DOCTOR!!! Sharon
While I was working on my M.A. and after a spectacular fight-cum-break-up with my girlfriend of the time, I ended up sharing a flat with a square-shaped girl from the Midlands named Sharon. Sharon was super-intelligent. She was working on a PhD in science... can’t be more specific than that, but all her books has shitloads of charts and MATHS and other technical twattery like that in them.

But despite the fact her brain was throbbing with facts, numbers, and INTELLIGENCE, Sharon was, well, a bit of a thicko.

This came to light during the first week I took up residence in her spare room. I found Sharon, sweaty and trembling from flu, sat in front of Supermarket Sweep (this was probably enough proof enough in itself), but then I noticed Sharon was doing something quite frankly absolutely fucking terrifying. She was chewing on something. Then she’d spit out this wadded ball of spit-covered stuff into a cup and...

... “What are you doing, Sharon?” I asked, unable to peel my eyes away from her. Witnessing this weird activity had the same effect on me as watching a woman fuck a dog on the web; it was both disgusting, vomit-worthy but strangely fascinating in equal measure.

“I’m recycling germs to boost my immune system,” said Sharon as matter-of-factly as possible, as she reached for another of her endless supply of screwed-up snotty used tissues and proceeded to feed this new bogy-encrusted phlegm rag into her mouth, where she chewed on it like a cow munching on grass with a far-off look in her eyes.

And over the next few weeks I discovered Sharon really did live in a wibbly-wobbly mindfucked world of her own.

Evolution was a myth. Kellogg’s Frosties had a special highly addictive ingredient (like crack) in them to get you hooked so you bought more Frosties. We all had at least seven ghosts who were our own personal ghosts who follow us around and looked out for us. She swore on her mother’s life that dogs couldn’t walk backwards. Loads of weird shit like this.

After surviving being Sharon’s roomie for a couple of months our lease expired and we both had to move out. Sharon had a HUGE bed that resembled a scary torture device made out of dense wood which would probably have survived a nuclear strike with only a few scratches and a bit of minor charring. I had a couple of my mates round to help us move out – Sharon to her own place in Narnia, me to somewhere where people didn’t still believe in the fucking tooth fairy.

“This is too big,” said my mate. “We’ll never get it down the stairs.”

We stood and regarded the damn thing for a while. “How’d you get it up here in the first place, Shazza?” I asked.

Sharon couldn’t remember. We stood round and looked at this lethiatan of bedroom furniture for a bit. Then Sharon had an idea.
Moments later we’d placed our mattresses outside Sharon’s bedroom window, one storey up from ground level. My mate Blackpool Ben was down on the ground waiting as the rest of us manhandled the bed (which now resembled a medieval trebuchet), out the window so it teetered on the sill.

“I’m not sure about this, Shazza,” I said.

Sharon then babbled some shit about maths and forces and fuck knows what – apparently she’d done a few calculations and the damn thing should’ve come to a nice padded rest on the mattresses below with the delicacy and tenderness of two fit lesbians have a bit of a kiss...

So we tipped the fucker out and watched as it sailed through the air, landed dead square in the centre of the mattress pile, and even as Sharon started to tell us how fucking clever she was and my mate Ben down below approached the bed to secure it...

... the bed recoiled with alarming speed and velocity off the homemade trampoline and shot off to the side, knocking Ben clean off his feet, scything through him, and then it landed... Directly on Ben’s crumpled body. He didn’t even make a sound. All we could see from Sharon’s bedroom window were a couple of Doc Martened feet sticking out – it was like that scene out of the Wizard of Oz with the wicked witch of the west and the house, only our wicked witch was heavily into utility boots, crappy bright green Day-Glo socks and baggy stonewashed jeans.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Sharon sounded really perplexed as the rest of us rushed out to make sure our mate hadn’t been killed in a freak falling furniture accident.

Didn’t have too much to do with Sharon after that brief cohabiting period – she did my fucking head in. I remember the last time I saw her in a bar in Manchester she said: “Remember your friend and the bed? You wanna know something hilarious? I remembered afterwards that bed wasn’t mine! It was in the flat when I moved in! Isn’t that hilarious?!?”

No, Sharon. No, it wasn’t. (Well, ok, a little bit – Ben wasn’t badly hurt and to this day I think he may – while that huge bed frame was hurtling towards him – have actually pissed his pants).

Sharon went on to get her PhD. She’s probably sat in an office or a lab somewhere now telling some poor random tosser that we could help replace the hole in the ozone layer if we collectively held our breath for a couple of minutes a day...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 19 Mar 2010, 14:21, 1 reply)

Umm, take the ends off and transport the bits downstairs?
(Benzyl, Tue 23 Mar 2010, 17:02, closed)