HOT MUM
A lad in my school footie team was cursed.

Whenever we’d finished a practice session and for want of anything constructive to do, we’d pile round to this lad, Dave’s, house and sit round his living room reeking of persistent teen sweat (even though we’d showered), old spice aftershave our Auntie’s had bought us all for Christmas (think there was a law about buying a teen nephew a bottle of this toxic shit back in the eighties), with our rampaging hormones bouncing off the walls and causing enough friction to heat a small Bavarian town for an entire winter.

On the way to Dave’s the topic of conversation was your usual teenage boy fare: Who you’d shag, who you claim to have shagged, if someone held a gun to your head would you shag a goat – you know, the usual sort of teen bollocks crap, all based round putting your wee wee in some girl’s downstairs vertical meat smile. But as soon as we got to Dave’s parents house, making sure to leave our trainers lined up in the hallway, spending a bit of time outside spraying a little more Insignia deodorant directly onto our clothes, we were as good as gold. Not a fucking word... We suddenly developed manners.

Dave’s mum would offer us coke or a cup of tea. Occasionally, one of our group would pipe up enough courage to answer: “Yes please, Mrs Patterson. That would be lovely, thanks...” And gulp hard as Mrs Patterson, Dave’s mum, flashed her smile in their direction before sauntering off back in the direction of the kitchen, her rounded buttocks pistoning in her tight pencil skirt like two rutting armadillos.

Dave’s mum was, to put it simply, hot. She was hotter than the surface of the sun and gave off enough heat to turn metal molten at twenty paces, while causing the contents of your average teenagers trousers to turn harder than steel and throb so much it was as if a nasty viper had bitten you on your tadger. Mrs Patterson was a lady in her late thirties. She was blonde and looked a lot like Sharon Stone, only less slutty. You got the impression she could suck a monkey through a hosepipe but then afterwards make you a nice ham and cress sandwich with the crusts cut off. Mrs Patterson was, without doubt, the prime currency of the Northampton School for Boys footie teams’ wank bank. She should’ve received a medal from Kleenex for helping boost tissue sales in the Northampton region circa 1989/90 tenfold.

And that’s why we kept going over to Dave’s after we’d finished our Thursday night training. Hell, that’s why about half the players were actually in the team in the first place - just so they could be mates with Dave and go and see Mrs Patterson’s visible panty line as she stalked about the place like a prized cougar in training. One time our centre forward, a lad named Mark, thought he actually caught a glimpse of her pert little pink-volcano nipple as she bent over to give his cuppa a refill: he gave out a little guttural, feral growl and as Mrs Patterson looked up to inquire what the fuck was going on, Mark attempted to pass it off as a bit of cough as he simultaneously turned bright red, rock hard, and instantly more sweaty.

Surprisingly, we were actually pretty good at football.

We managed to get to the semi finals of the Northampton Inter Schools Cup. We came up against our bitter rivals - Campion School - on a burning hot May Saturday morning. It was a big match. Loads of parents turned out. Even my old man came down to cheer us on for ten minutes before he looked bored and wandered off to have a fag and a chat with a fella who’d parked his ice cream van on the road just outside the school, seeing an opportunity to sell his gear to the assembled masses. (There’s not a lot to do in Northampton on your average Saturday afternoon except shag your sister or go and watch an inter-school footie match).

Mrs Patterson was there too.

At halftime our PE teacher went fucking mental: “What is wrong with you lot today?” he shouted. We were 4 – 0 down and playing like blind simpletons. A couple of the lads had even managed to run directly into each other keystone cop style.

One of the team shrugged: “Dunno, Sir.... They’re just better than us...”

“Well, I expect better in the second half...” said the PE Nazi. And we went on to ship in another four goals in the second half. 8 – 0, final score.

But it wasn’t because we were shit. No. We were actually pretty damn good.

It was because Mrs Patterson was stood on the touchline in a flimsy summer dress which occasionally caught the slight breeze and flashed us her perfect porcelain white legs up past the knee, while her hubby dutifully disappeared off to the ice cream van on several occasions to bring Mrs Patterson a succession of Calypo ice lollies to cool down in the considerable heat.

Give a bunch of teenage boys an option: play footie or watch a sexy, leggy blonde perform fellatio on a succession of ice lollies....

Well, there’s only one winner.

And the only player really trying his heart out on the pitch was Dave who didn’t really seem bothered by the spectacle of his dear old mum doing a live confectionary-related sex show on the touchline.... Hot mums. Fuck that. I’m glad my mum looks like a bag of spanners that’s been dropped off a cliff then run over with a steam roller a few thousand times.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 10:20, 11 replies)

Nice work Spanky
A click for you and a click for hot mums everywhere.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Tue 16 Feb 2010, 10:47, closed)

Two paragraphs is all it took,
and I knew it was you! Good as ever!
(Was it really Mrs Patterson, or was that for the Kevin and Perry crew?)
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 11:00, closed)

It's a game I play
Spotting the euphamism that betrays him. Vertical meat smile was where I guessed.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 12:21, closed)

I had him at
"her rounded buttocks pistoning in her tight pencil skirt like two rutting armadillos"
( Turquoise Hexagon Sun has just dropped acid on, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 12:41, closed)

Ditto

(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 13:49, closed)

I knew it was him at the
"would you shag a goat"
( snee held his breath since, Wed 17 Feb 2010, 16:30, closed)

Same for me
It's a very distinctive style.
( MatJ LOOK, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 20:01, closed)

You picture her so well
I can feel your teenage guilt.
Clickdit.
( Larry Vest One day at a time, sweet Jesus, FFS., Tue 16 Feb 2010, 12:59, closed)

That's not a nice thing to say about your mum
She always has a good word or two to say about you...
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 13:50, closed)

You mean
you can understand her when she's gargling?
(Rsoles, Tue 16 Feb 2010, 20:40, closed)

ace as always
clicks for "vertical meat smile"
( venezuelan beaver cheese is mortally afraid of spoons, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 3:42, closed)