Pocket Monster
Early dart, get home, it's friday, girlfriend away, empty house: Perfect.
Shower, quick wank then pub.

After my ablutions and ten or twelve minutes of what can only be described furious self abuse I lie back on the bed exhausted. Then I hear it: "Doo Doo Doooooo.... Please replace the handset and try again."

What? Try again? Now? Oh cock, my phone was in my pocket and I've gone and wank-phoned someone! I look at the last dialed number. Fucksticks! Its that po-faced cow of a freelancer who sucks the bosses arse. The one who rushes to him to report every little mistake I make like some horrible little classroom snyde. Its her landline, at home. What can I do? If this was to be reported I'd be up in front of the board, lose my job, never again work in the sector I've spent my ten years training for. In that single moment my life was fucked.

I make the decision - I've got to phone her back and explain away the fact I've just made an inadvertent perv-call. I press send. Her boyfriend answers. "Hello, err, did you just get a funny call off me mate? Its just that I was erm dancing, yes dancing, erm and I hit my phone, I might have been muttering.... erm I was dancing you see..."

"You havin' a good time there Pongo?" came the reply. A great bloke, he never mentioned it to anyone. A few months later he was rewarded with a much nicer girlfriend.
(pongobeanz almost completely drained the wine box, Tue 4 Aug 2009, 19:00, Reply)