» Random Acts of Kindness

Since I've now admitted in another post to being a crusty old tramp for while,
I'll tell of a charming old fellow who stopped to chat with me while I was cooking a scabby rat (something cheap, maybe spam on a stick) on my campfire.
At this time I was resident in a layby near Downham Market in Norfolk, enjoying the golden splendors of autumn in the fens. I'd been there for about a month, working occasionally with the veg pickers/packers and had all mod cons in my site, to wit, some public bogs and a nice riverside location under some trees with a daily chips and burger van.
Even the local village cop used to drop by and chat, no malice and no hint of getting moved on.

One afternoon an old boy stopped in his Allegro (or replace with alternative old codger-mobile of your choice here) to use the crappers and afterwards wandered over to tell me that he'd noticed me there before.
"Oh great" I thought, -here we fucking go again-, "I've called the council and they'll soon have you removed sonny Jim"-
But it was none of the usual, he sat on a picnic bench, pulled out his pipe and chatted with me for about an hour; asking a lot of questions and not really making much comment on my answers.
We talked of his life too and his time in a POW camp in the war and other adventures, perhaps he was lonely, he told me he was a widower.
Then as suddenly as he had arrived, he stood up, bid me a good day and buggered off, wishing me luck with the future.

The next day the guy who ran the burger van appeared with a bagged meal of healthy sandwiches and a some good old fashioned greasy burgers and chips.
Handing them over with a big grin, he gave me an envelope with 50 quid in it and explained that the old feller had left instructions to give this to me, feed me and offer his best wishes again.
"He paid for the food too, but that's on me mate, so here's another tenner".

No note, no name and I never saw him again. I'll never forget though.
(Mon 13th Feb 2012, 19:24, More)

» Filth!

Cleaning up someone's rancid backyard with a pressure washer
I was delighted to be covered in a thin slurry of shite, old broken eggs, mouse corpses, chicken shit and other wonderful detritus.
When I gave up and went indoors for a beer my eye was itching.
After I went back to work and carried on swishing the filth, my eye was still itching.
When I got home hours later I had a few pre-bath beers and sat reading the paper, all the while, my eye was itching.

Finally I decanted my filthy self into the bath and had a good old soak to be rid of the day's accumulated horrors, although...my eye was still itching.

Eventually I sprang from the bath, shiny and cleansed and looked hard at my eye in the bathroom mirror. Nothing; nothing that is until I pulled my lower eyelid down.

Crawling along, without a care in the world was a small, white maggot.




I wear goggles now for that kind of job.
(Tue 7th Feb 2012, 0:49, More)

» The Wank Bank

She poured herself a cup of tea
from a tartan Thermos flask like my grandparents took to Felixtowe, there to sit in the car and watch the waves.

I'd say she was 10 years my senior, I never asked, but she looked flawless and polished and poised against my casual teen scruff attire.

We were in a small train station somewhere west of Banbury and east of Hereford. The weather was pleasant, late July if I recall correctly, warm enough but before the humidity and persistent angry wasps of August.
I watched the tendrils of steam curling upwards and vanishing just below the tip of a perfect nose, her dark hair falling into loops of ebony sheen.
And there we sat; awaiting the delayed connection, just the two of us on an acre of platform. Striking up a conversation should be easy in these circumstances; two lonely travelers and the romance of a sunny station bench.
She smiled at me and with a simple flash of teeth over shiny lips swept away the casual sounding words I had assembled to break the ice. I muttered something about delays and the weather, the mainstay of the lost-for-words Brit.
She agreed and folding her magazine swiveled her body towards me. Ah, an invitation to continue, no rebuff. She was on her way to a business meeting and was already so late had been forced to reschedule it for the following day; I, on the way to a work related college course. An hour passed, slipped by unnoticed, and perhaps another. She was twirling her hair and my thoughts with one delicate finger. I noted that the nail polish was chipped and that she'd chewed the tip of the nail a little. This only seemed to make her more attractive to me. We seemed to find much in common, the laughter coming easily. I began to relax in her presence.
And then she touched me. Just like that, just on the knee but it was the sensation of an electric fence shock. I must have jumped involuntarily because she laughed and told me she didn't bite. Attempting to appear cool and collected I replied that "I was rather hoping you would"
Suddenly she stood up and holding out her hand for mine said, "let's go for a walk". My mind went into immediate shock, what the hell was about to happen here?
I don't think it would be exaggeration to state that I was having trouble breathing and was developing a boner which was going to make walking a bit of a challenge. I stood awkwardly and tried to shuffle my hips to surreptitiously push my cock into a more comfortable position without blatantly shoving my hand down the front of my jeans and adjusting the tackle. Like a bumbling schoolboy I began to walk with her through the station gate and towards the woods behind the carpark.
I wondered briefly if she was leading me into a trap of some kind, so surreal was this scene, but I allowed my self to be led into the shady trees.

Now I'd love to be able to tell of how I pumped her senseless against the gnarly bark of an old oak, the sun streaming through the leaves into her beautiful face as she gasped in ecstasy. The truth is that faced with the overwhelming excitement and view of her pale white thighs as she pulled her knickers to one side, thrusting a hand between us to play with herself, and with my face buried in her Chanel scented cleavage I lasted about a minute, possibly less and certainly not as much as two minutes.
As we walked back to the station, each with our respective disappointment, I reflected on how this was going to replay in my head in the days to come.
I felt that perhaps a second go would have created a better ending but it didn't happen. We sat, held hands, made small talk and rather awkwardly parted as her train finally arrived.

In hindsight I realise that whatever we had found to talk about before was now redundant, the deed was done and there was really nothing left to say.

It was several years before I was able to catch a whiff of Chanel and not be instantly transported back to the moment, those scent receptors can be a powerful trigger. Even seeing steam rising from a cup towards a female mouth got a little stir going. It was crap sex but the best kind of wank bank material because it was so fucking evocative and erotic and could be replayed in dirty detail whenever a few minutes were available for a quick shuffle.

So there we go, another sex lie on t'internet or an unfeasible but real encounter - you can decide for yourselves.
(Sun 26th Aug 2012, 20:20, More)

» Filth!

My brother in law told me this tale from his backpacking in India days.
The story begins with a bout of dysentery, as every filth and India related tale should.

The pair of 'em had it and had it bad. As student doctors they were well aware of how to treat themselves and contrary to popular legend, it's not always "all that bad" though can become very serious depending on the pathogen in question. So, they were into day 3 and the symptoms were subsiding but the odd "urge" still came to visit every hour or so.

Standing on the platform of a very congested railway station, bro in law's mate indicates that he needs to open the floodgates and reduce the pressure so to speak. He wanders away and returns a few minutes later looking pained and miserable. Apparently the toilet was out of order and he wasn't ready to crap in the street, so he decided to try and hold on until they were on the train.
Duly, the train arrives; close to its appointed time.
The two guys have seats reserved in whatever passes for 1st class, and having located them and relieved themselves of their packs, they sit and wait for the train to get moving so the unfortunate fellow can find the toilet and unload some gravy.

Eventually the train set off and the rumbling of the wheels was echoed by the trouble fermenting in this poor chap's guts. Armed with his 5 sheets of paper he rushes off to locate the carriage's shitter.

This is when things start to go a little off course.
For a start, the crapper has a sort of 3/4 door that you can see under and over which fazes him a tad; however it is the horror of what awaits inside that has him reeling back in terror.
The "toilet" for want of a better word, is a hole in the floor, or rather a hole in a pool of runny shit, piss and bits of newspaper and rags.
"Ah well", thinks he, "when you gotta go..."
Thinking himself rather clever he very carefully removed his shorts so that they can't dangle in the slurry, placed them safely on his head and squatted over the hole with that sense of relief that cannot be matched by any experience in life; sweet release.

As he began to liberally spray his foetid effluent in wave after wave of high pressure jets; the train, having gathered a bit of speed, entered a tunnel.

The resulting backdraught sent a mixture of his and everyone else's shite all the way up his back and into his hair.
He had 5 sheets of paper to clean himself up with, nowhere to wash and nowhere to go except back to his premier class seat in the packed carriage looking and smelling like a man who'd fallen into a sewer.

Apparently the whole carriage was awash with his delicate aroma within a few minutes and he had to endure the disgusted stares and twitching noses of fellow passengers for several hours as they trundled slowly through the countryside.

But he did have clean shorts.
(Thu 2nd Feb 2012, 16:21, More)

» Morning After Souvenirs

Popped out for a few jars and a friendly chat with girl I fancied.
Nothing serious mind, but testing the water and finding out how she felt about me.
She suggests cider, I agree - although I seem to have some kind of genetic problem with cider (my dad is the same) in that it makes my legs wobbly even when I feel fine.
Not wanting to make a poor impression on the "1st date" I get stuck into the draught cider, matching her pint for pint. She's a tall girl who can handle her drink and I feel good to be with her and after more than a few pints am feeling warm and happy.
At this point I pop off the barstool for a p-break and manage to get my foot caught in the bottom bar, falling gracefully over.
She laughs. I laugh too. I return feeling much better and resolve to go steady on the booze.
Too late, I've already had enough for serious damage to occur.
Realising I'm now in a bit of a pickle I suggest we leave and I walk her home.
No more than 3 steps outside the pub I fall over, ON MY FACE.
She helps me up, we try again.
I fall over on my face on the kerb.
My sister arrives, laughs and calls a cab seeing that I won't get anywhere using my legs.
I stand and fall over backwards into the gutter where the rain runs down my collar.
I give up trying to stand and await my fate. I have been given a bag of frozen peas for my swelling face.
Time passes.
I awake in my bed and feel a bit rough. Standing slowly I walk towards the bathroom.
The duvet follows me. It is attached firmly to my elbow by a large crusty clot of blot.
I soak my elbow in the sink to remove the duvet.
A glance in the mirror reveals a face not dissimilar to the bit in Terminator where his face has been blown off with a shotgun.
I call work and tell them I'm sick.
I retire to bed a broken individual with a hole in my elbow like a cat's arse covered in ketchup.
One eyelid has split at the corner like an overripe fruit.

I no longer drink cider.
(Sat 28th Apr 2012, 2:32, More)