Respected pillar of the community my arse...
The following story is, sadly, true. God I wish it wasn't. The names and locations have been changed to protect the reputations of the prominent academics involved.

August, 2003.

Mrs lawofnations was completing her degree at a London college connected with a famous museum in the South Kensington area. As part of this final part of the degree, she had to give a presentation. I had just quit my job in preparation of moving away from London, so turned up to give moral support.

Mrs lawofnations' office was on the third floor of the museum. As she was putting the finishing touches to her presentation, I felt the urge to drain the snake. I asked her where the toilets were, she told me, and I left.

Some time later I returned, looking shocked, bemused and appalled. What had happened to me in the intervening moments. Therein lies the sordid tale...

I went to the toilets. They were cramped and old. One urinal, one stall, and the urinal was already in use. I had to squeeze past the old man stood at the urinal in order to actually get into the stall. I shut the door, bolted it and prepared to void the bladder.

I was stopped in my efforts by the grunt from the old man at the urinal. "Jeezus" I thought. "It can't be fun trying to take a slash at that age - sounds painful." Oh, if only this old chap had a bladder infection...

The grunts became more frequent and intense. And louder. Now, I don't know if anyone has ever had the dawning realisation that the man next to you is having a hand shandy, but there's nothing quite like it to completely eviscerate your desire, or ability, to pee. So I am now stood there, lad in hand, desperate to piss and quite unable to, being serenaded by the geriatric onanist next to me.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at this point. It was simultaneously hilarious and appalling. And then it got worse. He got more and more vocal.

"ooooh". "oooooh". "OOOOOH GABY!!!"

As the fwappage reached a crescendo, he bellowed "2, 5, 7, 9". There was then the horrid sound of something that sounded like a vast wad of wet paper hitting porcelain - what I now know to be the sound of what must have been a gargantuan volume of old man jizz - followed by handfuls of paper towels being grabbed and rubbed vigourously against "something".

Then the old man left. Five minutes later, when I felt it was safe. I left too.

I related all of the above to Mrs lawofnations. We used the museum intranet to try to identify Old Man Wanky and to find out if there were any "Gabys" who could have fuelled this senile masturbatory fantasy. I had only seen the man from behind, so couldn't identify him. There were three people called "Gaby" (or phonetic variant) - interestingly only two were female...

After the presentation, Mrs lawofnations, her friend U and I had coffee together. I told U the story, which delighted and appalled in equal measure. As the conversation moved on to less disgusting topics, the door of the coffee lounge opened. An old man in a familiar tweed suit walked past. My jaw dropped. I couldn't get the words out. Eventually I attracted the attention of the missus and U and spluttered "It's him!! That's him!!! The wanker!!!"

U looked, and almost choked on her coffee. "But that's Professor Snugglesworth - he's a respected pillar of the scientific community!"

Snugglesworth is in his seventies, so it's impressive that he's still able to so aggressively go at it. As to the string of numbers he shouted during the vinegar strokes, god alone knows what THAT was about. A lifetime tally or something?

Curiously, another person we know who works at the museum, and worked under Prof. Snugglesworth (so to speak) informed us that this wouldn't be the first time that a "respected pillar of the scientific community" has been caught having a quick one off the wrist in the museum.

Always the quiet ones, eh?
(lawofnations, Wed 7 Sep 2005, 0:22, Reply)