Iain's house - Bolton 1993.
I have a great many posts about the summer of 1993, a milestone in my life as I had just finished my A Level exams and was enjoying the long and boozy sabbatical before starting uni in late September. Three months of never ending summer holidays filled with teenage parties and acts of minor debauchery that I'll never forget. To the story:

My best friend's older brother Iain was living and working in Bolton, Lancashire. We decided that we'd invite ourselves up for a long weekend to see him and treat ourselves to a night of northern hospitality.

A four hour road trip in a superannuated Ford Orion fitted with the cheapest, noisiest tyres my mate could possibly buy (Stowmills, with treads half an inch deep which resonated the car with a steady "rwaarrrrrrrr" noise at motorway speeds and must have halved our miles per gallon) accompanied by the beats of The KLF (The White Room is even now compulsory for any long roadtrip I undertake), 808 State, Sunscreem, Tears for Fears, Fortran 5, Queen, Elton John and "Now Thats What I Call Rave Dance Energy Tip vol 12".

We were travelling far from home, despite me having spent nine months in Cape Town, the road trip to Bolton held the glamour of a weekend in Monte Carlo for us. Eagerly we drove into the evening watching the sunset being chased toward the horizon by the marching lavender coloured sky as we played a game of "wanker" on the M6, gesticulating at every BMW we saw. Such sons of fun were prepared to make the very best of whatever life in a northern town could throw at us. Bring it on.

We neared Iain's house as the sun was setting. Unperturbed by the rusting front gates with chipping glosswork and the common sight of a saloon car on bricks by the side of the road, we imagined ourselves driving through Beirut in 1982. In actual fact, it was probably very much akin to driving through Beirut in 1982 with its broken streets and furtive activities amongst the shadows, except the locals there were too busy throwing stones at Israeli tanks to imbibe ridiculous amounts of cheap heroin. Unlike here.

Iain opened the gates for us. Clearly they had not been used for such a purpose in a long time, groaning under protest. Iain's front garden had not been attended to in years, with grass a foot long and a Volkswagen Beetle rusting away forlornly underneath a tarpaulin.

Several pairs of rat like beady eyes in the street darted toward the unfamiliar Orion. Even though Iain lived in a cul-de-sac, it was infested with the very worst kind of drug addled proto-chavs with a penchant for nicking your stereo and anything else which can be persuaded to move. The Orion was duly immobilized with two Krookloks and the removal of the Distributor lead. The stereo was pulled out and we walked into Iain's bachelor pad.

Lordy.

Iain's attitude to domestic maintenance was up there with Santa Claus's work ethic. The carpets were that awful crunchy nylon which is supposedly allergic to retaining dirt. Sat in the lounge was a beige/brown velour sofa. We were ushered upstairs to the spare room, where two single beds had been set aside. I dropped my holdall on the floor and sagged onto the bed, weary from the travelling.

"Owwwww fuck! Whathfugginellistha?" I kid you not; a rusty spring had freed itself from the mattress and was attempting to violate my right buttock.

My right toe kicked something which felt a lot like a sagging pile of magazines holding the bed up. It in fact turned out to be a sagging pile of magazines holding the bed up. Closer inspection revealed a stack of early 90s bongo magazines amongst the copies of VolksWorld.

I elected to kip on the sofa.

Hungry, Iain, my pal and I trudged to the local chinese chip shop. We past groups of scruffy teenagers milling around and avoiding eye contact with us. Glancing over our shoulders as we walked on we noticed they were taking some time to detour past Iain's house presumably to check if the Orion had anything worth nicking left on it.

When we returned from the chippy, where I'd had an unfortunate language problem ("Sah-VELL-Oyy!" I repeated, phonetically when prompted with "ahh. Sos-Ahge, yah?") We sat on the sofa whereupon I felt a small bump in the cushion. Reaching down I extracted a VDO oil pressure gauge from a Volkswagen Beetle.

"Oh, I wondered where that went!" replied Iain as he munched through his chips and gravy.

This house resembled something from the Young Ones. I half expected to be insulted by a Glaswegian Hamster ("see yurgh jimmeh") as I trotted to the bathroom and steeled myself for the inevitable bath six inches deep in muddy gloop with a bicycle lying in the bottom. In fact, the truth was only slightly less disturbing.

In front of the lav sat an engine halfway through a rebuild. Yes, instead of reading a newspaper during his periods of quiet contemplation, Iain would sit on the bog reconditioning the engine from a Volkswagen Beetle.

Shaking my head, I walked out of the bathroom. Even I was not prepared for the sight that greeted me next. Yes, Iain was indeed respraying the front and rear wings of a Volkswagen Beetle. In his bedroom. At one end he'd arranged sheets and newspaper to stop the carpet and wardrobes being covered in paint. He sprayed and slept in the same room, he must have been off his tits on the fumes.

None of this put me off enjoying the night out, particularly when Iain's attractive next door neighbour Samantha chaperoned us round the town and several of her similarly comely friends joined us for the evening soiree. A piss-cheap swagger round Bolton's own Ritzy's at roughly half the price of a club from home and we were having a great old evening. Sam and her friends were easy on the eye and even easier conversation.

I'd love to be able to conclude this story by telling you that I spent the night on an uncomfortable bed with knackered springs, a suspicion of livestock in the mattress while sleepily writhing to avoid health threatening violation by a rusty spring, sick from paint fumes and the smell of used engine oil and six inches away from a stack of stiff-leaved low rent grot magazines, listening carefully for the sound of ferrety smack-addled chavs trying to pry their way into our car but I won't. For this was the night endured by my friend and he could paint a far more horrific picture than I could.

I was in fact spending the night next door in a clean and comfortable bed, thoroughly enjoying warm, welcoming and fragrantly moist third base with one of Sam's lovely lady pals. I've been overdrawn at the Karma Bank ever since.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 18 Jan 2008, 13:19, 9 replies)

sunscream
fuckin A. They were ace. I think. I was possibly off my head at the time.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 18 Jan 2008, 13:25, closed)

genius
click clicketty click
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 18 Jan 2008, 13:25, closed)

*Beams*
Yay!

[edit] That was very much a one off, in stark contrast to my good friend who was probably enjoying one off the wrist to Charmaine from Canvey Island's spotty bum in a seedy bedroom.

He got his revenge the next year though.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 18 Jan 2008, 13:38, closed)

This isn't a dodgy hotel story!
this is a blatant boasting post, which was both informative and entertaining - well done sir!
( Weetobix, Fri 18 Jan 2008, 13:45, closed)

Having met you...............
I can well believe this you silver tongued bastard!
Why ARE girls' bedrooms more fragrant than guys' anyway?
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 18 Jan 2008, 14:29, closed)

Thanks! *blushes*
From a man who had a whole gathering last Sat rapt that's praise indeed!

It wasn't just the room that was fragrant...

[edit] girls can get drunk, eat chips and not manage to radiate a misty, stale smelling fug into a bedroom afterwards. Not sure how they manage that.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 18 Jan 2008, 14:30, closed)

Why is it...
... that despite my name being spelt the same way, my internal narrator slips over the extra "I" in "Iain"? Is it bad that, after having had it for 31 years, I still can't read my own name?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 18 Jan 2008, 14:57, closed)

Genius
Queen and long arse road trips go together like curry and chips, reminds me of a roadtrip from Essex to Germany one year!

Excellent story well told

*click*
(KangerooFlapjack, Fri 18 Jan 2008, 16:19, closed)

Brilliant!...

You just KNOW that if that had been me, after jumping at the chance to spend the night with what I would imagine to be a far fluffier female alternative, I would discover that the lady's house in question would turn out to be even trampier!

*sulks*

*clicks*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 18 Jan 2008, 18:05, closed)