Profile for voodo_kinky:
none
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
[read all their answers]
- a member for 20 years, 3 months and 9 days
- has posted 4 messages on the main board
- has posted 0 messages on the talk board
- has posted 0 messages on the links board
- has posted 9 stories and 12 replies on question of the week
- They liked 4 pictures, 0 links, 0 talk posts, and 32 qotw answers.
- Ignore this user
- Add this user as a friend
- send me a message
none
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Unexpected Nudity
Why I can never go back to Sweden
I'm married to a Swede. The blond type, not the root vegetable kind (although tubers possible have a better sense of humour than your average scando), anyway.
A few years ago we went to the wedding of one of her best friends, she was marrying a Finnish banker and the wedding was held in a castle on its own island just of the coast of Sweden. The best bit was we were going to be staying in the castle that night. The wedding itself was beautiful and touching and all he things you expect from the wedding. The evening was drunken, and carnage and all the things you would expect from the Finns. At one point I joined the semi naked father of the groom and his friends in attempting to swim back to shore to conquer "the bastard Swedes". That however is not the tale of nudity you're looking for.
You see, this is the tale of the furious incident of the tick in the night time.
In Sweden they have these tick things; they bury their head under your skin, releasing a local anesthetic and gorge on your blood. They are relatively common (especially on pets) and there is a simple knack of grabbing the body, twisting the head in a certain direction and pulling them out. If you pull it out wrong, the head snaps off and continues to burrow in causing massive infection. There are horror stories of people losing feet because of an infected bite.
But anyway, there we are, we've checked into our room in the castle, and my mother in law and her friend have come along for a nosy, they know the bride and want to pass on their best, as well as having a good poke around the castle. A long poke that seems to involve tea and sitting chatting, in my bloody room while I'm trying to get changed.
"I'll just pop into the loo shall I?"
*Silence*
Leaving them to it I wander into the bathroom, pull off my clothes, pull out my emergency beer from my suit bag and in full hand-on-hip, other hand drinking beer stance I take a no handed waz and peer out of the window. It's only when I go to shake that I realise something is wrong. There's an odd lump on my cock, and under no circumstances is that a good thing.
It was a tick.
One of those ticks is on my dick. I nearly fucking fainted. Gingerly pulling on my strides I walk back to the room.
"Honey?" I say "Can you just come here a sec?"
*Nattering"
"Uh, darling. I could do with your help"
*Nattering*
"WILL YOU GET YOUR FUCKING ARSE INTO THE BATHROOM NOW!"
Having been appraised of the situation (And stifling her mirth) she tells me that we have to pull it out.
"No fucking shit"
She then goes on to explain that it must be done the right way and regales me of tales of one footed hikers.
"Well get it out the right way" I say
"I don't know how" she says "Hang on"
Now I think she's phoning her step father, the doctor.
No
She walks back in, with her mother.
"Don't be shy she says, let me have a look"
Given the alternative I relent.
So I'm looking down, my mother in law and my wife are kneeling before me, my mother in law peering over her half moon specs at my cock, just an inch away from the tip of her nose. She has a fiddle, but can't move it.
"Brengt" she shouts. "Can you come her a second?" And in walks the friend who also kneels in front of me.
It was like a porno come true. Except for the blood sucking tick on my cock.
Anyway. They got it out. Everything is all ok.
Except the two cackling crones walked out and told the brides parents what had happened. Who told the grooms parent, who during the meal made a toast to "the English guy with a tick in his cock"
(Fri 29th May 2009, 12:38, More)
Why I can never go back to Sweden
I'm married to a Swede. The blond type, not the root vegetable kind (although tubers possible have a better sense of humour than your average scando), anyway.
A few years ago we went to the wedding of one of her best friends, she was marrying a Finnish banker and the wedding was held in a castle on its own island just of the coast of Sweden. The best bit was we were going to be staying in the castle that night. The wedding itself was beautiful and touching and all he things you expect from the wedding. The evening was drunken, and carnage and all the things you would expect from the Finns. At one point I joined the semi naked father of the groom and his friends in attempting to swim back to shore to conquer "the bastard Swedes". That however is not the tale of nudity you're looking for.
You see, this is the tale of the furious incident of the tick in the night time.
In Sweden they have these tick things; they bury their head under your skin, releasing a local anesthetic and gorge on your blood. They are relatively common (especially on pets) and there is a simple knack of grabbing the body, twisting the head in a certain direction and pulling them out. If you pull it out wrong, the head snaps off and continues to burrow in causing massive infection. There are horror stories of people losing feet because of an infected bite.
But anyway, there we are, we've checked into our room in the castle, and my mother in law and her friend have come along for a nosy, they know the bride and want to pass on their best, as well as having a good poke around the castle. A long poke that seems to involve tea and sitting chatting, in my bloody room while I'm trying to get changed.
"I'll just pop into the loo shall I?"
*Silence*
Leaving them to it I wander into the bathroom, pull off my clothes, pull out my emergency beer from my suit bag and in full hand-on-hip, other hand drinking beer stance I take a no handed waz and peer out of the window. It's only when I go to shake that I realise something is wrong. There's an odd lump on my cock, and under no circumstances is that a good thing.
It was a tick.
One of those ticks is on my dick. I nearly fucking fainted. Gingerly pulling on my strides I walk back to the room.
"Honey?" I say "Can you just come here a sec?"
*Nattering"
"Uh, darling. I could do with your help"
*Nattering*
"WILL YOU GET YOUR FUCKING ARSE INTO THE BATHROOM NOW!"
Having been appraised of the situation (And stifling her mirth) she tells me that we have to pull it out.
"No fucking shit"
She then goes on to explain that it must be done the right way and regales me of tales of one footed hikers.
"Well get it out the right way" I say
"I don't know how" she says "Hang on"
Now I think she's phoning her step father, the doctor.
No
She walks back in, with her mother.
"Don't be shy she says, let me have a look"
Given the alternative I relent.
So I'm looking down, my mother in law and my wife are kneeling before me, my mother in law peering over her half moon specs at my cock, just an inch away from the tip of her nose. She has a fiddle, but can't move it.
"Brengt" she shouts. "Can you come her a second?" And in walks the friend who also kneels in front of me.
It was like a porno come true. Except for the blood sucking tick on my cock.
Anyway. They got it out. Everything is all ok.
Except the two cackling crones walked out and told the brides parents what had happened. Who told the grooms parent, who during the meal made a toast to "the English guy with a tick in his cock"
(Fri 29th May 2009, 12:38, More)
» Public Sex
A story that starts in a club, but isn't soley about it
I have before mentioned my love of dingy Reading indie spots and this story is no different. I was 17 and we were at the After Dark. For those of you that don’t know, allow me to set the scene. The night is called Seasame Street, run by Tom & Johnny two of the oldest swingers in town, and as far as I know it is still going, 15 years later. The door policy was and probably still is relaxed and the crowd made up of the select scenesters from Reading and Henley College.
Getting there is an almost mystical experience. Your train pulls into the station, you pick up some cheap cider and walk across the town centre, exiting the other side you climb a hill and stare aware for the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it alleyway. Down there, under the torn and faded awning are the hallowed doors. The doors open at 9 and by 8.30 there is a massive queue, you see entry before 9.30 is free and money must be saved for warm Red Stripe and chasing the worm down the bottle of tequila. By 10 it is carnage and it continues in a glorious morass of sweaty, heaving, teenage bodies and a palpable fug of pheromones and fag smoke until 2am.
The problem is though, that for many the last train home is 1.40. And this poses the problem: Do you leave early, lurching through the town, sweat sodden and coming down hard, or do you stay to the end and wring every moment out of the night? Your nerves endings tingling with lust, the freedom of alcohol and music and the raw sexuality of the night. Well, durr. You stay. You stay and try to scam your way back with a girl whose worried Daddy had given her taxi money so she would get home safely. Normally this wasn’t a problem, I knew a couple of these girls and prostituting myself with a snog on the back seat was a happy price to pay to get home.
And this is where it went all so wrong and yet very right. You see this night was different, I was with my new girlfriend. I had in fact stolen her off a mate, along with his leather jacket. She was stunning, long blonde hair, an angry pout, slender curves and lovely, lovely legs. She was in the standard 90’s indie girl outfit of short little summer dress, thick black tights, floppy, semi laced DM’s and cloud of white musk. Everything about was needling the arousal centres of my brains (big and little), in fact to this day I cannot smell White Musk without achieving a near instant semi and a desire to spaff all over a pair of dirty Doc Martins, but I digress.
Strangely that night my usual taxi lady chums weren’t too keen on offering me and my girlfriend a lift back. In hindsight I should have though of that, but it was tool late I had spent all of our money on booze and fags. No taxi, no train, no bus, no money. Arses.
“It’s a gorgeous summer night, why don’t we take a lovely romantic moonlight walk back to mine. We can smoke a little weed and stop every now and again for a little snog. It’ll be great”
“Sounds lovely, lets go. Um, how far is it?”
“*cough*”
“What?”
“’bout seven miles”
“Twat”
Anyway, with a little charm and persuasion we began to make our way back. It was indeed a fine evening, we did indeed smoke a little weed, and the snogs just became more and more furious. It was getting hard to contain ourselves. We walked on, her hand in my jeans and mine in her dress, we had to stop soon. As luck would not have it we were walking down the A4, heading for Twyford (for those of you that know it), it was a long, open, exposed road with no-where to dart off. I was priapic to the point of pain at this point and she was complaining of damp knickers, we were so hot we were steaming into the early morning air. And then inspiration struck. The male mind hell bent on a shag is truly the mother of all invention.
“That roundabout! It’s ringed with bushes, no one can see in, besides the road is pretty much deserted”
This was true, apart from the occasional supermarket truck on its late night run there was nobody on the road.
“Go on then”
Those floppy DM’s flew across the tarmac, and by the time I caught up the tights were off and her beautiful ivory bum was thrust in the air, glowing like fine china under the moonlight. I have to say that entering her at that moment may possibly be the most sense screamingly intense moment of my life, we were both utterly wrapped in what we were doing, all our attention directed at the fire where we met, a perfect sexual union.
Which is why, my face contorted in ecstasy, I looked up from her wondrous behind, with its delicate winking hole and saw the trucks circling, cabs perfect height above the bushes.
I thought for a second, redoubled my efforts and give them the pull-chain horn action.
I came like a rocket to an airhorn chorus
(Fri 24th Apr 2009, 12:13, More)
A story that starts in a club, but isn't soley about it
I have before mentioned my love of dingy Reading indie spots and this story is no different. I was 17 and we were at the After Dark. For those of you that don’t know, allow me to set the scene. The night is called Seasame Street, run by Tom & Johnny two of the oldest swingers in town, and as far as I know it is still going, 15 years later. The door policy was and probably still is relaxed and the crowd made up of the select scenesters from Reading and Henley College.
Getting there is an almost mystical experience. Your train pulls into the station, you pick up some cheap cider and walk across the town centre, exiting the other side you climb a hill and stare aware for the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it alleyway. Down there, under the torn and faded awning are the hallowed doors. The doors open at 9 and by 8.30 there is a massive queue, you see entry before 9.30 is free and money must be saved for warm Red Stripe and chasing the worm down the bottle of tequila. By 10 it is carnage and it continues in a glorious morass of sweaty, heaving, teenage bodies and a palpable fug of pheromones and fag smoke until 2am.
The problem is though, that for many the last train home is 1.40. And this poses the problem: Do you leave early, lurching through the town, sweat sodden and coming down hard, or do you stay to the end and wring every moment out of the night? Your nerves endings tingling with lust, the freedom of alcohol and music and the raw sexuality of the night. Well, durr. You stay. You stay and try to scam your way back with a girl whose worried Daddy had given her taxi money so she would get home safely. Normally this wasn’t a problem, I knew a couple of these girls and prostituting myself with a snog on the back seat was a happy price to pay to get home.
And this is where it went all so wrong and yet very right. You see this night was different, I was with my new girlfriend. I had in fact stolen her off a mate, along with his leather jacket. She was stunning, long blonde hair, an angry pout, slender curves and lovely, lovely legs. She was in the standard 90’s indie girl outfit of short little summer dress, thick black tights, floppy, semi laced DM’s and cloud of white musk. Everything about was needling the arousal centres of my brains (big and little), in fact to this day I cannot smell White Musk without achieving a near instant semi and a desire to spaff all over a pair of dirty Doc Martins, but I digress.
Strangely that night my usual taxi lady chums weren’t too keen on offering me and my girlfriend a lift back. In hindsight I should have though of that, but it was tool late I had spent all of our money on booze and fags. No taxi, no train, no bus, no money. Arses.
“It’s a gorgeous summer night, why don’t we take a lovely romantic moonlight walk back to mine. We can smoke a little weed and stop every now and again for a little snog. It’ll be great”
“Sounds lovely, lets go. Um, how far is it?”
“*cough*”
“What?”
“’bout seven miles”
“Twat”
Anyway, with a little charm and persuasion we began to make our way back. It was indeed a fine evening, we did indeed smoke a little weed, and the snogs just became more and more furious. It was getting hard to contain ourselves. We walked on, her hand in my jeans and mine in her dress, we had to stop soon. As luck would not have it we were walking down the A4, heading for Twyford (for those of you that know it), it was a long, open, exposed road with no-where to dart off. I was priapic to the point of pain at this point and she was complaining of damp knickers, we were so hot we were steaming into the early morning air. And then inspiration struck. The male mind hell bent on a shag is truly the mother of all invention.
“That roundabout! It’s ringed with bushes, no one can see in, besides the road is pretty much deserted”
This was true, apart from the occasional supermarket truck on its late night run there was nobody on the road.
“Go on then”
Those floppy DM’s flew across the tarmac, and by the time I caught up the tights were off and her beautiful ivory bum was thrust in the air, glowing like fine china under the moonlight. I have to say that entering her at that moment may possibly be the most sense screamingly intense moment of my life, we were both utterly wrapped in what we were doing, all our attention directed at the fire where we met, a perfect sexual union.
Which is why, my face contorted in ecstasy, I looked up from her wondrous behind, with its delicate winking hole and saw the trucks circling, cabs perfect height above the bushes.
I thought for a second, redoubled my efforts and give them the pull-chain horn action.
I came like a rocket to an airhorn chorus
(Fri 24th Apr 2009, 12:13, More)
» Nightclubs
Ultra Violet Loving
Back in the day, back in Caversham of all places there used to stand the worlds grottiest nightclub. It specialised in ‘ladies’ nights, bizarre PA’s by third rate celebrities and a special line in mopping up the cast offs from Washington Heights and the Afterdark over the river in ‘proper’ Reading. The one thing however that is did do well was the Sunday night Indie night. Oh yes, for just £5 you too could be buying drinks for just 50p all night. In short it was underage carnage.
At the time I was going through the throes of that great self destructive break down of the relationship with my-first-true-love and in the cycle of off-on-off-revenge shag-on, we in an on stage of the relationship. However an afternoon’s drinking in Twyford, a belly full of fishunchips and a bottle of something in the Taxi there had left me somewhat lacking in the finer points of judgement.
Anyway, the usual get in, blah, drink, blah, blah blah, turn to dancefloor and BAM. And I say again, BAM. Oh my word, there she was undulating under the UV lights, a voluptuous beauty sheathed in a floor length halter neck silver dress amongst a sea of greebo girls and tatty DM’s. The men (well lets be honest, boys) were transfixed, the girls staring daggers of hate and jealousy and why? Apart from her beauty that is? Her dress under that UV light was utterly transparent, and the only underwear she was wearing was more delicate than the finest gossamer strand.
“Right chaps. I must have her”
I hit the dancefloor, I shook my thing, while the boys jumped and headbanged I made moves to the music, when they poured beer down themselves I sipped my scotch, all the time moving closer and closer. I watched these fools bounce into her, talk to her breasts and get soundly rebuffed, we made eye contact and shared a smile over these juvenile idiots. We moved closer. Fate played its hand, the perfect song to dance to with someone, I moved into her space, I looked her in the eye and we danced. She moved closer, she ran her hand down my face and held my neck, I wrapped my arm round her waist and pulled her closer. Lost in the music we writhed together perfectly in time expressing our horizontal desires in a vertical position. Over her shoulder I could see a space had cleared around us, all eyes on our display of barely controlled animal lust. At that moment we owned the dancefloor.
The song finished, we paused still entwined and she leaned in for a kiss. For the length of that song we explored each others lips, speaking unspoken promises of what would come later with our tongues and hands, still alone in our island of calm, spotlighted in the middle of the floor. We stopped, we hugged, I looked up and there at the side of the dancefloor, just 3 feet away sat a table of girls from college, girls who knew my girlfriend. My girlfriend who was sat right in the middle of them.
(Thu 16th Apr 2009, 13:32, More)
Ultra Violet Loving
Back in the day, back in Caversham of all places there used to stand the worlds grottiest nightclub. It specialised in ‘ladies’ nights, bizarre PA’s by third rate celebrities and a special line in mopping up the cast offs from Washington Heights and the Afterdark over the river in ‘proper’ Reading. The one thing however that is did do well was the Sunday night Indie night. Oh yes, for just £5 you too could be buying drinks for just 50p all night. In short it was underage carnage.
At the time I was going through the throes of that great self destructive break down of the relationship with my-first-true-love and in the cycle of off-on-off-revenge shag-on, we in an on stage of the relationship. However an afternoon’s drinking in Twyford, a belly full of fishunchips and a bottle of something in the Taxi there had left me somewhat lacking in the finer points of judgement.
Anyway, the usual get in, blah, drink, blah, blah blah, turn to dancefloor and BAM. And I say again, BAM. Oh my word, there she was undulating under the UV lights, a voluptuous beauty sheathed in a floor length halter neck silver dress amongst a sea of greebo girls and tatty DM’s. The men (well lets be honest, boys) were transfixed, the girls staring daggers of hate and jealousy and why? Apart from her beauty that is? Her dress under that UV light was utterly transparent, and the only underwear she was wearing was more delicate than the finest gossamer strand.
“Right chaps. I must have her”
I hit the dancefloor, I shook my thing, while the boys jumped and headbanged I made moves to the music, when they poured beer down themselves I sipped my scotch, all the time moving closer and closer. I watched these fools bounce into her, talk to her breasts and get soundly rebuffed, we made eye contact and shared a smile over these juvenile idiots. We moved closer. Fate played its hand, the perfect song to dance to with someone, I moved into her space, I looked her in the eye and we danced. She moved closer, she ran her hand down my face and held my neck, I wrapped my arm round her waist and pulled her closer. Lost in the music we writhed together perfectly in time expressing our horizontal desires in a vertical position. Over her shoulder I could see a space had cleared around us, all eyes on our display of barely controlled animal lust. At that moment we owned the dancefloor.
The song finished, we paused still entwined and she leaned in for a kiss. For the length of that song we explored each others lips, speaking unspoken promises of what would come later with our tongues and hands, still alone in our island of calm, spotlighted in the middle of the floor. We stopped, we hugged, I looked up and there at the side of the dancefloor, just 3 feet away sat a table of girls from college, girls who knew my girlfriend. My girlfriend who was sat right in the middle of them.
(Thu 16th Apr 2009, 13:32, More)
» I'm your biggest Fan
Most Wanted Musician
There I was, off to Edinburgh for a couple of days. It was nothing particularly glamorous, a bog standard trip which thanks to the peculiarities of my job meant that I would be spending it in various art galleries, museums and at least one trip to the Whiskey Museum. Now my golden rule with any type of travel is this: Remember what it was like being a kid. Remember the excitement of just being in an airport, of getting on a plane and remember the rush of take off. Hold on to that childlike wonder and try to remember what it was like the first time your company actually paid for you to visit somewhere, where they paid for a hotel and dinner and drinks. Man, this is all awesome stuff! Never let familiarity take the shine out of amazing things. It’s like flying, people sit there and read, or watch movies or sleep. Dude, look out of the window, we’re flying! Flying FFS, our ancestors dreamed of this for millennia!
Now I know this is a digression, but bear with me it helps to picture the kind of mood I was in. I’d landed in Edinburgh, had a successful first meeting and had decided to walk back into the centre of town. My phone rang, it was my partner in my *other* ventures, the art and creative stuff that lets me cling on to the last vestiges of impetuous youth and separate me in my mind from the salaryman I need to be for my family.
“Voodoo, good news, Mark Millar just called. He finally got your message about being in Scotland, said he had a great time at our last meeting and has invited out for drinks. I’m getting on a plane and I’ll meet you in Glasgow.”
This was PERFECT. On the off chance this would work out I had arranged a meeting the next day in Glasgow and so the company were footing the bill for a hotel, and naturally I had ‘accidentally’ booked a twin. The meeting he was referring to was when we interviewed him for a show we were putting on about British comic art, and when Mark had agreed to be the patron of our art programme. Now one of my comics heroes doing that was pretty much incredible, but being invited out drinking was just possibly the greatest thing to ever happen.
Walking back into town I had my strut on, a sense of childlike excitement, the sun was out and what was this? My Scottish Trip Garbage playlist had just come on. Life was indeed good and I could already taste my celebratory pint. As I strode down the street I began to pay attention to my whereabouts. I was coming up away from Leith and remembered that I had heard Shirley Manson was from that part of town.
“And talking of Shirley Manson, wow, look at her”
Walking toward me was my perfect kind of indie girl.
“Look at her! All knee high boots, shirt skirt, slim perky body and working my way up is that red hair I spy and wow she’s stunning she looks like……Bugger me! It’s only bloody Shirley Manson!”
It was indeed the prefect day. And dammit if I wasn’t going to say hello, I was fizzing with confidence and I’m a nice polite well dressed (today) chap, hopefully she’ll take it the right way. And as I changed my step to walk toward her she caught my eye, I began to pull out my headphone and try to relate in a few simple expressions and movements that “hey, I was just listening to a track of your criminally underrated album, Beautiful Garbage and what a surprise..”, and as I began to smile I noticed the old lady beside her. They were both carrying shopping bags, and if you took away Shirley’s heels they were of the same height.
“Shit! She’s out with her mum. It doesn’t matter how polite I am, that would just be rude”
As the mental gears turned (and it’s amazing, these paragraphs took place in a matter of seconds) I properly took in the scene. Behind her, following at a respectful/optimum stalking distance was a motley collection of fan boys/girls, freaks and the strange. (You know, Garbage fans). In an instant I understood. She had been out shopping with her mum, one or two had probably spotted her and called their mates, and bit by bit she had accumulated an entourage of the peculiar. All of them too scared to actually come up to her. But if I stopped her, broke through that barrier the poor woman would be mobbed.
I glanced up at them, I looked at her mother and this time tried to convey “Oh bugger I’m sorry I didn’t realise you’re with your mum, I don’t want to interrupt you have a lovely day”
I was rewarded with the biggest, warmest most genuine smile topped off with a little wink. And then in my book was worth a million oddly stilted fan boy street stops. I was elated, I had done a good thing for one of my all time crushes, been smiled at and swept through the following nut nuts like the king of all geeks.
My day just couldn’t get better. Until that was I made it to Glasgow met up with Millar and at 2am drinking scotch in some backstreet bar he told me his mate had shagged her, that she was filth and indeed did take it up the wrong ‘un.
(Mon 20th Apr 2009, 15:30, More)
Most Wanted Musician
There I was, off to Edinburgh for a couple of days. It was nothing particularly glamorous, a bog standard trip which thanks to the peculiarities of my job meant that I would be spending it in various art galleries, museums and at least one trip to the Whiskey Museum. Now my golden rule with any type of travel is this: Remember what it was like being a kid. Remember the excitement of just being in an airport, of getting on a plane and remember the rush of take off. Hold on to that childlike wonder and try to remember what it was like the first time your company actually paid for you to visit somewhere, where they paid for a hotel and dinner and drinks. Man, this is all awesome stuff! Never let familiarity take the shine out of amazing things. It’s like flying, people sit there and read, or watch movies or sleep. Dude, look out of the window, we’re flying! Flying FFS, our ancestors dreamed of this for millennia!
Now I know this is a digression, but bear with me it helps to picture the kind of mood I was in. I’d landed in Edinburgh, had a successful first meeting and had decided to walk back into the centre of town. My phone rang, it was my partner in my *other* ventures, the art and creative stuff that lets me cling on to the last vestiges of impetuous youth and separate me in my mind from the salaryman I need to be for my family.
“Voodoo, good news, Mark Millar just called. He finally got your message about being in Scotland, said he had a great time at our last meeting and has invited out for drinks. I’m getting on a plane and I’ll meet you in Glasgow.”
This was PERFECT. On the off chance this would work out I had arranged a meeting the next day in Glasgow and so the company were footing the bill for a hotel, and naturally I had ‘accidentally’ booked a twin. The meeting he was referring to was when we interviewed him for a show we were putting on about British comic art, and when Mark had agreed to be the patron of our art programme. Now one of my comics heroes doing that was pretty much incredible, but being invited out drinking was just possibly the greatest thing to ever happen.
Walking back into town I had my strut on, a sense of childlike excitement, the sun was out and what was this? My Scottish Trip Garbage playlist had just come on. Life was indeed good and I could already taste my celebratory pint. As I strode down the street I began to pay attention to my whereabouts. I was coming up away from Leith and remembered that I had heard Shirley Manson was from that part of town.
“And talking of Shirley Manson, wow, look at her”
Walking toward me was my perfect kind of indie girl.
“Look at her! All knee high boots, shirt skirt, slim perky body and working my way up is that red hair I spy and wow she’s stunning she looks like……Bugger me! It’s only bloody Shirley Manson!”
It was indeed the prefect day. And dammit if I wasn’t going to say hello, I was fizzing with confidence and I’m a nice polite well dressed (today) chap, hopefully she’ll take it the right way. And as I changed my step to walk toward her she caught my eye, I began to pull out my headphone and try to relate in a few simple expressions and movements that “hey, I was just listening to a track of your criminally underrated album, Beautiful Garbage and what a surprise..”, and as I began to smile I noticed the old lady beside her. They were both carrying shopping bags, and if you took away Shirley’s heels they were of the same height.
“Shit! She’s out with her mum. It doesn’t matter how polite I am, that would just be rude”
As the mental gears turned (and it’s amazing, these paragraphs took place in a matter of seconds) I properly took in the scene. Behind her, following at a respectful/optimum stalking distance was a motley collection of fan boys/girls, freaks and the strange. (You know, Garbage fans). In an instant I understood. She had been out shopping with her mum, one or two had probably spotted her and called their mates, and bit by bit she had accumulated an entourage of the peculiar. All of them too scared to actually come up to her. But if I stopped her, broke through that barrier the poor woman would be mobbed.
I glanced up at them, I looked at her mother and this time tried to convey “Oh bugger I’m sorry I didn’t realise you’re with your mum, I don’t want to interrupt you have a lovely day”
I was rewarded with the biggest, warmest most genuine smile topped off with a little wink. And then in my book was worth a million oddly stilted fan boy street stops. I was elated, I had done a good thing for one of my all time crushes, been smiled at and swept through the following nut nuts like the king of all geeks.
My day just couldn’t get better. Until that was I made it to Glasgow met up with Millar and at 2am drinking scotch in some backstreet bar he told me his mate had shagged her, that she was filth and indeed did take it up the wrong ‘un.
(Mon 20th Apr 2009, 15:30, More)
» Personal Ads
Since I seem to be 6th on the board I should really at least tell a tale
Long time reader, VERY rare poster. I seem to spend most of my time on one of the other internet mongboards.
I've never really tried the whole online personals thing. I've met an awful lot of awful people from the internet, and the was the nekkid cocaine stabbing incident (although it has been universally agreed he deserved it) but never looked for love.
The closest thing I have come to a personal is a column in my college newspaper that attracted some attention. It was the usual pretentious tosh beloved of earnest indie kids (the original ones I mean, way back when), but to cut a long story short it did get me into the pants of the fragrant Alyson. she was a standard issue messed up little rich girl. She lived with her mum and step dad in a massive house in the country, while her father and brother had moved to the US. I should have seen the signs for male abondment issues a mile off, but true to form for crazy posh girls she was dynamite in bed and at that age I just counted my blessings.
Until it got just a bit too weird even for me. To continue the pretence of her being a nice little girl, I would always sleep in one of the spare rooms when I stayed the night. Of course, 2 minutes after her mum went to bed I'd be backskuttling her sweet little daughter over the bedstead.
The house was old and freezing so she often give me a t-shirt to sleep in, one of her brother's, in fact she would insist I wore it, and never let me take it off when bumping uglies.
So far so odd, until I found out that of the many spare rooms in her mum's pile, I always used to sleep in her brother's.
The final straw came when I noticed she always seemed to stare at a point on the wall when she was on top, an old family pic. She always seemed to come when she was oon top... Then one day, while I was wearing his t-shirt, shagging her in his bed, while she was looking at his picture, she called out her brother's name.
I did what any self respecting gentleman would do. Carried on, finished off, and legged it out the window when she finally fell asleep.
(Tue 18th Sep 2007, 13:30, More)
Since I seem to be 6th on the board I should really at least tell a tale
Long time reader, VERY rare poster. I seem to spend most of my time on one of the other internet mongboards.
I've never really tried the whole online personals thing. I've met an awful lot of awful people from the internet, and the was the nekkid cocaine stabbing incident (although it has been universally agreed he deserved it) but never looked for love.
The closest thing I have come to a personal is a column in my college newspaper that attracted some attention. It was the usual pretentious tosh beloved of earnest indie kids (the original ones I mean, way back when), but to cut a long story short it did get me into the pants of the fragrant Alyson. she was a standard issue messed up little rich girl. She lived with her mum and step dad in a massive house in the country, while her father and brother had moved to the US. I should have seen the signs for male abondment issues a mile off, but true to form for crazy posh girls she was dynamite in bed and at that age I just counted my blessings.
Until it got just a bit too weird even for me. To continue the pretence of her being a nice little girl, I would always sleep in one of the spare rooms when I stayed the night. Of course, 2 minutes after her mum went to bed I'd be backskuttling her sweet little daughter over the bedstead.
The house was old and freezing so she often give me a t-shirt to sleep in, one of her brother's, in fact she would insist I wore it, and never let me take it off when bumping uglies.
So far so odd, until I found out that of the many spare rooms in her mum's pile, I always used to sleep in her brother's.
The final straw came when I noticed she always seemed to stare at a point on the wall when she was on top, an old family pic. She always seemed to come when she was oon top... Then one day, while I was wearing his t-shirt, shagging her in his bed, while she was looking at his picture, she called out her brother's name.
I did what any self respecting gentleman would do. Carried on, finished off, and legged it out the window when she finally fell asleep.
(Tue 18th Sep 2007, 13:30, More)