Panic at the ATM
For me, banks are like churches – they’re both ominous, all-powerful institutions that want to meddle and piss about with my life, and whenever I go into a church or a bank I’m completley powerless to stop the series of rapid-fire silent machinegun panic farts that shoot out my arse and make it appear like I’ve got a long, swishy, incredibly stinky fart vapor tail.

And its also a really bad idea to go into either of these terrible institutions when you’re absolutely shitfaced.

On a night out in Bolton when I was a student I ran out of funds. We were in the Blue Boar pub, just next to McDonalds, and I spied a bank across the road. The need for beer and salty bar snacks was great, so I wander off without telling anyone to draw out a little more cash (must’ve been student load time; as throughout my student years an ATM was usually just an attractive ornament incorportating a flashing screen, some lovely buttons, and the occasional percussive beep – I could never get any fucking cash out of any of them). I cross the road and realise the ATM’s are inside. Its one of those banks where you have to swipe your card to gain entry to the little room (usually filled with empty McDonalds milkshake cartons, used condoms, syringies stained with blood, and puke by eleven-thirty on a Friday night).

Swaying a bit on account of all the Boddingtons, I swipe my card at the third attempt – some fucker kept making the door dance round in front of me and the ground was a bit wobbly. I went in. Eventually, after a couple of fuck ups, I enter my pin. (I recommend any wouldbe theif to go to Coventry and steal people’s wallets – nine times out of ten the pin number’s gonna be 1987 – the only year the shittest football club in the entrie history of sporting endevour ever actually fluked their way to winning the FA Cup). I take the cash, thank the ATM, and turn to leave.

I approach the door and it doesn’t move. Its locked. Tight. Tighter than a thirteen year old virgin tight. Shit... I try again, only with a little more force. The fucker won’t budge. I look round. Aaaa-haaaa!!! There’s a big green button with Door Release written on it. Casually, chuckling at my own fuck-wittery, I caress the button lovingly, tenderly, like its some great big green alien clit. And then I try the door again.

STILL – FUCKING - LOCKED!!!

I push harder. I put my shoulder in and ram the fucker. Its a big heavy metal door. It won’t budge.

I start to whimper a bit – I’m trapped in a bank! My arse lets out a little series of farty yelps, its like I’ve got a cockerspaniel pup shoved down the back of my kegs. “Muuummm-eeee!” I wail pathetically. But my mum’s not there. My mum can’t help. “Daaaaddd-eeee!” Same outcome.

Then I feel an arm on my shoulder, startled, I turn and see the fitest, sexiest girl in the whole of Bolton dressed in her best going out slutty dress. She’s got a mate with her too, a carbon copy of fitness only with slightly smaller tits. I was so pissed I didn’t even notice them come in and use the ATM next to me. I heard the beeps, but it just didn’t seem to register. I imagined it was R2D2 getting into a bit of a barney with the gold gay one.

The fittest of the fit girls said, very quietly, looking a bit scared: “You need to pull.” And she walked round me, all four-foot nothing and seven stone of her pulled the huge metal door and it opened. And we all walked outside.

Never wanting to miss an opportunity, especially when I had my beer goggles on (for all I know these two girlies could’ve been a couple of trannies going to a special cross-dressing Weightwatchers and bodyhair removal session), I called after them: “Do you fancy going over to the Blue Boar for a drink?”

The other, slightly less fit girl responded without looking back as she and her mate legged it down the street. She said a resounding: “Fuck off!!!”

Well, at least they didn’t ignore me... that would've been rude...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 17 Jul 2009, 10:14, Reply)