» Public Sex

in which berk experiences the joys of outdoor lovin’…
First post (and it's a long one!) please be gentle…

(wavy lines back to summer 2003)

It was late summer, and some friends and I decided to bid farewell to our college years in style; one last halcyon week before departing our various ways to various towns and cities across the UK to go to uni. Alright, alright…less of the Enid Blyton, we spent a week on the piss in Newquay. Classy, no?

we’d taken a chalet which was more or less on the beach; it was self catered, and the beach itself had a pub – we barely even needed to move in order to supply ourselves with that studenty ambrosia which is strongbow…although as a group we would invariably traipse up the town for the evening and get pissed there. (in retrospect I suspect this was more an opportunity to visit Newquay’s fine array of takeaways than to get drunk…it’s surprising how many places hang up when you slur ‘yesh, we’d like it delivered to the beach, pleashe’, no matter how legitimate a request this may be…)

Anyway, I digress.
The group included my then-fucktoy, a sweet and innocent lad whom I had taken it upon myself to deflower, reasoning it my civic duty not to allow him to go to uni a virgin. Around 5 of us had been in town (read ‘pub’) for most of the day when it became apparent we’d lost our friends somewhere. Being sex-crazed teens it was instantly decided that this would be an opportune time to jump on each other. What with sharing a chalet with 8 other people, and possessing a modicum of respect for our friends (not to mention self-restraint) we hadn’t viciously abused each other for a whole…gosh, three days?

We staggered back to the chalet, pawing at each other’s clothes, to discover – horror upon horror! – that most of our friends were already back. Having, shall we say…worked up an appetite, there was no way we couldn’t, so…
You know those moments of genius and clarity that you have, where you can actually believe there is a lightbulb going ‘ting!’ above your head? This was not one of those moments. It was dark, it was late. More importantly, it was the actual seaside, with actual sea. And tides. ‘let’s have sex outside’, says he.
‘ok!’ I readily agreed.

Ripping our clothes off a la clark kent, (only chubbier, geekier and uglier), we soon got down to business. I complained about the wet sand digging in to my back, so the boything took one for the team and I went on top. Did I mention it was late, and dark, and I was drunk? Cue much giggling, falling off and rolling about. On wet sand…

when I got back on, it was as if he’d flung away the innocent prophylactic and sheathed himself in sandpaper. Howling like a happy-slapped mong, I leapt off and ran to rinse my now burning ladypart in the ocean. I missed my footing on some rocks, fell over in the sea and came up retching, not knowing which way was up and convinced I was dying. The boything, having established in his drink-sodden brain that leaping off his beef truncheon and running away shrieking was not my usual response to a bit of action, came to see what the matter was. He missed his footing on the same rocks and fell, only this time the tide was on the out, and he twatted his head on the rocks and knocked himself spark out.

I then had to drag him back to the chalet, one of us bleeding and both of us pretty much naked, drunk and sore. It is not possible, under these conditions, to sneak in to a chalet leaving your friends unaware.

suffice to say, I spent the remainder of the holiday sober and haven’t really felt the need to indulge in a bit of al fresco action since…
(Tue 28th Apr 2009, 14:54, More)

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

Well, just this morning
I was in a very boring meeting, and my colleagues stomach started to rumble. Not much at first, but more and more audibly as the meeting dragged on. And all I could think of was pounding her stomach like a bongo and yelling 'HUNGER STRIKES!' (from the shreddies advert) I restrained myself, and started to giggle instead. And then she started to giggle. And then the person sitting on her right started to giggle, all the time trying to keep it quiet enough for my rather elderly boss not to hear. We failed. He was, rather strangely, not nearly as amused as I was.


As we live in different cities, I don't get to see my boyfriend that often. A couple of weeks back, I drove up to see him and discovered he had man flu. Not content with moaning, groaning and giving his damn cold to me, he denied me my fortnightly carnal delights because he was feeling ill, and then thrashed around in the bed all night, sweating and snoring and generally being a disgusting germ filled boy. At 5:30am, after being rudely awoken by yet another elephantine snore and flailing limb, I thought 'bugger this for a game of soldiers' and got up for a wee. On returning to the boudoir, my bloke is lying on top of the bunched up duvet and spreadeagled across the bed. I can't get in; there's no room and no covers. Knackered and fuming, I applied a tub of fresh-from-the-freezer Ben and Jerrys to his naked arse crack, and when he sat bolt upright screaming, farted in his face. Then I kept him awake giggling like a loon on and off for the next hour or so. Served him right.
(Mon 21st Sep 2009, 16:19, More)

» Helicopter Parents

Having made a
total balls of my A-levels, I didn't get in to my uni of choice and ended up going through clearing. I hadn't expected to fuck up quite so badly so hadn't really put much thought in to a back up plan, and in the end I simply applied to the old poly in the same city as my first choice. Got in fine, no problems etc. But I'd left it too late to get in to halls, so had to find somewhere to live.

The uni had rather kindly organised a massive list of private landlords and their properties, but again, having left it so late I was pretty much looking at the dregs when I got down there. Thats how I came to live in a house with a psychotic chinese lass and a bloke with an excessive fondness for Bolivian marching powder.

This guy was 26 and had been at uni for seven years. He'd never completed a course, either repeatedly failing years or changing his mind about the course and starting a new one. I can't imagine what role his penchant for little bags of white powder played in this...however I digress.

At the age of 26 his mother would:
1) Come down from London twice a month to tidy his room, and if she saw fit the communal areas of the house as well - once sparking a blazing row between her and the our mentalist female housemate for 'moving her knives'.
2) Take him to Tesco for his big shop whenever she came down, then put it all away, frequently moving or throwing away my food to do so. This is despite the fact that he lived mainly off takeaways paid for by
3) His stonking great allowance. He also had a credit card which she would pay off in full every month.
4) There were other things too; taking his laundry back to London, going with him to the GP because she didn't feel the doctor was taking him seriously, choosing which hairdresser he went to, etc etc...

Until one day in March sometime, I came home to discover the front door open, a police car outside and lots of shouting. Lots and lots. It seems that during a routine tidy and rummage round of his bedroom she'd found his stash; just over an eighth of weed and a couple of lines of coke. She'd rung the police and tried to demand an ambulance too, then tried to have him detained under the mental health act when - rather understandably - he had a massive go at her. When she started throwing things and screaming I scarpered and returned a few hours later. No sign of him. Weeks pass - still no sign of him. One day I come home to discover most of his stuff has gone. Then in June when I'm preparing to move out myself, I heard the door go and an unfamiliar male voice; he's back to clear out the rest of his stuff under Mummys watchful eye.
She'd locked him in his room 'for his own good' until he agreed to spend a couple of months in rehab. True, the guy was a dick but it really wasn't necessary. Needless to say, I never saw him again.
(Fri 11th Sep 2009, 16:34, More)

» Gyms

I am not only circumferentially challenged...
but coordinationally challenged also. (Pipe down at the back - of course it's a word..)
Thus, gyms are not happy places for me. Nevertheless, I go, I sweat, I pay my dues...and then I go home and eat chocolate, thus rendering my endeavours fairly pointless. Recently however, I've pretty much stopped going due to the tale of woe I'm about to tell.

Whilst I was at uni I used to drive to the gym, do a bit on the bike, a bit of swimming, maybe a bit of crosstrainer and then potter off home. This would happen perhaps three times a week.
Then I graduated and moved back home. Consequently, I stopped going to the gym as there wasn't one near my parents. I got a bit...wobbly. Wobblier, anyway.

A few months later, cue new job, new gym membership, new ‘mature and determined outlook’, the works. In order to use the gym here, you have to have had an induction. This means booking in with one of the freakishly musclebound fanatics that ‘man’ the front desk – if indeed ‘man’ is the right word, as they stand apeishly, overly muscled knuckles dragging on the floor, barely capable of speech unless prompted by certain sports-based vocabulary. For instance, ask one about his ‘team’ (any team) or how much he can bench press, and he will quote you chapter and verse. Ask one how he feels about politics or the weather, and he will fix you with a bewildered, almost bovine expression of bemusement.

I arrive for my induction, greet ‘thug of the day’ and proceed to the equipment. A neuron fizzles fitfully in to life as he asks me what I do (‘Biomedical science’, I reply, and it fitfully fizzles off again leaving him with looking puzzled…). He dutifully shows me each piece of equipment, how it works and what it does, then passes me over to the stick-thin, hatchet-faced shrew who will ‘write me an exercise programme’.
I protest that I don’t want one, but she takes my arm in her vice-like yet bony grip and marches me to the treadmill with a glint in her eye that says ‘I’m going to make you suffer, you chubby fuck.’ I protest yet further; I can’t use treadmills. They make me wobble vociferously – as one foot comes down it causes a tide of outward ripples – these generally make a return as the other foot comes down, causing a further tide of ripples which bash together in the middle, giving birth to little progeny ripples which get together with their mates and have punchups with their elders. Given that most treadmills seem to be positioned in front of mirrors, on the rare occasions I jog I stop after 10 minutes feeling seasick.

She forces me on the thing regardless, cranking the speed up so high that I feel like a hamster on a wheel. Once more I protest whilst I still have the breath to do so, but she insists. After 6 minutes of sprinting I reach for the red stop button, sure that I’m about to pass out, but she slaps my hand away. Irritated, I try again, so she turns down the speed and lets me continue at a sensible pace. Until the 9th minute when, without warning she turns it back up as high as it will go. Unsurprisingly, I shoot off the back of the thing in a cartoon-esque style – you can almost see the dust cloud, and not even Daffy Duck could have done it better.
‘Oh – don’t you normally go for a sprint finish?’, she sniggers as I pick my carpet-burned carcass off the floor.

We move on to the cross trainer. Not the normal, ‘I-can-do-this-forever, or-at-least-til-neighbours-has-finished’ crosstrainer, which I actually quite like. No, this beast supposedly works every muscle in your body and wipes your arse too.
Still, I’m game, so I give it a go even though I feel off balance and constantly like I’m about to fall off; even despite the fact this silly shrieking cow is going ‘come on, faster! Is that all you’ve got? Come on!’ etc etc. She’s really pissing me off so I go for the burn, only to lose my rhythm and yes, you’ve guessed it – fly off the back. As I slump to the floor for the second time in 10 minutes, the freewheeling footpad catches me in the face and breaks my nose which gushes bloodily, causing the shrieking cow to shriek more and me to tell her to fuck rightly off and storm out of the gym.

I’ve started cycling in to work instead now.


Length? Well…all those glistening muscles must be compensating for something, surely?
(Thu 9th Jul 2009, 15:32, More)

» Unexpected Nudity

Back in the days when I had a student loan and could afford to go to festivals...
Now, I'd been pretty excited about this festival - my first ever one - because Green Day were playing (yes, I know - I blame my youthful poor taste) and I awoke bright and early, threw on my clothes and went to join the masses queueing to get in to the arena. In my haste, I was unable to find a pair of underpants in the fuggy depths of the tent, but I just thought 'Sod it. Who'll know?'

This was my first mistake.

Knowing I'd be in the front of the crowd for some time, I'd elected to wear a relatively sturdy pair of gig-going cord flares. They were a bit tatty, having been christened with the sweat and blood of several rock gigs, but they were very comfortable and I wasn't bothered if they got trashed. They were already a bit trashed in fact, having a repaired rip up one trouser leg.

This was my second mistake.

I got pretty close to the front, actually, and I'd been there several hours when 50 Cent came on - the act before Green Day. People were unimpressed. Bottles were thrown. There was shoving.
Now, I'm not tall. In fact, I'm really rather short. Some rather angsty punk elbowed me in the face and I fell down, but being so close to the front there was no room to pull me up for a good few minutes. So, I was lying on my back in a sea of muddy, sweaty legs and bottles and christ knows what else, until eventually a couple of big guys managed to drag me up.

However. People had been standing on me, and as I was pulled from the depths, my mended cords ripped and started to unravel up one seam. Back on my feet I figured there was no real harm done, and continued about my merry business of jeering the rapper on stage.
Then I got smacked in the face again. Then some crowd surfing jizzstain kicked me.
Fuck this, I thought - I've had enough. I yelled to the security to pull me out of the crowd, which bless them, they tried to do. Now, as well as being short, I'm kinda chubby. And heavy.
They pulled, and people in the crowd pushed, and eventually I managed to pop over the rows of people in front, get over the barrier and down. But someone was still standing on my trouser leg, and the whole thing peeled off like a strip of wrapping paper on Christmas day.

Big festivals have big screens so that people at the back of the field can see whats happening on stage. As the cameras panned the front row, they caught a shot of me floundering like a beached yet airborne whale, sans one trouser leg and alternately flashing an arsecheek or a winking minge. Laughter and jeers rippled round the site. Popping one's unexpected nudity cherry in front of several thousand -mostly drunk - people is not a pleasant experience.

Having been escorted out of the barrier area I was a bit stuck for what to do - I didn't have enough cash on me to get a replacement pair of trousers, and I didn't want to miss Green Day by going back to the tent for money or pants. What would MacGuyver do, I pondered.
I removed the remaining trouser leg, fashioned a sort of skimpy loincloth and happily watched the remainder of the gig from the back of the field with a few ciders.

So, if anyone was at Leeds 2004 and saw a mildly inebriated and lairy fat chick with green hair wearing a corduroy nappy and new rocks, I apologise.
(Mon 1st Jun 2009, 11:59, More)