‘The ‘Autumn’ years’…or ‘The Winter of his discontent’…or ‘No Spring Chicken’…or ‘Summer the names have to be changed’…

DISCLAIMER: Firstly, brace yourself – this is going to be a long one even for a Pooflake effort.

I was reminded of the tale by a post on last week’s QotW, but it definitely applies here and it’s also probably going to be the only one I’ll spaff out this week.

So gentle reader...snuggle down, and I’ll begin…

Now, (as you gorgeous people are well aware) I normally couldn’t give an airborne fuck about naming and shaming those involved in my posts. But I just can’t do it this time. I must change the names. I have my reasons…and they’re fucking good reasons…so…sorry ‘bout that.

And no…before you ask, the main character in this tale is most definitely NOT me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Picture the scene…Autumn 2007. The deciduous leaves tumbling from the withered branches before cascading onto the ripe, hardened ground. Colours entwining everywhere to create an exquisite carpet of golden and bronze…a delight to dreamily kick your way through when strolling through the park of an early evening…as the light of a burning crimson sunset scatters itself through the bare and spindly trees…

I imagine.

I wouldn’t really know, because I was otherwise engaged. The band I was in at the time were way too busy in full, utterly shitfaced flow – with regular gigs every week, money pouring in, and everyone seemingly comfortable with the putrid wank we were dishing out and passing off as entertainment.

Accompanying us on our calamitous crimes to music decency endeavour to bring great tunes to the masses, was:

Hmmm…well let’s call him…’Clive’

Clive was in his early thirties, and trundled along to almost all of our gigs. A staunch and resolute supporter of our general shite-‘n’-laziness, he would help himself to any free beer on offer, occasionally help out with a (mimed) guest spot on guitar, and pretend to be our ‘manager’ so he could use the band as an icebreaker in his blatant attempts at pulling mingers slappers ‘good-time’ girls at every venue.

One of our regular gigs was a shiteheap pub in a little village nearby. A great thing about the place was that Hootie, (our guitarist)’s folks lived about 5 minutes walk away, so we could play the gig, crash at his folks’ house, then collect the gear the next morning and continue with the heavy drinking. Sweeeet.

The landlady of the pub was…’Nicki’, a kindly old soul…with a gargantuan emphasis on the word OLD. She was in her late 60’s I’d guess, but looked even older. White haired, heavily made up, lardy, wrinkly and paunchy, she did have a glint in her good eye; and would constantly look us all up and down like the tender pieces of man-meat that we all were. She often mentioned her 'international football star nephew'*, and flirted terribly, but it was mostly harmless stuff.

So this particular evening we were playing the gig and the place was full of Nicki’s friends…with leathery faces aplenty, and bingo-wings flapping in the breeze like vein-riddled sails on a vast, fleshy dinghy.

As we played, the coven of lecherous old bags were attempting to ‘dirty dance’ – and I could almost hear their hip joints cracking as they feverishly thrusted their cobweb-strewn groins in our general direction...each thrust was making me want to gouge my own eyes out with a blunt plectrum before securing them in my armpits.

What made matters worse was that we weren’t even on an actual stage…just a section of the room that had been allocated for the band. So there was nothing stopping the crusty old banshees from clamouring up to the band, sticking their wrinkly hands down my grundies and poking their lavender scented, bone-dry tongues into my ear.

But there was one in particular…the very worst one…who was Nicki’s ‘best’ friend.

“EEEeeehhhhh you’re lovely” she would crow at me, with her hands behind her head, her knees bent, and her gammon goalposts pumping at me like a gratuitously decrepit rendition of the ‘hokey-cokey’.

My grimace was firmly fixed in place; only due to the fact that she was continually buying us all drinks…of which Clive was of course taking full advantage. As the band were tied to our microphone stands (not literally), Clive flitted in and out of the codger’s short sighted view, parading himself like a trophy that they could look at, but not touch.

The whole area honked of cheap wine, Yardley perfume…and the obligatory Werthers Originals.

The night ended on a tired, forced note, (after something like the 12th encore) at about 4am… with the shrivelled, clapped out old cacklers still clawing at us…and insisting that we carry on.

We politely refused, and did some light packing up, before collecting our money and preparing to leg it the fuck out of there.

So I could shower. And shower again.

Unfortunately, Hootie’s folks had a ‘rule’ that only the 3 members of the band were allowed to crash round their house (in an effort to prevent ‘aftershow parties’ or anything like that – rock ‘n’ roll!)

But that pretty much left Clive in the shit. Still, he was pissed up and happy, and he instructed us to leave him there, and assured us that he would ‘sort something out’.

Foolishly, I assumed that he would get a taxi.

Cut to opening time the next day, and we drag our tired and bleary-eyed bodies back into the already full-again-with-regulars pub to finish packing and to discuss the previous night’s debacle over lashings of lovely booze.

Suddenly, Clive swaggered into the bar like a wizened lothario, shooting his finger pistols and smirking at everybody.

When questioned as to a) why he was so cheerful, and b) what the fuck was he still doing there, he confidently proclaimed:

“I shagged Nicki Last Night…Woo!”

He must have surmised that the ‘any hole’s a goal’ rule applies absolutely...and his laddish instincts told him to actually boast about his prune-like conquest; imagining that he would be cheered, congratulated, and maybe even hailed a hero.

Wrong, wrong…oh so very wrong…

All sound was suddenly sucked out of the busy room as if some megsonic vacuum had been cranked up to ‘Biblical’ level.

Eyes widended, then after a brief pause which included some quiet gasps of astonishment, and the faint thud of agape jaws hitting the floor, the pub population suddenly erupted en masse in an almost pantomime-esque chorus of:

“UUUUURRRGGHHHH! – you filthy fucker!”

Because there was no escaping the fact that this wasn’t so much a case of ‘From May to December’, than a case of ‘From World War I to the Falklands’

Realising that his actions were suddenly not being universally approved of, Clive tried to change his tune a bit…”Well”, he snorted, “I did it for you…see?” Whilst desperately clawing at some sort of escape excuse he continued: “I sacrificed myself so you guys could get regular gigs here…But it worked!" He cooed, semi-triumphantly: "She promised me that you could play here as long as she was running the place”

At this point I could hardly contain myself as the truly wonderful duty fell upon me to inform him of how he had been taken for a ride in more ways than one…

“Yesterday was her last day” I told him, my face straining to hold back my almost complete joy at witnessing this supremely embarrassing event, and the prospect of the entire life’s worth of piss-taking that he had now signed up to receive.

I chortled: “She’s sold the pub, you dopey twat! It was her leaving do that we were playing! – didn’t you realise from all the banners up on the wall?”

Clive: *looks around* “Oh fuck…fucking hell…NOOOooooooooooo“

His face sagged despondently. The laughing continued to resonate around the pub as it slowly sank in to him what had happened.

But just when we thought it couldn’t get any better (or worse, depending on which way you look at it)…he must have decided that he hadn’t yet humiliated himself enough, and so proceeded to drop the ultimate bombshell…

Choking his bile back, he whimpered: “It wasn’t just Nicki…

…it was a threesome with her best mate too!”

At this point some people had to get up and leave. Grown men had tears streaming down their faces. Drinks were spat far and wide across the tables. People were losing control of their bodily functions due to a total mirth-induced internal collapse.

Clive sat there with his head in his hands, and we sensitively continued to rip the living piss out of him until he could stand no more. He would only occasionally look up to whimper: “but I did it for the band!”

My opinion on old folk changed that day. With age comes experience, I realise that now…and I only hope that when I’m that old, I’ll be able to find a girl just as gullible as Clive was that day, so I can take full advantage.

And bring a friend along.

*Oh yes, you WILL have heard of him
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:18, 35 replies)

"her gammon goalposts pumping at me like a gratuitously decrepit rendition of the ‘hokey-cokey’."
Written in such a poetic, but harrowing style. And fucking hilarious to boot.

As usual, Herr Pooflake, you do not let us down.
(LongJohnBaldry, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:26, closed)

fantastic
well written and gross
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:30, closed)

Nothing wrong with bingo wings. *sulks*
.
( girlinthehole, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:38, closed)

Oh BGB...
You don't have bingo wings.

Your arms are all full of the purdey-ness that makes me want to huggle them extra hard.

and on the subject of 'hard'...I'll stop now :)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:41, closed)

Christ Poof!
That is fucking amazing!
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:38, closed)

I'm trying to read this in the office without smirking
and failing miserably.

So who's the fotballer then?
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:41, closed)

Ooh, I don't know if I should say...legal reasons and all that...

But if I said 'Man Utd Midfielder - British but not Ryan Giggs?' Hopefully that's enough of a clue...
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:42, closed)

well that only rounds it down to
Scholes, Carrick, Fletcher, O'Shea & Hargreaves
(Halfy By light alone, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:47, closed)

Yes...yes it does...

it's one of those.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:49, closed)

Well Darren Fletcher is from Dalkeith...
...which would certainly put him in the frame.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Wed 10 Dec 2008, 16:16, closed)

.
Any Scholes' a goal?
(Pickettywitchfinder General, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:48, closed)

with DG on the laughing without drawing attention...well done Pooflake x
(twiceydrinker hmmm is it pint time?, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 16:49, closed)

A hilarious and disgusting story
Beautifully told!

*wipes the tears of mirth from his eyes*
( Labia Majora You keep on talking but it makes no sense at all, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:58, closed)

Fuck the length!
That was ace and well worth it!

*clicks!*
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 16:00, closed)

*jibblies*
I don't normally react to much, but...

GAHHH!

*shudders*

*click*
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 16:01, closed)

So there was 4 in the band
but the parents only let 3 of the band members stay over?
(BarryChuckle, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 16:26, closed)

No, there were three of us in the band...
Which was a crap 3 guitar combo that played to backing tapes.

One of them would give up their guitar and have a break when 'Clive' would do his occasional mime act...

'Clive' wasn't a proper member of the band - he just came to the gigs.

Sorry if I didn't make that clear :)

EDIT: Actually, now I come to mention it... Sometimes when the main band members couldn't make it, he would fill in, so I suppose he kind of was in the band.

Oh, even I'm confused now. At the point of the post though, he wasn't in the band.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 16:30, closed)

Agh
I see. you probably did make that clear its just that i'm an idiot.
(BarryChuckle, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 16:34, closed)

And this wasn't the first time either!
Captain Placid has come to Clive's rescue from various shenanigans around the city. Even one from the aforenotmentionedbyname pub.

Nice one Pooflake m'boy!
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 17:03, closed)

Oh god
you mean this story's true? I was hoping that this was a Pooflake invention!

*gips*

*bokes*

*heaves*
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 17:10, closed)

I'm afraid it is true...

Although I am averse to the odd bit of blatant bullshittery, this one is pretty much spot on.

Which is why I hope you'll understand that I had to change the names...
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 17:28, closed)

God I would hope so.
Otherwise the poor bastard would NEVER hear the end of it.

Though he might deserve that, actually...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 17:34, closed)

I'm not so sure
Clive is of the "any hole's a goal" school of thought. He was looking a little more sheepish than usual that morning IIRC.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 18:27, closed)

Oh, trust me dear Loon...

He doesn't hear the end of it!

Captain Placid & I see to that!

It was CP That received the fateful call from 'Clive' the next day...begging for a lift home and a healthy dosage of mind bleach!
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 23:29, closed)

"click"
serious question.

have you ever wrote professionally?
(bugboybeast, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 17:57, closed)

Erm...
Lorks, I don't do anything professionally.

(Especially my real job, which has bog all to do with writing too.)

But if it's ok with you, I'll take your reply as a compliment and say 'thanks'...before squeezing my huge smug head out of the door, and going out for a beer, telling everybody, 'I could be a writer, don't you know'?

And perhaps one day, there will be a demand for my particular spacktarded brand of blagged, idiocy-filled dribbling through life-isms (with the occasional trouser accident thrown in) - and I'll be quids in.

Woo!



or to put a long story short...


no
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 18:13, closed)

.
radio, methinks.
(bugboybeast, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 19:42, closed)

I've just checked...

And it was your post that reminded me of this incident in the first place!

So for that, sir, I thank you again.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 11 Dec 2008, 11:07, closed)

This
is rather epic. Have another well earned click for prose and the phrase 'gammon goalposts' :-)
(uk_viper stopped lurking on, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 19:05, closed)

*clicks like a loon*
Flakey, you are truly the Linguistic Lothario of b3ta. If you weren't married, and I wasn't betrothed to DG, I'd be in your pants quicker than the dribble cascading down Stephen Hawking's chin :o)

xxx
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 19:08, closed)

@Tourettes
I have first dibs on Pooflake. It's the unspoken rule of B3ta.
( girlinthehole, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 19:35, closed)

^^ what they all said
Especially for "Gammon Goalposts" and the bingo wings thingy..
Good heavens...*Click*
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 19:45, closed)

A click for Poof - goes without saying, of course!
But also a bloody big click for the ladies of the story - no matter that they were no longer in their prime, at least they were still up for it and willing to get into threesome shenanigans.

Hooray for randy old ladies!

I hope to be one myself one day.

and anyone who says I'm already one I shall smack
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 21:12, closed)

a thought train...
oo rather long... Oh old ladies ... Oh Gawd horrible old ladies ... I didn't relise old ladys had sex, i thought those bits all healed over after the menopause...but they DON'T ... Oh GOD but they should! ... hang on ... i'll be an old lady one day... i like sex... i'll either be a predatory older lady slaying young mens credibility for life or i'll have to sleep woth old men ... ewww ... oh no!!!...NOOOO! ... hang on a sec...odn't worry... you'll never be old jess! never! o.k! ... can you promise that? can i have it in writing...

basically this story has given me a raging midlife crisis. at nineteen.
(loobyla, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 21:45, closed)

Fuck off
You fat sexless virgin
(bogus official shove it up your cunt, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 23:44, closed)