Hi-De-Bonk!
"Be-bah-bah-bud-duh-doh!"

The rented Laguna had borne witness and survived a myriad different methods of torment inflicted upon it during the five hour journey to Minehead, but Scatman John was probably the most cruelly inhuman imaginable. At least that was how it felt to me, sat in the back and watching the driver use the rev limiter as a cruise control for the last 235 miles to the soundtrack of such musical low points as Alex Party and De-Lacy. I wanted to Huh-Huh-Huh-Hide-away-hey anywhere but there, before my eardrums ruptured in disgust.

However, that torture was nothing compared to what the three car loads of us had planned for our livers that weekend as we rocked up to the dilapidated and faded glory that was the town’s very own Butlins, resplendent in dirty, streaked concrete.

Jubilant, we gathered bags from the boots of our cars and trudged toward the crumbling, gravel clad monstrosity that housed our chalets for the weekend.

“Where the fuck’s me clothes?” piped a voice from the back of a well travelled Vauxhall Carlton

The diminutive stature of Simon appeared, shrugging his shoulders. All he had for the next seventy two hours were the clothes he was wearing. A quick phone call home revealed that he’s managed to leave his bag in the bedroom before heading out. However, between the eight of us with spare threads, we cobbled together some changes of threads for Simon. Despite me being a clear six inches taller than him, I donated my prized black Levi jeans in the aid of a mate in need.

With that, the debauchery started in earnest as the first of many cans of Luftwaffe lager were handed round as young men jockeyed for queuing position at one of the bathrooms of our two chalets. The place was a squalid dive even before we got there, the sobering tang of disinfectant didn’t quite mask the mouldy odour accumulated from thousands of weekenders over time. Mattresses were covered in sticky rubber covers that rendered them uncomfortable to all but the comatose, which no doubt compounded the need for weapons grade cleaning products. Doors and frames showed grey wood underneath flaking varnish. Terry Waite had known better quality housing than this.

Amongst this dishevelment, young men preened and splashed themselves with aftershave and coats of extra strength gel. Simon himself managed to retain much of his usual sartorial elegance he often used to such devastating effect. Oh yes, if there were ladies here then they’d be ours by the end of the weekend. We toasted to our success and trudged gamely to the nearest bar.

Six hours later I’d hit my wall, my absolute limit of endurance and I’d had to call time on my evening. In all honesty, I’d lost count of how many plastic beakers of warm, fizzy lager I’d imbibed. I’d thrown in the towel, capitulated with barely a lone maiden’s lipstick on my collar and retreated alone to a warm bed. Even if I had managed to slur my way into a lady’s boudoir, I was as likely to get it up as Prince Phillip after a cellar full of vintage port. It would have been like playing billiards with a tow-rope.

Bleary eyed, I managed to get my key in the correct door on the fourth attempt, shed my clothes in a pile next to the bed and marinated my brewing hangover. I’d have to face the mocking interrogation of my comrades the next morning and I wanted a decent night’s sleep.

And with that, my lovely young head hit the pillow.

*Thud-Thud-Thud-Thud*

What was that? It was coming from the front of the chalet. Someone was playing music no doubt, I could hear the thrumming reverberations of someone else’s bass.

*Thud-Thud-Thud-Thud*

Curious as to where the party sounds were coming from, I leaned out of bed and opened the window.

*Thud-Thud-Thud-Thud*

In the still, autumnal air I made out the sound of voices nearby. Some none-too-quiet breathless female tones were making themselves heard.

“Oooh, oooh God…. Ohhhh”

*Thud-Thud-Thud-Thud*

My eyes now had a reference point to zoom in on. Vive le sport!

In the dim light I made out the chubby pale thighs of the voice's owner wobbling in rhythmn while she being plugged enthusiastically from behind, leaning against our doorway for support, which explained the source of the "thrumming" noise at any rate.

“Oooooh, ooooooh…. Won’t chew go down on me. Please!” continued the voice in a distinctly Welsh lilt.

“No” replied the chap behind her, who to his immense credit, carried on thrusting away gamely as if nothing happened. I knew that voice...

Wahey! It’s Simon! Well done ol’ fella!

Well played old chap, he’d managed what I couldn’t. I’d have called out words of support and admiration were it not for one minor detail.

The bastard was still wearing my prized Levis.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Tue 17 Mar 2009, 15:55, 3 replies)

Ha!
Nicely told, mate.

Reminds me of the time a mate of mine was sucking someone off in a toilet in a gay club while wearing my jacket. My mate definately doesn't swallow, judging by the dry cleaning bill he left me to sort out, the utter utter bastard.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 16:03, closed)

"playing billiards with a tow rope"
that phrase alone gets a click from me ;o)
Eloquently told, as always.

*clicks*
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 16:33, closed)

Lovely storytelling.
It's almost as if I was there with you, experiencing it all alongside you.
Actually, now I feel a bit yuckers.
*click!*
(w4I4q1O1 was hard at work on, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 17:02, closed)