» My sex misconceptions

At some point,
all of the staff parties where I used to work descended into games of "I have never", because my boss' wife (the Lady Whelk) had a teenager-esque fixation with the game. Unfortunately, she always said the same handful of things every time we played, so we all knew who had taken it up the wrong'un (Lady W), been tied up (Lady W), spanked (Lady W), slept with a gay man (Lady W), been ριssεδ on (Lady W),shoved a marrow up their αrsε, (duh), been force-fed their own severed nipples (ummm) and who used excessively degrading sex acts to alleviate their chronic lack of self esteem (guess).

One night, when we were all sh!tfaced and having to swig our drinks if we'd ever had our genitals electrocuted (yes, she had), my colleague Greekie banged his fist on the table and exclaimed,

"Enough, Woman! Let us all tell of our most embarrassing moments. I shall start!"

So he started. Greekie, when not much more than a Greekling, was on his national service (which they still have in Greekland), in the wooded, mountainous hills near the north-western border with albania. (or somewhere. I have no idea what it's actually like, so imagine something like endor, with slightly more hills and less merchandising.) Here, he indulged in all the things a young man should: wine, women and shooting guns at albanians.

He had seen a lovely young lady, whom he would later descibe to us as "the prettiest girl in the whole village", and stuck her on his list of things to bang. One friday night, he slid up to her, bought her drinks, and tried to get in her pants. She was a little coy, and not wanting to push his luck (she knew most of the patrons and staff at the bar, and with this being the mountains, they also had guns) he settled for a dinner-date the following night, after which he intended to bone her in the back of his car.

The next day they met. She was the picture of elegance, and he had some condoms in his wallet. She got in his car, and they went to the restaurant.

The waiter took her coat, and she hugged him as an old friend, which it transpired they where. Greekie felt a slight pang of jealousy, which was most unlike him. They ate, talked, laughed, drank, he stroked her leg, she didn't mind. All was well. The night drew to a close, and they left the restaurant.

They got into the car, and the girl said they should head up into the nearby forest, as there was a beautiful view. They parked in a glade overlooking a ravine. Then they embraced, kissed, and after several minutes of frenzied slobbering and groping, the girl was frantically sucking Greekie off on the front seat of his car.

Greekie lay there, panting, dribbles of his man-fat glistening in the girl's hair, knowing that all he had to do now was ϝυcκ her bandy on the back seat and he could get on with not talking to her again.

"Greekie", said the girl, in a small voice, "can I ask you something?"
"Yeah, whatever", he replied dreamily from his post-fellatio haze.
"I really like you, Greekie. I want this to be more than sex. But I have to tell you something first...."
"What?"

Greekie looked at the girl. She was staring at her own crotch. He followed her gaze down, and idly noticed that she seemed to have sat on the gearstick, as there was a bulbous protuberance pushing against the fabric of her skirt, between her thighs, lifting the material like a badly erected marquee. He thought of telling her so she didn't tear her dress. Then it dawned on him.

That wasn't the gearstick.

His eyes widened, transfixed as the girl's engorged glans pushed against her clothes, twitching....

She said "I'm not like other girls", but Greekie wasn't really listening. He simply yelled "YOU'VE GOT A ϜυCΚΙΝG DICK!" instead. She nodded sheepishly.

Greekie thought for a second - nice tits, guaranteed bum fun, but dating a tranny was too much, even for him, and he hadn't planned on seeing her again anyway. He immediatedly started the car and drove her back into town. He had briefly toyed with the idea of leaving her in the woods, but she had a lot of friends locally and he didn't need half the village trying to lynch him the next day. Half the village that had seen them flirting friday, that had seen him buy her dinner and then go up into the woods to shag another man. A man in a dress.

Back in town he kicked her out the car door, said he never wanted to see her again, and drove off....

"...... and that's how I got the best head I have ever had."

We faded back to the party, the telling of stories, peals of laughter resounding around the room.

Greekie's girlfriend sat opposite him, her jaw hanging wide, a look of shock and horror on her face. We all noticed, and stifled our giggles.

"I have never", piped up one of my colleagues, "felt as appalled and ashamed of anyone I have ever dated as I do of my current partner right now."

Without breaking her look of sheer terror Greekie's Girlfriend downed the rest of her drink.

A slightly different "misconception about sex" methinks.... *cough* gender *cough*
(Sat 27th Sep 2008, 20:56, More)

» Stalked

I still have no idea
how Yowl managed to get into ANY university, even one as lax and mediocre as the median of my three alma matae. He was not a bless-ed boy, neither in brains, wit, nor common sense, and he was so exceptionally gullible that he believed just about anything (and I mean ANYTHING) he was told. He jostles with a scant few others for the title of "the biggest numpty I have ever met".

I knew him through two of my friends, Geordie and Joizi, who were members of the pool club - of which Yowl was captain - and they had been playing against him for a few months. Living in one of the smallest university towns in britain, with almost no amenities, was a drain on all our spirits, and in an attempt to alleviate the mind-numbing tedium of life in said town, said brace of acquaintances decided to victimise said gullible ϝυcκτard.

Their method was neither complex, nor sophisticated - one day, Geordie went to Yowl's room in the halls block adjacent to our own, and pushed a note reading something along the lines of "This is Joizi/ I am gay/ Let's commit acts of man-love. PS I love you" under the door.

Yowl, not being too bright, responded to this, not by talking to Joizi himself, but instead by talking to one of his close friends. As they played pool together, he chose Geordie, who promptly confirmed the whole story as true, with the result that Yowl now backed against the wall whenever Joizi entered the same room.

As with all japes, Geordie gave it a couple of days and then circulated it amongst our circle of friends, telling all (including Joizi), and as a result we had a jolly old gaffaw. Joizi, wanting some form of revenge, returned the favour, slipping his own note under Yowl's door, which read along the lines of "This is Geordie/ I am gay / I love you/ I wrote the last note, to drive us together".

I will freely concede this is all very puerile, but we were puerile folk, bored beyond belief with only cruelty to keep us sane. Each of the protagonists continued to send notes purporting to be from the other, and declaring undying love, in a roughly alternating sequence. Eventually, Yowl became convinced all the notes originated with Joizi, despite being in two distinct hands, as Geordie didn't have the habit of jokingly touching up other men when drunk, while Joizi did. Subsequently, Geordie built Yowl's paranoia to a fever pitch, the gullible bastard swallowing every last bogus word.

One night at the end of the year, we had been out for a few drinks. Once the pub had closed, some of us advocated a return home with cans, while others favoured a journey to the town's one late bar. As we could not reach concord, we split into two groups, and while Joizi and Trotter went to the late bar, the remaining half-a-dozen or so of us (including myself and Geordie) strolled home, spar lager in hand. Somewhere, somehow en route to our place, we 'acquired' Yowl.

It started off jovially enough, swigging our budget piss-water while various members of our company exchanged 'exotic cigarettes'. The conversation between Geordie and Yowl inevitably turned to the notes 'Joizi' had been sending. Suddenly, another of my housemates, Dod, intervened.

"Notes? Under the door? He sent them to you too?", Dod asked.

Yowl nodded. Dod immediately launched into an entirely fictitious five minute, off-the-cuff monologue, cataloguing the entirely made-up details of a non-existent three month campaign of "sexual harassment" that Dod claimed Joizi had waged upon him. There had been attempts to "watch him in the shower", he had "picked the lock on his door and got in his bed naked", undertaken episodes of "drunken, crying pleading", "pushed notes under the door", and the net result was that "Dod only dated his girlfriend to let Joizi know he was unavailable and straight".

The Dod let out the 'big secret'.

"You know Joizi's american? His cousin's in the CIA..."
"Really?", gawped Yowl.
"Yeah - he's sent him all these gadgets, classified stuff. I mean, the CIA can do what they like. *looks over each shoulder* He sent him a set of goggles that can see through walls...."

Yowl sat in appalled silence.

"You know those bushes out the front of your block?", continued Dod, "Have you ever seen them move?"

Yowl nodded slowly.

"That's him. He can see through the curtains, through the wall. That's when he's watching you....."

Yowl visibly blanched, began to tremble. All that time, he thought, he had watched him. He had watched him eat, sleep, undress and masturbate. He hadn't realised, thought there was another cause. How stupid he felt now. After a minute or so of shocked disbelief he stammeringly blurted his 'folly'.

"I....I.... I THOUGHT THAT WAS THE WIND!"
_{Which was, of course, correct.}

Three of us where, by this point, visibly biting our own fists, so as not to laugh, and I sincerely expected him to wet himself. When I thought I could hold my chuckles no more and would give the game up, my salvation came in the form of the uncannily well timed return of Joizi and Trotter, drunk as lords.

Bursting into the kitchen, Trotter pointed at Joizi and bellowed,

"THAT DIRTY BASTARD TRIED TOUCHING ME UP ALL THE WAY HOME!"

Joizi strolled in just behind him.

Yowl stared at him.

Joizi noticed, and flashed back a camp, almost dainty wave.


I have never seen anyone run as fast as Yowl did at that moment before or since.


He didn't visit us again....
(Fri 1st Feb 2008, 2:32, More)

» Personal Hygiene

Bar accomodation
is fantastic, as you have to share a room with whom so ever your boss sees fit, which leads to a whole raft of wrong-un related anecdotes.

This one relates to a certain fellow from yorkshire, who i'll lovingly refer to as yorkie, and my brother, with whom i worked, who i'll refer to as, oh, you'll figure it out!

Yorkie liked drinking very, very much. When he was pissed he looked like he had down's syndrome, despite his possession of a degree in spanish. He also had a friend with a remarkably high personal best in the how-many-weetabix-can-you-eat-in-one-sitting departmant.

Yorkie liked a challenge, so he tried to break it. Even though he ate nought save the 'bix all day, he still failed, but notched up a highly respectable score of about 15. After finishing work that day, he fancied getting drunk. On Guinness.

Bruv was his roommate at this time. At about the wee small hours of the morning he was awoken by the sound of a retarded-looking fat northerner shuffling around it the dark. Not lifting his head he saw Yorkie's bumbling silhouette stagger across the room bogwards. Then there followed what sounded like a buffoon falling to the floor. Followed by some groaning. Then a noise that words cannot describe. Then more groaning. Then someone getting up and leaving the room.

Bruv was curious as to the appalling sound he had heard. He rose from his bed, turned on the light, and discovered what happens when you force about 15 weetabix and 8 pints of guiness through a man's empty digestive tract. The result was a dustbin-lid sized, laid-in cowpat.

Hearing Yorkie stumbling back down the stairs armed with bin liners and other stuff, bruv turned the light off and lay in his bed, motionless, sniggering a little. Across the room a man with bin-liner coated hands shovelled excrement into another bin liner, here vomiting into the rancid mess of his anus, there falling in it again, and so on. Then, the carpet de-shitted, he disappeared upstairs, but did not return.

The next morning Yorkie was back in his bed, awoke, and warned about the damp carpet due to spillage. When laughed at, he confessed all, even that after he had left the room, he had hosed himself off it the shower, then ran a bath. He fell asleep in the bath. Then he shit the bath. He woke up shortly afterwards in a bath full of shit.

And the moral of this tale is that this man now works for the government.
(Sun 25th Mar 2007, 3:21, More)

» Terrible food

I used to
work in a bar on Oxford Street, and we had a rather unpleasant australian chef, to whom I shall refer to as Oz.

He had worked for my boss at a number of different places for a number of years. My boss, a cockney chap referred to as The Whelk, for some reason maintained his employment despite his mediocre ability and unpleasent personal habits, which included shagging, I quote, 'literally dozens of whores'.

This tale was related to me years after the event, which took place at a previous workplace. The Whelk ambled through the kitchen one morning, greeting a hungover Oz. Oz grunted back. As the Whelk was leaving the kitchen, Oz piped up with,

"I brought a whore back last night and used one of the big snags on her. I put it back so it won't effect the stock."

The Whelk looked puzzled. He was easily bamboozled by exotic slang. 'Snag'? Still, it didn't affect the stock, he thought, so didn't matter.

"Yeah, whatever Oz."
The Whelk ambled off in the direction of his flat, liberally slopping his coffee, as was his wont.

Later that afternoon, the Whelk entered the kitchen, for several meals needed to be delivered to a table. They were a Lasagne, Toad in the Hole, and an all-day breakfast, consisting of eggs, bacon, a jumbo sausage, beans, fried bread and a tomato. As the Whelk took the food for delivery, Oz pointed out that

"that is the last of the big snags for the breakfasts, so from now on they'll have to get two small ones"

The Whelk nodded and left. He deposited the food with the diners and walked away. Then a penny dropped. 'Snag'.

"Oz, what did you say this morning? About Snags."
"That I used one of the big boys on a hooker last night. Put it back though."
"Used?"
Oz explained how he had used a seven inch frozen sausage to masturbate a middle aged prostitute.
The Whelk's jaw dropped.
"You put it back?"
"Don't worry. I used it."
Oz pulled the empty cardboard box from the freezer.
"Sold the last half dozen today. We need to order some more."

The Whelk's jaw dropped so far Oz could see his breakfast. His brain, meanwhile, stored a grotesque story for after work drinks.

At some point, on that day many years ago, a diner in a tatty pub somewhere to the west of London recieved a breakfast which included a sausage garnished with the juices of a lady of the night's vag. And they ate it.

I would make a poor joke about 'batter' here. But I won't.
(Sun 20th May 2007, 16:46, More)

» Bastard Colleagues

If anybody checks
my profile, this is the third story I have posted regarding a different pub chef, as they are all fucking insane.

I'm not sure what was wrong with Diddly-Dee, but I suspect that it was due to him having had his brain removed, and functioning instead on a few inches of brain stem in the manner of a beheaded chicken. This story does not take root in his stupendous incompetence as a chef, or in him being a plankton-stupid, illiterate, nazi-sympathising closet homosexual with a penchant for luring homeless men back to our staff accommodation with bogus offers of work (not to mention a disturbing interest in 'beardless youths') or in the two weeks he spent over one christmas walking around the west end with a basket of increasingly rotten fruit attempting to offer it to policemen, in the mistaken belief that said policeman would then be obliged to take it to great ormand street hospital for him. (As opposed to walking for ten minutes there with the fruit himself, while it was fresh - when he found a copper, they told him where to stick his fruit)

No, it is in the fact that, to top it all off, he was a compulsive liar. Diddly-Dee claimed to be irish. Apparently, all of his brothers spoke only gaelic, only he spoke english, ablight with a distinct rustic, exceptionally english accent. Later, he mentioned that he went to school in cornwall. And that his family lived in cornwall. And that had never been to ireland. And so on, with his entire life, bullshit all. He had a long-suffering teenage daughter, who almost acted as his carer, forever interjecting into his tall tales with "no, you didn't, dad", and "no, you haven't, dad".

The most stupendous lies, at least as far as we were concerned, occurred following my boss' refusal to allow him retract his umpteenth drunken resignation, which he, as usual, posited around what he perceived to be an irreconcilable alienation from his colleagues, due to his clandestine adoration of hitler, his fucking of tramps and his lusting after disturbingly young 'men'. So he moved out, and we thought we would never see or hear from him again.

Within a few days, we started getting phone calls.

Diddly had always claimed to have run numerous pubs in his own right, something we didn't believe on account of the his having shit for brains, and because all his work anecdotes involved him washing dishes. Following his resignation, he appeared to have tried to convince pub management agencies of this fact too, as my boss, The Whelk, susequently began receiving phone calls asking if he would be willing to provide a reference for 'his manager' Diddly. It would appear that Diddly was telling all and sundry that he, not The Whelk, was the current manager of our establishment (as opposed his actual status as the former cook), while falsely claiming The Whelk to be his area manager.

Somehow, somewhere, it worked, and some poor sap gave him an interim contract to run a pub for them for a few months. Well, I say 'poor sap'.....

Having finally got his own pub, he stopped reciting that particular fabrication and the calls stopped. The months passed, and he slipped gently from our minds, appearing only as a spectre in drunken stories. However, a few weeks before Diddly's contract with his new employer was due to expire, the phone calls started again, asking if Diddly was there, and if they could speak to him, which he was not, and therefore they could not. And then followed letters, promising that "if he returned the cigarette machine, he would not face prosecution". Then debt collection agents followed, seeking the return of the said mechanised dispenser of fags.

It transpired that, towards the end of said management contract, he had disappeared, vanished, run off, taking with him nothing aside from the pub cigarette machine, not clothes, not possessions. One of his employees had arrived for work one morning and found the door open, swinging in the wind, the place deserted, like something from the mary celeste, or rather a mary celeste with a pale patch on the wall where a fag machine should be. We tried to imagine what had become of him - had he departed to live in a small dell, surrounded by lustful cherubim and living off the small change and bountiful tabs within his box of delights? An idyll, of sorts, nice thoughts, but no.

The truth was nothing of the kind, and was revealed in all its glory when two turkish men barged into The Whelk's pub, doused it in petrol and demanded an audience with Diddly. Or they would set it on fire. They had been looking for ol' Diddles, and had acquired his forwarding address. Which was our place. The lying bastard had had falsely given to all and sundry (including the fag machine people) our address as his own. He would be manager of, and live in, said establishment, he lied, as he slipped out of the door with nought but a cabinet full of cancer sticks and fifty pee coins, slinking awkwardly like a jangling, retarded fox into the north london night.

It transpired that the pub he had taken over was, in fact, a gambling den run under the auspices of a turkish crime syndicate, which was why they could find no-one aside from our cornish mutton-headed friend willing to run it. Having taken to the playing of card games against criminal gamblers whilst bereft of any knowledge of said game's rules, he had run up debts which significantly exceeded the monetary sum he could ever hope to earn in the remainder of his lifetime, resulting in IOUs secured against his internal organs, and he had fled to avoid the collection of dues in fingers and spleen. And passed all his shit onto us. The lying bastard. Fortunately, the turks never 'lit up', and left, convinced he was elsewhere, sincerity assured by the pissing of our collective pants.

Needless to say, we didn't see him for about a year, and then only from afar, as one of my colleagues saw him, in the distance, gesturing towards our building, appearing to reminisce of events that had probably never happened to a disturbingly young man around whose waist he had suggestively placed his arm.....
(Tue 29th Jan 2008, 1:05, More)