» Bad Dates

IBIZA.. Havvin it Laaaarge..
Sometime near to 1994, i forget exactly, the local football team I was kind of playing for - basically, they were a good team, won everything and strutted about with the kind of gusto that confident, good looking young men strut when they're good at something - and I say kind of playing for, because I was the player who was chuffed to bits just have been asked to sign on for the team in the first place and regardless that I then spent most of my Sunday mornings dressed in the team playing strip, overladen with a tracksuit and standing on the touchline. I was happy enough though as the kit barely fit my overweight-for-my-age somewhat wholesome physique and I say "happy", until on one occasion I came on as a substitute and then got substituted myself some 15 mins later. That kind of player. Anyway, I digress. But you get the point.

We won the league, we won the cup, we gained promotion to the top tier of local football and all in all had a jolly good season. At this point you may, of course again substitute the word 'we' in the previous sentence to that of 'they'. Talk then was of a end-of-season team holiday to the paradise holiday island of Ibiza and their famed nightclubs of Pasha and Amnesia where 24hr party people hang out. Not being someone who frequented nightclubs even back at home, feeling like a fish out of water every time I ventured near a place, that part of the holiday didnt appeal to me, but being included in the tour party guest list did - so I signed up.

Anyway, to Ibiza we went and it was pretty much everything it was acclaimed for. Days were spent drinking by the pool and evenings were a mix of untucked pressed shirts, too much cologne and a floppy haired group swagger into town - everyone trying their best to walk like Liam Gallagher (*sidenote - the assh*le).

Within at most a day or so, the goal tally (you can read between the lines here as to what i mean) stood at an impressive, albeit unaudited, 15 - 0. Group reminiscences of the previous nights escapades were constantly enjoyed the following day and as I laid low listening to The Stone Roses on my walkman (a band I didnt even like) I hoped that none would mention my lack of contribution to the overall team score.

Anyway, we booked up with the local rep to go to a new thing at that time which was a foam party at one of the local clubs, so as usual we trotted along and before you could say "Were havin it laaaaarge" for the 10 billionth time, the place was up to your neck in foam and to my surprise, I found myself dancing. Not only dancing but frolicking (yeah, I even used that word at the time when I was 19, go figure) with, as even my mates lauded, "a faaackin hot blonde". One Bez from the Happy Mondays dance later, I found myself playing school-disco-style tongue tennis with her, hands fondling about her person and glowing with a sense of enormous pride at this unexpected boost to my team cred. Jackpot. New found confidence came I think in the sense that my head was the only goods on show and so this poor unfortunate had somehow been sold short and perhaps wouldn't be engaging in my company if our embrace had been in an otherwise foam-less environment, who knows.

So, anyway.... What was the original question again? Ah yes, embarrassing dates.

Following day, my place on the row of sun loungers had become more inclusive within the group, no longer was I the guy on the end having random objects constantly thrown at me without warning and without obvious assailant, now I was the guy they all wanted to hear from. "Mate, she was faackin hot, did you shag her?" came the questions. To which I (I obviously hadnt, and had in fact gone for a piss, came back to see she had gone and then skulked my way back to my cell on the premise that if I wasnt there and she wasnt there, perhaps the very questions I was now being asked, would be asked the following day), with my assumptions now correct and my well rehearsed response firmly in place I replied, in my very best Mockney footy accent (which everyone had somehow adopted, even though we were all from Hampshire), was "Mate, if you must know, I f*cked her in your bed and jizzed on your pillow?" - Cue ensuing group laughter and my arrival. I really had arrived.

Then she appeared, loudly announced to us by one of my mates as "There's your bird from last night". "Oh no", thought I. And she drew closer along the poolside I, and the others, could see that she had something unusual in the way she walked. Commonly known as having an extreme case of 'club foot' I believe its called. And with discretion not being a forte within my compadres, another declared "look, shes a f*ckin mong". Cue more extreme laughter, rolling about and me having my hair and head manhandled.

Then, as she and her friends drew alongside us, another questioned, "Here love, has he got a small dick?". "Him" says she, "how would I know? I wouldnt shag that fat f*ck if he wasn't such a fat f*ck. I mean, LOOK AT HIM!". Cue hysterical laughter bordering on fever pitch, not just from my mates, but also her mates, families on holiday, the waiter collecting glasses and a couple on an overlooking balcony above. And if I'm honest, it wasn't the fat f*ck bit that upset me at the time, for that part was blatantly obvious, I think it was more the "LOOK AT HIM" bit, which she shouted at me with some real intent that really stuck in my windpipe. A windpipe which by now was closing by the second.

Probably a good 20 minutes then went by before the laughter had finally receded to something resembling just a bunch of deep long sighs, the kind you get when you've laughed so much that there's nothing left to give. And as I glanced about the poolside, one elderly gent had even removed his glasses so as to clean the lense, after he'd been laughing so much. Then another of the group piped in, "mate, not only did you NOT shag her, but you also got turned down by f*cking crippled mong"... She heard this, which I wasn't overly disappointed with, given her previous outburst, but nevertheless and despite the general exhaustion being felt around the pool, somehow this comment allowed everyone to enjoy the moment yet again for another 10 minutes. Then they threw me in the pool, together with my walkman still attached, just to cheer me up.

Anyway, thanks for listening, I think Ive turned a corner in my therapy and can finally close this particular nasty chapter in my life - despite the fact that my friends still constantly reminded of the incident, some nigh on 20yrs later.
(Fri 18th Oct 2013, 14:41, More)

» I'm Sorry I've Written A Joke

Which jungle cats don't like chocolate?
Savoury tooth tigers.

FU All!
(Fri 22nd Oct 2021, 15:26, More)