Have an incredibly tenuous pea:
My first weekend to spend consisting of just me and a proper girl - who had fantastic breasts, and was really up for it, and who's parents were away for the weekend and had left her the house to herself.

It was the early 1990s. I was 17, she was 18. It was Saturday morning. I was getting ready for an hour's train journey through the West Country summertime countryside, to explode out into a world constructed only of the stuff porn and poetry is made of.

Naturally to preclude all this, I listened to a steady diet of heavy metal and old school punk at top volume, while I laid out my finest, blackest band t-shirts, and made sure my dishevelled look was just so.

One particularly riotous, rebellious song came on, and I moshed around my room gleefully, tripping on a fix of caffeine, nicotine, and the sheer, magnificent joy of the teenage horn.

I BELTED my head against my wardrobe, causing it to fall half-into me. In my stunned haste, I spun 'round, smashing my face against my shelf full of books, tipping several of the heavier volumes on top of myself, and one particular tome landing cornerside into my crown, causing me to sit down heavily on my bed, to be pelted by the rest of my books, my cassettes and CDs, the speaker of my stereo and all the other various pariphinalia and shelf crap of a teenage punk's life.

As I sat there, surrounded by the debris, I realised that in all the excitement my cigarette had dropped onto my bed and was burning a sizable hole in my duvet and it's cover.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 7 May 2010, 13:01, Reply)