girl about domestic chores. I finally realised it was time to get my life back in order. I started using the escort agency less and less. One night the lass who had moaned, about the bog and not my performance, called up to see if she could pop round as she was only down the road.
To get rid of her I told her that I was defrosting my fridge, which thinking about it sounds like a great euphemism for knocking a quick whitey out. It was probably the lamest excuse she had ever heard in her life for not wanting to get laid but the sad thing was it was true.
There was water all over the kitchen floor and I just could not face getting my lug holes nagged off by that escort again.
I decided at that very moment that I may as well get married again and get moaned at by a woman I was actually in a genuine relationship with and not one I was paying to get my ears bent.
So I gave up all my slutting and three months later met my beloved and now can’t wait to get wed all over again.”
After hearing all this old toffee, if second time stag boy had suddenly developed the power to read minds, the exact same thought was going through all the nine lads heads around the table at the same moment, ‘I give your marriage six months tops before it all ends in tears.’
We’ve all met wife number two who is the very definition of ‘high maintenance’: designer frocks, over-priced shoes and no wrinkles on her forehead thanks to her new mate Captain Botox. Once his bank account is bled dry she will be off to the next middle aged sucker.
But who knows, only time will tell if they are happy together, although even the local bookies are only offering twenty to one odds against them lasting a full year of matrimony. Certainly it is worth a punt at that price.
After a short break to breathe in some more nicotine, take a Jimmy Riddle and get yet another round in we move on from a ridiculous conversation about fucking to a fucking ridiculous conversation about having a vasectomy.
Gap had been snipped a week ago and was complaining about how painful it had been. His cock was really bruised up and half of his shaft had gone black.
He did offer to give anyone who was interested a quick peek in the toilets but unsurprisingly no one took him up on his very kind offer. A glimpse of your mates’ ‘Old Bill’ injured or not, is something to avoid at all costs.
Gap was happily banging on about how, once all the swelling had gone down he had to have twenty ejaculations before going back to the quacks to have a sperm test to ensure that the vasectomy had been a success.
As one of the lads kindly pointed out, twenty spunks was at least three years of his sex life with his Mrs so what was the point of getting your ball bags fixed?
During the conversation Village is looking more and more bemused. ‘So when you go back to the Doctor’s what exactly do they test then?’ he asks with a confused look on his mug.
‘What do you mean?’ asks Gap.
‘Well if you have had the snip you don’t spunk any more right?’ Village enquires.
‘There is no more sperm in my jism if that’s what you mean,’ Gap answers.
Village still looks dumb. ‘But I thought that there was no fluid produced at all and that when you came just air flew out of your cock.’
There is a stunned silence from around the table. Nine lads look at each other. Tumble weed drifts slowly across the bar room. In the distance a lone bell tolls sorrowfully.
Then there is a huge eruption of booming laughter.
‘What the fuck planet are you on Village? You really thought that you could spunk air? What is there a loud sound like PHHHHFFFTTTTTT as you come, like an odourless fart? That is the craziest talk I have ever heard. Did you take Biology in school?’
‘I must have been off sick that day,’ moans Village. ‘How was I meant to know what happens? I haven’t had me bollock tubes sliced.’
Gap retorts ‘You could use your common sense. Hang on I’m just wasting my breath here aren’t I?’
One of the boys makes a loud PHHHHFFFTTTTTT noise again followed by a daft looking ‘vinegar strokes’ face and again we all roar with laughter.
That is why Village Idiot Version 2013 at over forty years of age still carries his nickname with pride. He really is as thick as two pieces of shit nailed together. He is as mad as a box full of badgers’ bum holes.
CIGARETTES SMOKED THIS IN CHAPTER: 8…..47 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 2 PINTS, A PINOT GRIGIO AND A LONG ISLAND ICED TEA.
PART FOUR: BEXLEY VILLAGE
Chapter Twenty Three: The One Hundred Metre Dildo Relay
With another huge leap, we jump back through time to return to the early nineties on a Sunday afternoon in Amsterdam. The guys from the last chapter instantly regain hair and lose pounds of ugly fat from around the waistlines of their future selves.
Having sat in a bar getting stoned for way too long, the gang are now rushing to catch their plane home that leaves in less than an hour’s time. We’ve managed to grab four cabs that are speeding us towards the airport. It really is ‘touch and go’ if we are going to make it.
We have big plans in place for the stag, Kid J, once we get back to England which will very obviously be knackered if we miss the flight. As the taxi zooms through the city centre someone screams ‘Stop the cab matey! Stop now!’
The driver puts on the anchors and pulls over fearing that one of his passengers is about to spew their ring up. He certainly doesn’t want to be cleaning up someone else’s vomit this early in the day.
He needn’t have worried though as it’s only Kid J who wanted the cab to stop. ‘I’ve forgotten to get a wedding present for the Mrs. She will go bat shit if I don’t bring her something back to give her on our big day. So I’m just going to pop in here.’
Kid J points out of the window at a shop called ‘Pillow Talk’ which advertises itself as ‘Europe’s Largest Warehouse of Sex Toys: Home of The Anal Intruder!’
‘What the fuck are you going to buy for your bride to be in there?’ demands Amnesty. ‘We can’t hang about waiting for you, we’ve got to make tracks or we are going to miss the plane back.’
‘Look I’ll meet yo
u at the airport. I’ll grab another taxi, no worries. I’ve got to get her something, I’m off!’ and with that Kid J darts out the sherbert and into the shop of love toys.
‘Nuts to him then. Come on driver, let’s get to the airport and don’t spare the horses!’ cries Amnesty to the cabbie and we speed off again.
We arrive at the airport with barely minutes to spare, sprint into the terminal and what a surprise, the ‘kin plane is delayed by half an hour. We could have smoked a few more spliffs before flying, thanks for nothing bastard airline!
We get our tickets, go through passport control and wander up to the departure gate. Luckily there is a bar there so we grab some liquid refreshment and smoke hard before we have to catch the plane.
Time slides by way too quickly, it is time to make like a banana and split, yet there is still no sign of Kid J. Other folk start to get on the plane. It is going to be gutting if the stag misses the flight as he is the star of the grand finale we have planned for him back home.
Minutes tick by. Finally an announcement blares out ‘This is the final call for all remaining passengers for Flight Number 69 to London Gatwick. Please go to the boarding gate now as your service is ready to depart.’
It’s now or never for Kid J. It’s time to shit or get off the pot! He is going to miss the plane and the torture planned back on home turf.
All of us grab our bags and make for the gate. We’ve lost one. We are a man down and it is the stag. How we going to explain this to his fiancé?
Suddenly someone yells at the top of their voice ‘Hold that plane, I’m here!’
At the other side of the terminal we can see Kid J come legging it out of the metal detectors at security. In his hands are two of the largest vibrators I have ever seen. One is a bright red colour and the other is transparent with flashing lights inside of it looking like a huge cock lighthouse.
He is holding them above his head and waving them about for all to see. If he smacked someone over the head with one of them he could easily be up on a murder charge.
Judging by the size and girth of them, they are more likely to cause massive internal injuries rather than any kind of sexual fulfilment.
As Kid J runs towards us these two humongous dildos are wobbling all over the shop and we can hear them buzzing happily away, even from where we are standing.
He is running his arse off to get to the gate and looks like the only contestant in some bizarre one hundred metre relay race but instead of batons to pass on to his team mate he has two massive plastic knobs!
In my head time seems to freeze and Kid J appears to be running in ultra-slow motion. His arms are pumping and he is getting his knees up well high just like a sprinter giving it their all.
Time slows down. Kid J’s long brown hair bounces around wildly as his legs power him towards the gate, the plane and home.
He looks like he is in that cool scene in ‘Chariots of Fire’ as all those serious running dudes peg it along the beach, but obviously without two massive wobbly plastic cocks in tow.
I start to hum the theme tune from the film out loud. It’s a classic.
I can’t write sheet music at all, but you know the song I mean. It’s a fantastic piece of stirring notes that really gets the heart going as it builds to an amazing crescendo of sound. Mr Bean played it with one finger at The Olympics 2012 Opening Ceremony.
Other lads hear what I am humming and they start up as well. We sound like the most crap choir in town who have forgotten the words to the tune but we get louder and louder as Kid J legs it towards us.
He is proper going for it but on hearing the tune we are humming he slows down and runs in ultra-slow motion like he has suddenly beamed up to the moon where he is legging it, through less gravity. He looks like he is running in treacle as his arms and legs move through the air.
It is at that second that Kid J gains the nick-name Chariots. As he reaches us we break into a huge round of applause. What an entrance, beat that!
We overhear a small lad nervously ask his dad standing nearby ‘Daddy why does that man have two big plastic willies in his hands?’
The father gives the standard and in this case very appropriate answer of ‘Go and ask your Mother!’
The two vibrators up close are just obscenely big. Surely more useful to give pleasure to a horse or an elephant and not to re-bore Chariot’s dearly intended.
Amnesty takes one look at them and says ‘Chariots please tell me those dildos are not your fiancé’s wedding present. You can’t give them to her in front of her Mum. That’s just not correct.’
‘Yep they sure are,’ replies Chariots wearing a big shit eating grin. ‘One up the front bum and one up the back door. She will love these Furburger Helpers! I’m telling you she’s got an elastic arsehole.’
Amnesty replies wearily ‘Fuck me fella are you sure that she wouldn’t have preferred some nice perfume or some chocolates?’
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 11…..36 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 2 PINTS, A LAMBRUSCO AND A SHERRY
Chapter Twenty Four: Why I Hate Flying with Chewing Gum Cocks
The fourteen of us make it on to the flight home from Holland, but only just. We are the last ones to board and everyone on the plane gives us the daggers for making them all wait.
We march down the aisle trying to find odd empty seats left available next to sober upstanding members of the general public. The other passengers are not happy that they have been sitting here waiting for a rabble of pissed up tossers to arrive.
Needless to say we are all well mashed up. Kid M in particular is drunk and I mean rock and roll star drunk. If he had a car (which he doesn’t) and a swimming pool (which he definitely doesn’t) he would be driving one into the other in a Keith Moon stylie.
It is a miracle that he has even been allowed to fly as he is in a right state, totally off his rocker. He has been smoking some mad gear called ‘The Widowmaker’ and it has turned his brain to mush.
For some reason he believes we have been to Dublin all weekend. Why he has this notion is well beyond anyone, he is currently living on his own inebriated planet. He keeps yelling at the top of his lungs ‘There’s more to Ireland than this!’
He then randomly screams out famous Irish pop bands like ‘U2! Daniel O’Donnell!’ Then he falls silent for a few minutes until he starts all over again.
Kid M has found a seat at the front of the aircraft next to an elderly couple who are particularly unimpressed. He is shaking like a shitting dog and yelling out random crap as if he has got a terrible case of Tourettes Syndrome.
The old crumblies look away and suddenly find something of great interest to read inside the in-flight magazine, probably an article about fisting on the French Riviera.
I am seated at the very back of the plane and can clearly hear Kid M shouting out, ‘Thin Lizzy! The Dubliners!’
Then a pause as he takes a breath followed by ‘There’s more to Ireland than this! The NEW Dubliners!’
This is hilarious, to absolutely no one else on the aeroplane but to us idiots. Kid M is now interrupting the safety demonstration that the cabin crew are giving. You know what I mean that pre-flight talk when they tell you about how you can survive a crash by adopting the brace position. What a load of old scrotum.
Believe me this pose will just break your neck quickly in a real smash ending your suffering right quick, after plunging thousands of feet at hideous speeds. My favourite line of the presentation is when they say ‘in the event of landing on water’ like it is a perfectly natural place for a plane to end up.
They should say ‘in the event of landing on water, you are fucked because this baby is going to sink like a stone. Unless you can hold your breath for a few hours it’s game over!’
You cannot hear a word the ‘air grumble’ is saying over the cries of: ‘The Boomtown Rats! Clannad! Riverdance!’
The trolley dolly has had enough and half way through her spiel about emergency exit
s she approaches Kid M to tell him to shut his gob. She even says that she will have him removed from the flight, but it is a pretty empty threat as we are now on the runway starting our take off.
This is the part I hate. The acceleration of the plane bombing along the tarmac and somehow getting off the ground into the air makes my insides go all watery. It just seems unnatural that a machine weighing several tons can escape gravity and get up into the sky. It scares the pants off me.
I have the fear and sit their gripping the armrests of my chair as if that will somehow help the pilot get airborne. I am in a cold sweat and even feel I have sobered up a bit which is not a good thing as I have invested so much cash this afternoon to get out of my box.
Suddenly Kid M starts up again ‘There’s more to Oireland dan dis!’ he shouts in a terrible fake Irish accent. ‘Dana! Saint Bob Geldof! Boys II Men!’
He is so wrecked he means Boyzone or Westlife, but what the fuck it has us all in hysterics giggling like a load of school girls on a mad acid trip.
Kid M is awarded the nick name ‘Paddy’ for his sterling work promoting Irish pop culture and could easily get a job on their tourist board or some such if he wanted.
After a few more random shout-outs, my favourite being ‘Do you like dags?’ by which I assume he means dogs and not the rank sweat stains you get under the armpits of your shirts. Paddy soon runs out of steam, his batteries have emptied it’s time for a recharge.
Christ knows what is flowing in Paddy’s veins but he crashes right out and is deep asleep. It is time for us to get our revenge on the noisy little bleeder, but more on that later…
As I have said previously in this book I fucking hate flying, always have and always will. My fear of aeroplanes does not stop me getting on one to go on holiday or on the piss for a weekender but I do get right anxious about the whole experience. I am bobbing myself from the moment I arrive at the airport and after spending the whole flight touching cloth it is only as we touch down at our destination that I start to relax.
