» The Police II

Wee and weed
It's been told before, but I figure it's worth re-telling, as it's doubtful anyone will remember.

Many moons ago, while I was staying with my parents in the sleepy town of Ludlow, Shropshire, I spent a fine evening filling up on a variety of fantastic ales. As a result, my bladder decided to take a break in the doorway of a charity shop in a pedestrian-only street. Running silently, a bacon-mobile rolled up behind, presumably having built up speed and killed the engine 100' away. As a result, I turned around to two coppers standing right behind me. Given that this town was known for its drunken behaviour, they probably weren't too bothered, but they wanted to give me a dressing down for my public indecency. In my alcohol-addled mind, I decided to run for it. Given that I was all of 2 feet from them, and tried to run between them,I made it all of about 1 step before being collared. In restrosepct, I have a newfound respect for the evasion method of Jason Bourne. They decided that I could with a bit of time down the nick, which was all of 200 feet away. They put me in an interview room, left the door ajar, and left me alone. After about 5 minutes, with no-body seeming to be paying any attention to me, and beginning to feel a little parched, I decided to have a wander around. I strolled into what must have constituted the control room, and asked the three or so officers on duty for some water. They told me to help myself to the water cooler, and get myself back in the interview room. Another 5 minutes passed, and again my cup ranneth empty, so I repeated the same move. Again, they told me to go sit down. My interrogation consisted of about 3 minutes of asking me what the hell I was doing micturating upon private property, I apologised, and they threatened to take me home and wake up my parents. I spun them a flimsy yarn about my dad becoming physically abusive to me if they did, and they realised I was probably better of being let loose to get myself home. They charged me £80 for the act, and kicked me out.

Clearly, I was in the wrong for both pissing on the doorstep and trying to run away, but that £80 still stung me. Until, that is, a year or so later when a couple of friends and I went to pull a desk out of a skip in Brighton police station car park, and found an old evidence envelope containing about 3 ounces of weed. We couldn't believe it, and bolted sharpish. I took my oz. share of the booty, smoked until I felt retarded, and decided the sell the rest to buy myself an external sound card for my laptop. All in all, I ended up being about £30 up on the Police force. Cheers guys.
(Thu 5th May 2011, 20:54, More)

» Shoplifting

My earliest experiences
I've shoplifted for years. I'm now 23 and can't stop myself. Oh well, c'est la vie.

It all started aged 10. My parents were rebuilding a classic yacht in a run-down boat yard on the sussex coast in England. I wore blue overalls all weekend to avoid trashing my clothes. The overalls had a large pocket in the front centre position, with access from both sides. we regularly visited a secondhand hardware store for spare parts. This store was a beautiful, dark, cavernous stockpile of bits and pieces. For some reason, I was fascinated by padlocks. I promptly made it my mission to collect them all, pokemon style. I also had various tool, keyrings, sweets, etc. I reckon I must have lifted about £200 before growing my first pubes.

Then, racked with fear one day, I decided to ditch the evidence. Pouring all the gear into a backpack (which I could barely carry), I decided to ditch the bag into one of the giant bins at the boat yard. With the gear in the bag I went for a shower. Upon returning to my room, I walked in on my dad sorting through the bag with a horrified look on his face. That feeling of doom washed over me (you know the one).

Long story short, my dad was majorly pissed off at me. Threatened cops, adoption, etc. Said he'd ditch the gear, but I couldn't help but notice a great deal of the items I'd stolen making their way into his toolkit over the years. Eventually, one of the padlocks I'd stolen locked the boat, and the key was on a floating cork ball keyring of mine as well.

Since then, I went through a phase at secondary school of raiding WH Smiths for parker pens, and now it's pretty much whatever I feel like whenever I'm in the mood.

I wonder if I'll always be like this.
(Tue 15th Jan 2008, 15:38, More)

» Fairgrounds, theme parks, circuses and carnivals

Blagging the bumper cars
A few years back, my mate Dave and I went for a mini camp-out in Stanmer Park, Brighton. Having set up the tent in a tucked-away little hidey hole, we took a stroll around the park as the sun was going down, with our flagons of cider in hand. Seeing a bit of hullaballoo going on down at the manor house in the park grounds, we ambled a little nearer, and ended up sitting with a couple of Czech guys who were smoking a joint and watching proceedings too. They informed us that it was the University of Brighton graduation do, complete with hired bumper cars. The manor house has a wall around it, with security at each gate, and revellers were drifting in and out of the enclosure, presumably to get up to naughtiness in the bushes around the place. Dave and I knew that free bumper cars come few and far between, and we didn't want to let a little thing like having never been to the University of Brighton get in our way of riding them.

I called my friend Alex, and told him to go round my house and grab all the suits and ties he could find, and to get down to the park ASAP. He willingly obliged, and rocked up about 40 minutes later with all the necessary garb to get us in to the party, as well as a little bag of Columbian enthusiasm. 10 minutes later, the three of us sauntered in to the party, and Alex and I spent the rest of the night driving slinky dress-wearing ladies around on the bumper cars, while Dave walked around with his SLR taking photos of groups of pretty ladies for "the website".
(Tue 14th Jun 2011, 21:03, More)

» Little Victories

Micturation compensation
I was bladdered in the quiet town of Ludlow, Shropshire, one frosty night, and whilst staggering back from The Church (The pub next door to God's gaff), I decided that I needed to release some of the 8 or so pints I'd put away. I looked around, no sign of anyone around me, hook the old fella out and let rip against a wall. Mid flow, I hear a voice say, "excuse me sir", and turn around. A bloody panda has sneaked up on me like a ninja (I swear they must have killed the engine up the road and coasted up to me in silence), and two coppers have got out and are staring at me like I've just taken a shit on Princess Diana's grave. £80 fine, and a hilarious half an hour in an interview room where I was supposed to be sobering up, but kept wandering into the control room to find some water.

Fast forward 6 months, it's summertime, and I'm back down in Brighton, out with a couple of my Czech friends on a sunny day. We stroll past the Police station HQ in Kemptown, an office block about 8 stories high with tinted windows all over. In the middle of the rather empty car park was a skip, full of stuff and a desk on top. My friends wanted the desk, and only lived on the next street, so we went to pull it off and lug it home. As we got closer, we smelt the familiar scent of weed, and our interest was piqued. We lifted off the desk, and underneath there were a load of bin bags with old evidence, hoodies, shoes and the like. Under the bags were a bunch of busted up hydroponics lights and other gear. Obviously the cast off evidence from a big bust. I dug my hand into a giant brown envelope, and still sitting in a flattened netting drying rack thing were a few good handfuls of weed, a little soggy from the rain. Mindful of the fact that we were standing in the middle of a car park, with 8 stories of obsidian authority staring down at us, we pocketed the goods and made a speedy exit stage left. Given a few days to dry out, the weight came to 2 1/2 ounces. I took one Oz. for myself, which I smoke until I became retarded, then sold the remainder and bought a new soundcard with the proceeds.

Thank you, British justice system.
(Wed 16th Feb 2011, 6:07, More)

» What was I thinking?

No nookie for me
Was at a party when I was 18. A stunning buxom redhead arrives with a guy. I am taking some photos, and she poses for me. Flash whites out the entire shot. She takes me upstairs to a small toilet, closes and locks the door, unbuttons her top and throws some poses. I take photos, then say, "we should get out of here before your boyfriend finds out what we're doing". Confused, she replies "I don't have a boyfriend", and leaves. I woke up the next morning, look back at the photos and realise something very important: Girls can and do have male friends.
(Sun 26th Sep 2010, 15:54, More)