» Shit Stories: Part Number Two

First Glastonbury festival
1998, I think - the worst rainfall on record. The portaloos were as grim as you like, with the added bonus that the shit-pits had filled up with rainwater, overflowed, and started to infect everything within a 100 metre radius.

My friend came up with a unique solution to the lack of sanitary bogitude. Under cover of darkness, he stole a chair from outside a burger van, kicked out the seat, hung a plastic bag over the frame, and proceeded to drop a p-bomb. Note that this was in full view of every other tent in the field.

Thinking myself clever, I questioned what exactly could be done to dispose of his noxious bag of shit. Said mate looked at me for a blank moment, then, whirling it above his head like a grim slingshot, cast it as far across the field as he could. We heard the distant smack of it hitting tarpaulin, and a cry of 'FUCK!'.

We hid.
(Thu 27th Mar 2008, 16:56, More)

» Eccentrics

James Brown
Well, not THE James Brown, but a much skinnier lookalike that dresses in a very similar way, and sticks out in my small English town like the jive-talking expatriate sore thumb he clearly is.

He would have a top-flight strut going on were it not for the fact that something is obviously wrong with his left knee, so his unbending leg flails in an elliptical orbit at roughly a 35 degree angle out from his body.

One day, I spotted him out and about, slowly quarter-cartwheeling his way towards the bus stop. He was clearly in a world of his own, as he barely registered the unfortunate 7-year old in the path of his whirling limb, and clocked him in the solar plexus. The kid looked utterly confused and shocked, as JB snapped out of his reverie, and fixing him with a glare, bawled "y'all best be MOVING when I'm on rambling time, motherFUCKER!". Then, all that was left to be observed was the sight of the angry mother swooping in from nowhere, and smacking JB upside his head with a Lidl bag.

It was an ace little sideshow.
(Sat 1st Nov 2008, 3:10, More)

» The most childish thing you've done as an adult

I still occasionally
run up the stairs on all fours. The burst of speed is glorious.
(Sat 19th Sep 2009, 1:05, More)

» Running away

Walking Target
This is a long one. That's all you need to know. Skip if you no likee.

This was many years ago. I forget exactly when, but I've blotted it from my mind. The single most nerve-jangling thing that's ever happened to me, especially to someone not used to being faced with full-on, entirely malicious aggression. Nope, even the 3 travellers that hijacked my car one evening splattered head-to-toe in blood, doesn't quite beat it.

To be fair(ish), I was a pretty stupid-looking person at the time. Sporting an over-stretched, hugely baggy black and white jumper, pinstripe trousers, crap black shoes, a pineapple style haircut and some hefty extra weight, I was close to asking for it.

After an extended weed-smoking session with a friend in the windy seaside town of Hastings, I decided to make a dash for the last train home. Hastings is an easy place to coax weed-paranoia from the most level-headed of people at night, when the seafront is deserted, and all that can be heard is the clanking and creaks of the dilapidated flagpoles swaying in the icy breeze. There's also lots of places to lurk.

As I rounded the corner towards a set of steps, a figure lurched out of a shop doorway. Well over six feet, pale, and sporting few of his own teeth, and undeniably menacing, he might as well have had 'crack addict' (which was pretty rife in Hastings at the time) branded on his pock-marked forehead. 'Got a cig, mate?' he rasped. Being a naive fool, I said 'yes, of course', and handed over my rolling gear. He pocketed that. 'I need a tenner', he said. 'I don't have any money', I answered nervously, as I began to cotton on. I really didn't. No change, no cashcard, as I was hoping to hop the train home gratis. 'If you don't give me some money, I am going to fucking stab you. I've got a knife in my pocket'. 'I don't want to miss my train', I squeaked. Wrong move. Now he had a bargaining chip. 'I'll get you to your train, mate. I'll get you there safe'. Somehow, I didn't believe him. Especially as he was trying to herd me off in the opposite direction.

These sort of exchanges continued as we wandered ever further from the station, with the possibility of catching the train receding into the distance. The threats grew ever more excessive 'I don't care if you have any money, I'm going to slice you from ear-to-ear anyway' was a choice example. He was enjoying himself, simply because he knew I was shitting it. I needed a plan, and I needed one soon.

The amount of shops were starting to thin out as we moved towards the estates, and very few of the non-junk food variety would be open by now. The streets were deserted. We were drawing close to a dingy kebab shop, and I realised this might be my last chance - he wouldn't try to do me over in front of anyone, would he? Would he? As we passed by, I dodged inside, with a mutter of 'I'm hungry'. He followed. The two men behind the counter visibly flinched at the sight of him. I ordered some chips, and he ordered them to get him a glass of water. As we stood at the counter, me with a helpless look on my face, and him hissing in my ear that if we didn't walk out of here soon, he would cut me up in front of everyone, and four years would be nothing to him, the realisation dawned - no-one in here would help. No-one would even phone the coppers. They were more scared of him than I was. Shit.

'Let's go, you fuckin Southern poof!' - I couldn't conceivably delay it any longer. It was time to go. One last chance to get out of this, or be damned. As we were about to exit, I noticed he was still holding his glass of water. 'Can't take that with you, mate', I piped up. 'oh yeah', he rasped, and turned to put it back down on the counter. This was it - run like fuck to wherever. I was off. And so was he. I was no athlete, being a smoker, and a fat bastard simultaneously, but sheer adrenalin was going to keep me moving. It had to. I chanced a look back. he was still in hot pursuit - but this time, the possibly-fictional-but-can't-be-sure blade was in full view, gleaming everytime the moonlight hit it. Run like you've never run before, you flaccid waster. I don't know how long I was running, but when I finally stopped, it felt like my lungs were caving in, my breath a racking wheeze. If he was still on my tail, I was fucked. But I listened hard, not wanting to turn round, and heard nothing except the lap of the sea, and distant yells of the drunk. It was a long, slow walk home.

I didn't go anywhere near Hastings for the next couple of weeks, and told no-one why. By telling no-one why, i ran out of excuses pretty quickly, and was finally coaxed along to a drum 'n' bass night at a dingy club. All was pretty peachy for a couple of hours - amateur MC's shouting themselves hoarse, some tunes I knew here and there - and then, i saw him. Standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor, wearing a long, black trenchcoat, staring straight at me. I'd undergone a hasty makeover during that time, the least of which a full headshave, but it was a very, very tense moment. I broke his gaze, and stared at my drink, pondering a throat-slitting demise. I looked back up, and he was gone. I've never seen him since, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.

Apologies for length. That is all.
(Mon 14th Aug 2006, 13:28, More)

» Spoilt Brats

Me, in retrospect
It's a long one, so be warned...

I will be 30 this year, which I guess is a milestone in anybody's life. Even so, I find myself thinking less about what the last 30 years meant to me, but the amount of bullshit my parents had to put up with.

I wasn't a bratty child. Hyperactive, in my own world most of the time, but not unpleasant. My mum is middle class through-and-through, but my dad is a working-class lad made good, and by diligent saving and hard work made a very comfortable life for me and my sister. We weren't showered with gifts on demand, but we didn't want for much.

Pubescence came, and as expected, I became moody, withdrawn and embarassed to be seen with, or even to be talking to my parents. So far, so normal. I reached college, did my A-levels and figured that now was about the right time to start getting into drugs. A combination of history of bullying and an inability to form lasting friendships meant that I stumbled through these years in a self-defeating haze of weed, pills and coke, jumping from college course to college course and generally being an ungrateful, sponging bastard. Still, my parents always lent their support, whether I wanted it or not.

At 21, I decided to waste more time by going to university. Shortly before I left, I met a girl who was to become my partner for the next 7 years, being unfailingly selfless and patient, and once I had finished the course, we moved to Southampton togther. By this time, I was barely in contact with my parents, despite the fact they helped me out financially where they could, and took pains to keep open the lines of communication. Through my own lies and half-truths, my partner had taken a dislike to them as well, and a deep vein of self-loathing couldn't let me admit that most of my missteps were my own.

Time wore on, and I begun to realise that I no longer felt the same way about my partner as she did about me, and we were hurtling towards a life of mortgages and babies I simply wasn't ready for. Plus, the added burn of having fallen for a close friend and trying to blot it out was making me increasingly desperate. Numerous types of anti-depressants, cognitive behavioural workshops, and trips to both my GP and the local mental health unit made no difference to my state of mind, and just before xmas 2006, I took an overdose of painkillers. I passed out, but woke up vomiting and confused. 20 minutes later, my partner walked through the door, and I acted like nothing had happened. No-one knew about it then, and no-one does now. I nearly gave myself an embolism trying to make it work, but in the end, I had to bite the bullet and end the relationship. Once again, my parents (though they actually liked my ex quite a lot, weirdly) were supportive and didn't judge me.

Through tentative phone calls over a few months, me the girl I was in love with gradually started to become closer, and began to see more and more of each other. We went to Barcelona together. Saw friends as a couple. Things were finally on track.

Sadly, it wasn't to be. In a curious inversion, she wasn't ready to commit to anything either, and broke it off after seven months together. A couple of days later, I was made redundant, and hit rock bottom again. Once more, my parents offered no admonishments, just help and emotional support. This brings us right up to the present day. Yesterday, and for probably the first time in about 10 years, I thanked them both, and told them I loved them. Almost immediately afterwards, I broke down in tears, and it felt good to know something had finally changed.

Maybe it's not an uncommon story, and it's certainly not extraordinary, but it brings home how much as a parent you have to give, and be prepared not to get back. I'm not saying they were perfect, either - my dad has a similar temper to me, and I worry like my mum, but they never, ever loved me any less. If there's a better way to make an ungrateful sod realise they are one in the long run, I don't know what it is.

Apols for length. It's been a while...
(Fri 10th Oct 2008, 14:49, More)