I STINK OF BACON AND PISS LOLLOLOL LOVE CR3

» Tightwads

Fall From Gracies...
I was 12 and living rough in London. Most nights I dossed down with the large group of homeless guys by Waterloo Station; there is safety in numbers and it helps to keep warm if there are more of you. I got particularly friendly with this one guy who called himself Maggot. No one ever got a clear reason why he was called Maggot, but the rumour was it was because his willy was unusually small. Either way, it didn't matter to me, I'm not homosexual and neither was he. What I liked about him was he didn't drink. He was one person I could talk to sensibly. He kept me as grounded as was possible under the circumstances.
After a couple of months of pretty much only talking to each other we had best part of each other's life stories off each other. At sixteen, he'd had quite an interesting life so far. What captured my imagine the most were his tales of the orient. He used to tell me about Tibet an awful lot and, with his youthful exagerations, it sounded magical; this whole flat country up a mountain. A beautiful mystical kingdom in the sky. Eventually he got bored of me asking him to tell me the same stories night after night. He decided, he told me, that we would go there. Homeless and broke I asked him exactly how we would manage it and he proposed being stowaways. It seemed stupid at first. No one gets away with being a stowaway these days, surely. Well, when you have nothing to lose and are too young to get in any real legal bother, it is surprising how cocky you can be. Furthermore, if you are cocky enough, it is surprising what you can get away with.
The train ride was easy enough. We travelled mid day, and back then guards mostly only worked during rush hour. It was the boat that presented a problem.
We had chosen to bum around on boats until we got that far because, well, it was the only option; airports are far too secure to stowaway on planes. We went to Portsmouth dockyard first. It was a shockingly easy journey to France, but nowhere near as pleasant as the stowaway stories you read as kid make it seem. We hid in a container, it was as simple as that. We found an unlocked one and hid in it. We didn't know exactly where we'd end up, but we figured if we could get to Europe it's all landmass until the Orient so it had to be easy.
Well, between rat infested cargo containers, jumping on and off trains that were moving and not being able to beg for not knowinig the languages, it was not easy, but it was possible.
We got beaten up by xenophobic local homeless a few times and a few times we got accepted by them and given food and shelter. I turned thirteen in Turkey. I fell in love with a girl for the first time in Russia and I couldn't even talk to her. I travelled accross Kazakhstan without washing once. Which, frankly, seemed to be the way to do things there as a foreigner. Every white person I met there smelt of sweat and shit and had the lines in their faces brought out by the ground in dirt.
We'd had trouble eating in Kazakhstan due to food poisoning and things only got worse in China. There simply wasn't enough food for the people who lived there, let alone a couple of foreign homeless beggars. Maggot got sick. We were kids and we were scared and we didn't know what to do. We figured if we asked for help we'd get in trouble as we'd heard all sorts of horror stories about what happens to the homeless in China. Thinking he was dehydrated, we made sure he drank a lot, but the water was puddle water and, looking back, probably only made him sicker. He died in China. I had to leave his body where he died; an alley in China. I couldn't find the alley now if i wanted, I'm not even sure what town we were in. I've never known what happened to him. Frankly, the only interesting thing about him to whoever found him would have been that he was white. People died on the streets a lot there.
Suddenly, the adventure became very real. Up until then it had been a game. It had felt like I could wake up and it would all turn out to have been a dream. But not anymore. I was in China, with no means of getting home and no one to even talk to.
That was when I bumped into Bill Owen. I was asking anyone who looked vaguely English if they knew how to get to Tibet. The only person who talked to me, the only person who made eye-contact with me, even, turned out to be Bill Owen (Last Of The Summer Wine's Compo). It was freaky when I realised who he was. By then he was buying me breakfast in an English theme café. He got a cagey version of my story so far (I wasn't ready to tell ANYONE about Maggot, for example) and decided he'd take me to Tibet.
He was there on holiday in a camper van, essentially bumming about, so the trip to Tibet was no skin of his nose. Tibet, to my young eyes, did seem as magical as I'd imagined. In the gift shop on the way out, I asked Bill for a chocolate bar shaped like a roulette wheel that had "I went to bet in Tibet!" on the wrapper. They were reduced to 25p as they were short dated. He said "No", the tight arsed cunt.
(Fri 24th Oct 2008, 14:52, More)

» The worst sex I ever had

When I was younger, still living with my parents and cycling everywhere from lack of driving license,
I set off from a pub, rather worse for the pathetically predictable student style binge drinking, on my bike.
Somewhere on the journey home I decided a wank was in order. Soon enough I found myself shit faced, cycling through the city with my cock out as I pumped away at it trying to stir some sort of sensation in my booze-numbed member.
Eventually I managed to reach the vinegar strokes. As I was reaching my house in fact. And so it was that I sprayed an almost perfectly horizontal line of spunk down the side of my dad's Ford Fiesta. Which, effectively, means I have fucked my own dad.
(Fri 15th Jun 2007, 20:17, More)

» Ignoring Instructions

I can't believe they ain't butterflies.
My grandfather used to keep his own miniature moth cryogenics lab in his study on the bookshelf. It mainly consisted of a miniature fridge, intended for beer cans, turned up full blast and a hand operated tiny pump which was linked up to each of his six "patients". Each morning, before his tea and toast, grandfather would hobble across to the shelf, carefully balance his two walking sticks against the fireplace below, and give the handle of the pump five slow turns with his less than nimble arthritic fingers, thereby cycling anti-freeze through the tiny mothy veins of his half-dozen lepidopteron frozen dead wards. As we were living in my grandfather’s house for most of my childhood, I saw this scene almost every morning of my formative years. It is unsurprising then, that one of the first things I learnt to read was the "Do not touch" sign next to the small array of levers next to his macabre moth mausoleum.
It wasn’t until I began to bring friends home occasionally from school that I even considered that there was something strange about this set up. Friends would at first be bemused at the reasons for grandfather’s odd hobby. Soon and inevitably, however, this curiosity would redirect itself towards the levers and what would happen if they were ever touched. My friends made wild guessing suggestions. Perhaps they would switch the entire machine off. Perhaps they would alter the thermostat such that the moths would catch fire. Perhaps they would bring the moths back to life.
Eventually, in the company of one of my long standing school friends, Kenneth Williams, I bit the bullet and asked my grandfather why it was so important that we did not touch his tiny levers. His reply was curt and evasive; “Just don’t” he mumbled in his old man’s voice. And that was all he would say before turning his attention back to his large print book.
From then on his morning routine changed. He would still waddle over and carefully turn the pump’s handle but now, as he turned to join us in the kitchen, he would see me watching him perform his ritual and, raising a wizened finger to point at the levers he would slowly, purposely and authoritatively state “DO… NOT… TOUCH.”
And so I didn’t. I did not touch. All through primary and secondary school I did not touch. All through primary and secondary school rumours spiralled out of control amongst my friends as to what would happen if ever anyone did touch those levers until eventually they had concocted a quite detailed and ridiculous horror story about zombie moths breeding and attacking and killing and destroying if ever we did touch those malevolent controls.
So good was the story, that one Halloween in my early-teens, while hosting a sleepover the dare was too perfect and too horrifying to be refused; “push the levers.” And it was me that was dared. And so, with my two friends watching from the safety of the stairs, at nearly midnight on Halloween I found myself tiptoeing across my grandfather’s study toward the lepidopteron tomb. With one last glance over my shoulder to catch the excited eyes of my chums, I reached up to the levers, brushed the sign to one side and… thrust all of them forward in one go. The silence was unbearable. All three of us remained transfixed. We did not dare tear our gaze from the moths as we awaited an insecty apocalypse we were sure would unfold before our eyes. Though only ten seconds must have passed, they felt like a whole lifetime. Then it happened.
It started as a quiet tapping. Then a thudding. Then a thunderous drumming. As I turned to seek courage from the eyes of my friends, I saw my grandfather running towards me just before he smashed me in the jaw with a hockey stick. Blow after blow followed. Until he looked down at his bloodied pulp of a grandchild and mumbled “I fucking said do not touch.” And went off to bed chuckling.
(Mon 8th May 2006, 20:19, More)

» Restaurants, Kitchens and Bars... Oh my!

When I was twelve I had a job in the Queen's Royal Kitchens
in the AMF Bowling wing of her secret palace in Netley. It was my job to sew the lettuce together with fine strands of cucumber so that they formed an aesthetically pleasing basket for the braised swan heads.
Anyway, one day we had run out of cucumbers for me to turn into a fine twine. Ordinarily this would not be a problem as I would merely use cress staples until the next delivery of cucumbers came via the Royal Supermarket Palace Delivery Service, which in reality was just a line of mice in little silk suits trained to pop to the Coop. However, on this occasion, we had Groucho Marx and Boris Yeltsin coming over to discuss the Queen's plans for a plutonium powered motorcycle to get her around the world faster so she could fight crime more effectively.
Needless to say, getting my hands on a cucumber was imperitive. After hours of fruitless searching, for a cucumber is actually a fruit, it emerged that I had in fact been dreaming and my 747 had been hijacked by religious types who were planning to crash us into the Sydney Opera House. Imagine how I laughed when the stewardess; a young Felicity Kendall, offered me a cucumber sandwich.
My laughter soon turned to tears though. Felicity insisted that I accompany her to the luxury 747 penthouse suite where she stripped naked and got me to lick chocolate spread off her cunt. All was going well until track six from Peaches' 2006 album, Impeach My Bush came on the radio and inspired Felicity to make me have gay sex with a panic stricken Johnny Depp.

To this day I have been unable to work in a kitchen again. Or eat cucumbers.
(Fri 21st Jul 2006, 11:00, More)

» Intense Friendships

I had a friend once.
Then I became mentally ill.
Now all my "friends" are dull, fat, ugly socially inept wankers on an internet chat room.
And they say the same things day after day.
And it makes me long for death.
(Sat 29th Jul 2006, 23:31, More)