» The most childish thing you've done as an adult

Cerne Abbas Giant
Recently, my company has gone totally over the top about health & safety. As part of their ongoing drive to protect themselves from being sued protect their workers from harm, they decided that the walkways around the building needed lots of yellow men painted on them, so it would be quite plain to everyone where it was safe to walk.

One evening I took a marker pen to one of these figures and turned it into a (rather crudely drawn) Cerne Abbas Giant. Thus -



The next day, my boss went absolutely fucking mental. The term 'gross misconduct' was freely bandied about, and he spent most of the day studying the CCTV footage to see if he could catch the culprit.

However, I know where all the cameras are, and this figure is out of their range. I might be childish, but Im not stupid.
(Fri 18th Sep 2009, 0:24, More)

» Old stuff I still know

Crescent wank
I can still remember my first proper wank. I was about 10 years old and I'd found a photography magazine of my dads with a picture of a naked lady in it. Whilst closely studying this picture, my John Thomas started doing ‘that thing’ again, and I discovered that rubbing it felt rather nice. After a few minutes of this, it suddenly started feeling very nice indeed, so nice in fact, that I did a little wee. And so began a life long passion of rubbing my John Thomas whilst looking at naked ladies. You should try it sometime.

Fast forward 30 odd years and I’m on holiday in Cornwall with my girlfriend and her parents. We’ve rented a beach house for 2 weeks, well it’s more of a chalet really. It’s small, comfortable and pleasant enough, just like the girlfriend really. A good time is had by all, until towards the end of the first week when I come down with some hideous stomach bug, which causes me to spend 2 days sat on the toilet clutching a bucket. Not wishing to spoil the holiday for everyone else, I insist that they go out for their day trips and leave me alone in the house feeling sorry for myself.

By the morning of the third day of this, I’m starting to feel a little better. I had managed to sleep though the night without needing to rush off to the bathroom, and Id even managed a little breakfast. However, I still felt as weak as a gay kitten, so I opted to go back to bed while the others went out for the day again.

A few hours later, I woke up again, and this time I was feeling much better. I now had 5 or 6 hours to kill on my own before the family got back. It was a beautiful day, with a good strong breeze, so an afternoon of kite flying on the beach seemed like an ideal way to spend the day. But first, I think I’ll knock one out.

I tried a memory wank, but just couldn’t concentrate. Going to need some visual stimulation. There’s no internet access in the chalet, so I’m going to need to improvise. I could go down to the beach, which is bound to be thronging with bikini clad girlies, and maybe even some topless ones, but public masturbation tends to be frowned upon, so I rule that idea out. I briefly consider buying a magazine from the newsagents, but quickly rule that option out too, as I would need to hide it somewhere in the chalet, where it could be found by my girlfriend, or, worse still, her mother. There’s an internet cafe in town......oh yeah.......the public masturbation thing. Best not.

And then I spot it. On the breakfast table is a copy of The Sun, courtesy of the girlfriend’s father. I open it up to page 3, and Katy from Wolverhampton stands there smiling at me. I haven’t bashed one off to a page 3 girl since my early teens, but it could work. I go to the recycling box and pull out the papers from earlier in the week, and pretty soon a grand total of 6 page 3 stunners are accompanying me into the bedroom.

I kneel on the floor, and the girls arrange themselves into a crescent around me. Each girl takes their turn and after a truly herculean effort of fwappage, I finally manage to crash my yoghurt truck over Zoe from Bristol’s ample assets. She looks pleased.

Satisfied, the girls return from whence they came, and I bugger off to the beach.

So there you have it. In an age where muff diving, cum swapping, dildoing lesbians and anal creampies are but a few clicks away, I can still remember how to rub one off to a tabloid newspaper picture of a girl with her tits out.
(Sat 2nd Jul 2011, 14:54, More)

» Fairgrounds, theme parks, circuses and carnivals

Woburn Wild Animal Kingdom
My first job after leaving school in 1986 was on the Sky Ride at Woburn Park, and even though the wages were awful, I fucking loved it. I did my stints on all the rides in the park; the crap kiddies roundabouts (known, inexplicably as the “Dobbies”), the Ghost Train, the Rainbow Ride (the one big decent fairground thrill ride in the park, and responsible for at least 3 deaths), the Carousel (a genuine Victorian wooden, hand painted affair with a player organ driven by reams of thick punched card, it was one of only a few left in the world), the boats and the train, but it was the Sky Ride that I worked on most of the time.

The Sky Ride was a mile long cable car ride through the beautiful Woburn woods and over Drakelow Lake. In the old days, the lake had gorillas on an island, and tropical birds on another island (called, imaginatively, Gorilla Island and Bird Island respectively) and you could get off the Sky Ride at the lake end and take a pleasure boat around the lake. One particularly bad winter, the lake froze over, and the gorillas simply walked to freedom. One of them was captured walking along Woburn High Street. By the time I worked there, the birds, gorillas and pleasure boat were long gone, and the Sky Ride was a round trip only, with the customers, known by all staff as ‘punters’, not allowed to get off at the lake end anymore. (Unless they were attractive young ladies, in which case it was positively encouraged, but rarely achieved!)

Working at the lake end of the Sky Ride was referred to as being “down Drakelow” and it was by far the best place to work. There would always be two people working down Drakelow, and the time could really drag if you were working with someone boring, but most of the time I was working with my mates and it was just one long laugh. We regarded the punters as our personal playthings, there simply to provide us with entertainment. The cabs came through the station at intervals of between 20 seconds and 1 minute, depending on how busy we were. That’s a lot of people to fuck with during an 8 hour day!

Here are some of the things we would get up to:

The cigarette scrounge

This was common practice throughout the park, but Drakelow was by far the best place to get away with it. Most of us were smokers, so we used to have competitions for who could scrounge the most fags during a day. Basically, if a punter was smoking in the cab when they came through Drakelow, the cab monkey would say “‘scuse me mate, I couldn’t pinch a smoke off you could I? Only I forgot to go to the shop this morning, and we’re not allowed to leave site during the day”. This would work almost every time, and you could go home at the end of the day with 40 or 60 cigarettes in your pocket. Occasionally you’d get caught out when a punter went on the ride twice, but you could usually just make a joke out of it. Sometimes someone would take pity on you and give you half their packet. Occasionally you’d get really lucky and get someone who was smoking a joint.

The fake fight

This was a regular one, and we got really good at it after a while. I would be pulling the cab round and my mate would be waiting just around the corner. As I came round, I would let go of the cab, walk over to my mate and smack him one in the face. This was of course a stage punch. He would raise his hand to defend himself and at the last second we both opened our hands and my palm struck his making a loud smacking sound. He would then spin round and fall to the floor, apparently out cold. I would grab the cab again and carry on pulling it round as if nothing had happened. This produced a variety of responses from the punters, some would ask me why I did that, to which I would just shrug and reply “he’s been getting on my tits all day”. Most would just nervously look at one another and go quiet.

The fake accident

This was a favourite of mine and I did it all the time. As the cabs left the station, they would rise sharply up to the first tower. Just outside the end of the station was a small grass area. I would amble about on this grass area, idly kicking a ball about or something, and as the cab left the station I would be standing in just the right spot so it would just clear my head, at which point I would smack the bottom of the cab with my fist, and drop to the ground like a sack of shit. The punters would just hear the thud, and then see me lying motionless on the grass. I would remain there until the cab went over the hill and out of sight. Sometimes the punters would come round again and ask if I was alright “yeah, but I got a banging headache now”. One chap said to me “you don’t learn, do you boy”, “I’m sorry?” I replied. “We came on here a couple of months ago and you got hit by our cab then too”! Oops.

Stop/start or walking down

This was our way of dealing with rude or aggressive punters, old school friends who were visiting the park or anyone else who we thought deserved it, and it was really fucking dangerous. Stop/start, as you might imagine, involved rapidly stopping and restarting the ride. After a few times, this would set up some major oscillations in the wire rope, causing the cabs to bounce about like fuck. Utterly terrifying if you were in one of them at the time and stupidly dangerous when you consider that the wire rope only went over rollers on top of the towers – it wasn’t actually held on with anything. Walking down was similar, but only affected the one cab. Basically, the cabs were released from a trap, and rolled down a ramp onto the rope at which point cab and rope were travelling at the same speed. The weight of the cab would then cause a clamp to close over the rope, and away you go. Walking down was where you held onto the back of the cab when it was released from the trap, and walked it down the ramp making it much slower than the moving rope. The moment the clamp gripped onto the rope, the cab would suddenly and violently lurch forwards and would be swinging wildly for several frightening minutes of its journey. It still amazes me that these practices didn’t result in a major catastrophe.

The pissy bonfire

We would often build bonfires outside the station. Then we would spend all day drinking Happy Shopper lemonade and peeing into a mop bucket. When the bucket was full and the wind just right, over the fire it would go, the resulting cloud of foul-smelling piss-steam billowing up and over the unlucky punters on the ride. Have you ever pissed on a fire? If you have, you’ll know that it’s one of the most unpleasant smells known to man. This one drew a number of complaints.


Which brings me onto the subject of complaint letters. I’ve still got some of the good ones, including the one about the staff member (me) riding his motorbike, without a helmet, through the rhino section of the safari park. This was one of the few that I actually got into trouble about, mainly because the complaint went to the safari park, who were different management to us on the amusement park. You see, our ‘management’ were, basically, a family of pikeys. Very nice and very funny people but pikeys none the less. They didn’t give a fuck. Complaints were seen as badges of honour. My boss would read them out in the staff room in the morning, all the while pissing himself laughing.

““And then the staff member ran onto the jetty and pushed my son into the boating lake““ (pauses while everyone laughs) “no listen to this bit, listen “and some of the lake water went into his mouth and he was sick and bilious in the car on the way home”“. Boss and entire staff collapse in hysterics. Eventually, when everyone recovers “seriously now, don’t push the punters in the lake”

There’s one other story I want to include. As I lived in Woburn, my journey to work in the morning involved climbing over the wall behind Drakelow station and getting a cable car up to the other end. There was no phone installed in the Sky Ride, and this was long before mobiles, so the only means of communication between the two ends of the ride was with an intercom and a buzzer. So one morning, I arrive in the station and buzz the other end, expecting the line to start up so I can go to work. But there’s no reply. I keep buzzing and trying the intercom, but there’s just no answer. I settle down on the grass outside to read the paper, assuming that there's been a fault with the comms system, and eventually, after about 2 hours, a voice crackles over the intercom. When I respond, my boss tells me to make sure the station door is shut and to shut myself in one of the cabs, as 2 tigers have escaped from the safari park and “they’re on their way down to you”!

Even though I suspected this was a piss-take, I did as I was told. It wasn’t a joke, 2 tigers had indeed escaped and were heading down towards the Drakelow station. The safari park had 2 people who were qualified to handle tranquilizer guns. One was on holiday, the other was off sick. So the tigers were shot dead. This still upsets me. Bastards.

I worked there for 5 years, and it was the best job I’ve ever had or ever will have. I could fill page after page with the stories from my time at Woburn, and many of the friendships I formed there have become life long friends. Sadly, they dismantled the Sky Ride a few years ago. I shed a few tears as I watched it coming down.

Length? A mile long and up to 90 ft high.
(Sun 12th Jun 2011, 20:07, More)

» My most gullible moment

Tree fellers from Cork
Back in the early 90's I worked on a tree gang in Milton Keynes (nowhere near Cork, I know, but I couldnt resist using an old Two Ronnies line!). The gang consisted of Nick the Foreman, myself & Stuart the chainsaw operators & tractor drivers and a very green 16 year old lad called Roy on his first proper job since leaving school.

Basically, we would spend all day out in the woods thinning out the young plantations. When working out in the woods, there tends to be a general lack of the basic facilities enjoyed in most workplaces, to wit, a khazi. This is fine if all you need is a number 1, but a number 2 presents a whole new set of difficulties.

Now the earthy country types amongst you might not have a problem with taking a dump outside. You simply find a quiet spot, dig a hole, do your business in it, then bury it. Simple. I find it quite an enjoyable experience, providing I can find somewhere where I know I wont be disturbed by a dog walker, which, trust me, is embarrassing for all concerned. Roy was a city boy, and the whole concept of crapping anywhere other than a porcelain bowl was completely alien to him. He found it utterly disgusting that one of us would occasionally wander off with a spade under one arm and a bog roll under the other, and would always say things like "I could never do that" and "Id hold in in until I got home, no matter what".

And so the wind up began...

We began returning from our 'missions' carrying a plastic bag containing some soil or a short thick stick, which we would then hold up to Roy and announce to him that it was "my shit", and that we were going to take it home to flush it down the lavvy. "Of course we dont crap in the woods Roy, thats disgusting, thats what Gyppos do". We would then stash the bag in one of the tractors ready to take home (and just tip it out somewhere later).

This went on for months, but we knew that eventually he would, ahem, crack.

Then one glorious day, it happened. Roy announced to us that he could hold it in no longer and he had to go off for a shit. So off he went with his Tesco's carrier bag and his bog roll under his arm and we waited.

He was gone for AGES! I mean like about 45 minutes. We'd got bored of sitting around just waiting so had resumed work again when he eventually emerged carrying what looked like a weeks shopping! Fuck me I dont think Ive ever laughed so much in my life! Nick fell to the floor and just thumped the gound in hysterics, sort of cartoon style. Stuart was half way up a tree at the time doing some pruning, and the whole tree was shaking with his laughter.

The best bit was that Roy later said that the hardest part was getting his legs through the handles of the carrier bag!!! (Oh the mental image!)

Within a week, even his mum was calling him "Baggy"!

He now runs a successful tree surgery business of his own. Good on ya Roy.
(Sat 23rd Aug 2008, 11:52, More)

» My sex misconceptions

The Weapon
someone had a misconception about my sexuality, does that count?

I used to share a house with another bloke. We often joked about how the neighbours probably thought we were gay. It wasnt helped by the fact that neither of us had been doing too well on the girlfriend front either.

Nick, my housemate, had recently been to the Erotica show in London, where he purchased The Weapon. This was a 10" rubber cock, which, he claimed, he wanted to try out on this young lass he'd recently hooked up with. (I believe she said something along the lines of "you're not putting that fucking thing anywhere near me"!)

Anyway, Nick was a slob. He thought nothing of leaving dirty plates on the floor until they were covered in mould. He was a spoilt little rich kid who'd had servants to do all that kind of thing. I hated the mess, but I wasnt prepared to clean up after him, and it was his house, so it just stayed messy.

At some point or other, this big dildo ended up on the floor in the middle of the sitting room. I wasnt going to touch it, and not just because I wasnt Nicks housekeeper, I also didnt trust him and wasnt sure where it might have been! So it stayed on the floor. It was there so long Id kind of stopped seeing it.

Then one day, there was a knock at the front door. I opened it to see my Glaswegian neighbour

"alreet pal, go any skins?"


Ahh, ok, sure Ive got skins. So I went upstairs to locate a spare pack of Rizla. Whilst up there, I heard a kind of *cough/splutter/laugh/"fuggin shite"/cough/laugh* from my Rizlaless visitor.

Oh fucking bollocks. He's seen the big rubber cock. Two men, living together, big rubber cock in the living room.

I thought about trying to explain to him that it had nothing to do with me, but I already knew that nothing I said would convince him otherwise. So I just handed him a pack of skins and shut the door.

The walls of those houses were paper thin. For ages afterwards I could hear howls of laughter from next door, punctuated by occasional words in broad Glaswegian, such as "rubber cock", "dildoo" and so on.

I moved out soon after.
(Mon 29th Sep 2008, 20:45, More)