Freshers week at Uni was always a bit of a laugh.
The randy as fuck eighteen year old first years away from home for the first time were just as likely to end up in casualty to get their stomachs pumped free of all the cheap vodka they’d downed in the SU, or the pint-or-so of sperm they’d gobbled down back at the halls of residence afterwards.

In my second year I took up residence in a shitpit in Trafford with a bunch of lads doing HND’s in Motor Mechanics. They thought I was doing a degree in cooking. Fair enough: economics and home economics are pretty easy to get mixed up, and thinking about it, learning how to make a perfect soufflé might actually have had more use in the real world than knowing about the GDP of a range of minor South American countries.

Anyway, one of the lads was absolutely fucking mental. An ex squaddie from Glasgow with long girlish hair who’d done a few tours over in Northern Ireland. He was a nice enough bloke if you didn’t get on his bad side. But if you did you’d end up on the floor, covered in blood, looking like you’ve been doing some bumpin’ n grindin’ with Edward Scissorhands .

One time his battered old Cortina disappeared from outside our house. Rather than call the police – who would’ve done fuck all - Kevin very calmly taped up his knuckles, said in a very quiet ominous voice: “I’ll be back in a little while,” and stalked off. He drove up half an hour or so later in his motor. Walked in, went up to the bathroom and washed the blood off his hands. Actually thinking about it, Kevin was a really, really, really scary fucker.

Back to freshers week – Kevin pulls. I haven’t on account of drinking my own bodyweight in Coors and having a brief but passionate encounter with the SU floor. Dazed and bruised, I’m sat back in the house watching The Sky at Night (gotta fucking love that show), when Kevin rolls in with this tart. This woman should’ve been chained up in a cage in a zoo and fed raw meat – she’d have made your average cougar run for the fucking hills in panic. This woman – evidently – was not a fresher. Probably some random cock-warmer Kevin picked up in the kebab shop on the way home.

Kevin and his lady friend disappear upstairs. Grunting. A bit of shouting. Heavy feet on the stairs. Kevin sticks his head round the door: “You packing?” he asked, pushing his long hair out of his eyes.

For a brief, scary-as-shit moment, I thought Kevin was asking if I wanted to join in. A threesome with a bloke who could snap me like a twig and a woman who’s peroxide could knock me unconscious at five paces, who’s wrinkly dried-up old skin would probably have the same effect on my delicate boyish body a cheese grater would have on a knob of soft butter.

But then Kevin continued: “Condoms! Got any? She won’t let me fuck her unless I’m wearin.”

I explained I wasn’t ‘packing’. I returned to the TV screen and Patrick Moore going on about space. Kevin wasn’t finished: “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Go and fucking get me some fucking nodders!” When Kevin asked you to do something in that tone of voice, you did it. No fucking questions asked. On-pain-of-death. “And don’t piss about!” And he stormed off.

Moments later, pissed off, drunk, I’m walking down towards the 24 hour garage through the fucking ghetto. It’s raining. Lashing down. I think: Fuck this! That fucker can’t fucking fuck with me! Fuck him! And I head back home, nodderless, and resume residence on the couch.

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG, Kevin’s heavy footsteps down the stairs again. “Well?”

And I realise I’m going to die. “they.didn’t.have.any.” I squeak. Kevin looks fucking annoyed. Then I see a dim spark light between his eyes. His brain appears to have been working overtime, or the brain in his trousers took over and came up with this ‘plan’ for him.

Without a word he disappears upstairs. Before The Sky at Night’s finished – with accompanying bed-moving, groaning, and borderline screaming from Kevin’s room – he’s done the deed. The cougar, complete with tiger-stripe leggings and leopard print t-shirt, has stalked off into the night with a woodbine dangling off her bottom lip. Kevin joins me in the living room, sweaty, spent, looking rather pleased with himself.

“You found some johnnies then?” I ask.

Kevin shakes his head. “Nah - I put this round my cock and in the dark she thought I was wrapped,” and he tosses over one of his thin hair bands, it lands in my lap and I freak out. It did – however – look an awful lot like the round hard rubber circle they have at the base of a condom. “Don’t think she even noticed when I spluffed in her.”

“Errmmm... aren’t you... errrr... worried?” I said. “You know... about not taking precautions... It’s not a good idea not to, you know, with a new partner ‘n’ all that...”

And this is where the ignorance comes in. A display of ignorance that had me shuddering to the core.

Kevin tossed his head back, laughed, and said in as patronising a tone as possible: “I don’t think there’s much chance she’s gonna get pregnant. Did you see how old she was?”

The mind boggles.

And Kevin wondered why he started pissing needles a few days later...
( SpankyHanky, Wed 24 Mar 2010, 13:26, 5 replies)

I wish I'd not wasted 2 years neglecting my A Levels so I could have gone to Uni
After my mate came home for Xmas in his second year he told me about "Fuck-a-Fresher-Fortnight"

Mind you, I was nobbing the future Mrs SLVA by then and she could suck the varnish off a table leg.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Wed 24 Mar 2010, 13:43, closed)

Bloody Hell Spanky,
Leaving it late this week, thought we wouldnt get our fix!
(Obi wanker nobi Its not a bug, its an unexpected feature, Wed 24 Mar 2010, 14:44, closed)

Clicky
Just cause i haven't heard 'spluff' in years! Gold!
(TheManofScience, Wed 24 Mar 2010, 15:46, closed)

Go and fucking get me some fucking nodders!
As always it`s the way you tell `em
(Sadarse works like Mist condensing mud flaps, Thu 25 Mar 2010, 9:48, closed)

*click*
Funny- Your mate kind of reminds me of Begby from trainspotting.

Begbie: Picture the scene: The other fuckin' week there, doin' the fuckin' Volley with Tommy, playing pool. I'm playing like Paul-Fuckin'-Newman by the way. Givin' the boy here the tannin' of a lifetime. So it comes to there, during the last shot, the deciding ball of the whole tournament. I'm on the black and he's sittin' in the corner looking all fuckin' biscuit-arsed. When this hard cunt comes in. Obviously fuckin' fancied himself, like. Starts staring at me. Lookin' at me, right fuckin' at me, as if to say, "Come ahead, square go." You ken me, I'm not the type of cunt that goes looking for fuckin' bother, like, but at the end of the day I'm the cunt with a pool cue and he can get the fat end in his puss any time he fucking wanted like. So I squares up, casual like. What does the hard cunt do? Or the so-called hard cunt? Shites it. Puts down his drink, turns, and gets the fuck out of there. And after that, well, the game was mine.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Thu 25 Mar 2010, 11:56, closed)