so i suppose its not on to pearoast from only a fortnight ago then...
ah fuck it...

Viking in a duffle coat.

When I was 15 or so my beloved drunken uncle invited me to visit his home in Haugesund in Norway to spend Christmas (oh and also be his best man) yes uncle Malcolm was getting married (again). I should offer some background on my dear, now dead from drink, uncle – always the life and soul of any given party, an irresponsible rogue with scant regard for the result of his actions and even less regard for how and where he got some action – naturally as an impressionable lad I idolised him and had no idea back then how sad and lonely he was and how his life would turn out, to me he was a handsome cad, never without a new suit, a stack of cash (north sea oil rig ROV operator) a twinkle in his eye and a drink in his hand. He taught me the joy of ‘criminal curry” as I later came to christen it, buy the veg – shoplift the meat – easy! He didn’t of course need to steal he just enjoyed the buzz – this trick fed me through college.

So there we are in a bar – a converted bank to be precise, on his wedding night to be even more precise – don’t ask, the man was a law unto himself. The old vault downstairs had been converted to a poolroom just big enough to accommodate a table, two pissed players and maybe a few onlookers. In our thick Glaswegian accents we bantered away, shootin' the shit and pool with simultaneous aplomb. My sensitive teen hormone radar array quickly detected a couple of tall shapely Norwegian girls giggling in the corner; they were older than me, maybe 19 or so and to be frank well out of my league. Shortly, Uncle Malcolm, God love him, tipped me off that the more devastating of the two had been giving me the eye and even better, he started giving me a running commentary under his boozy breath of what she was saying (in Norwegian) to her honey skinned friend about me – now either they were of the assumption neither of us understood the lingo or wily old uncle Malky was far smarter than I thought and was just giving me the necessary confidence boost required to make an approach. Either way fueled by such vital insider info that this Scandinavian sex giraffe had was ‘well up for me’ was just enough to propel me into ‘Why yesh! Of coursh I pull like James Bond in a girls school’ mode. So lo-and-behold, bit of chit chat and before you could say ‘6 foot stunner’ there I am doing my best to perform some sort of exploratory esophageal procedure using only my tongue on this (considerably taller than me I should add) vision of Nordic eroticism – they say all woman are the same height when your lying down – well it would seem both parties perched on barstools also provides a pretty level petting field.

So things are bobbing along swimmingly and Uncle Malky's by now well pissed off new bride decides that watching her newly made nephew chewing the face off some elongated bint on a barstool is not her idea of a fairlytale wedding night. So big Malky, ever the gent slips me a wodge of cash – his remaining fags and a note written in Norwegian (for the taxi driver to get me home whenever that might be). So Lovise – no really that was her name, suggests we go to a local nightclub, some place called Dixieland, only a fool might refuse. It is there I meet a positively Brobdingnagian Viking in a duffle coat, yes a large man, in a duffle coat, in a club, in Norway. He looked suspiciously like some lumbering ginger giant at a Paddington Bear convention. The reason for the captious coat soon however soon became apparent – it was, as it turned out, the perfect apparel to conceal a 2-litre coke bottle filled with ‘moonshine’. Having said that I’d have been keen to see the legion of bouncers that would take this fucker on or more so relieve him of his hooch. Hagrids bigger ginger brother was very proud indeed of his moonshine – made it himself apparently, booze cost a fortune back then in Norway. As soon as he leered close enough to learn I was Scottish the clang of the drinking gauntlet tolled far and wide throughout the land. It would be fair report the beverage most kindly proferred was quite breathtaking. It also took some skin off my gums as well.

I can quite honestly say had the numerous shots of (what may well have been kerosene) from this cosy leviathan had not been forthcoming I might well not been daring/drunk enough to allow the lovely Lovise to fold her seemingly endless limbs neatly enough to fit under the table and administer the most bone shattering blow job of my young life. What with there being a couple enjoying a meal in the booth next to us the frisson of danger merely added to the effect.

And they say Norwegians are dull!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sun 26 Apr 2009, 17:50, Reply)