b3ta.com user Pastabator
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Man of the world, man of science, man of peace, man of love, tiger tamer, pole dancer, astronaut, tarot card reader, plumber, relationship councillor, general all round good egg and purveyor of the fine French arts (eating garlic and not washing very much).

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» Gyms

The strange girl
Driving through torrential rain one night, I tried to keep my eyes focused on the road. It was hard work. The surface water was pooling and it was like trying to drive across the surface of a lake. I had to keep a tight grip on the steering wheel, the wipers on hi-speed, as I peered out into the slowly descending gloom. Then I saw a girl at the side of the road with her thumb upraised more in hope than expectation. She was soaking wet. She was only wearing a thin jumper and her long dark hair was bedraggled and hung like dead limp snakes down across her oval face. I drove past, slowed, and came to a stop. I put the hazzards on and reached over to open the passenger door. I glanced in my rearview mirror – I couldn’t see the girl. But then, after a moment, she appeared by the side of my car. She stooped and slid effortlessly into the passenger seat. She said: “Thanks!” And I suddenly felt like the nicest man in the world.

I set off, I asked her where she wanted to go. And she replied: “Anywhere. I don’t mind.” I explained I was driving to Oxford and she said: “That’ll do fine.” I could see she was shivering. She was cold, soaked to the bone, so I turned up the heating and explained there was a travel blanket on the back seat, she was welcome to dry herself with it. She thanked me and reached over, and in doing so her hand stroked my shoulder. And it was freezing cold. So cold I felt a strange tingle spread from that point down my arm and across my chest. It was like a sudden and violent internal frost in my body.

I physically jumped. She was startled too. She apologised for touching me and explained she’d been on the road for quite some time. I glanced over at her. She was so pale, so incredibly pale. I asked if she felt ok, and she nodded curtly. “As good as can be expected.”

After half and hour or so we reached Oxford city centre. I didn’t want to sound sleezy, but I asked if she’d like to come round to my place to get warmed up. She said: “No thank you – you can drop me here,” and I pulled over, she opened the door and went to leave. But before she went she reached out and grabbed my hand. Again, the terrible cold. Then without a word, she left, closing the door quietly behind her. And as I drove off I checked my rearview; the girl was nowhere to be seen. She’d gone. Vanished.

Later, when I returned to my house, I opened the front door and found the local paper on the mat. I picked it up – and there – framed by adverts for this and that - was a familiar, oval shaped face on the front page. A young woman. The headline read: Twenty years ago today, Emily Young was hit by a car and killed on the A34, her family remembers, service held today in Oxford.

My god! I thought. I just couldn’t believe it. I scanned the front page again. Shaking, I went to the phone and called my best friend, Simon. He answered and I said, with a quivery voice: “Simon, have you seen todays Oxford Mail? You’re not going to beleive this,” I clutched the paper, scanned it again, read it over and over, “they’ve got an advert on the front page for Fitness First – free membership for a month!”

Simon was elated. So was I. We both like going to the gym.
(Tue 14th Jul 2009, 14:34, More)

» Celebrities part II

Wardrobe Malfunction! Wardrobe Malfunction!
Back in my early twenties I used to be a big fat fucker. If you gave me a choice between sex with a beautiful woman or a plate of donuts, I’d have chosen the donuts anytime. And after I’d polished off the donuts, licking the sugary goodness and saturated fat off my fingers, I’d probably have made full use of this beautiful woman by getting her to go out and pick me up a shitload more donuts. Then one day I realised enough was enough and I lost so much weight you could’ve made an exact replican of Susan Boyle with the excess flab. But being a bloke it took me a good long while to realise that I’d have to, grudgingly, fork out for a new wardrobe. My jeans and t-shirt were literally hanging off me. It came to a head when I was in that there fancy London visiting a mate for a long, lazy weekend.

We were strutting down Oxford Street, soaking in the sights, when I noticed someone famous was doing a book signing in Borders. It was none other than Ian Wright, the footballer and allround wideboy gobshite. Now, I really didn’t give a shit about Ian Wright. But my friend who was a dyed in the wool Arsenal supporter did. So we ended up joining a pretty long line of fanboys wanting to get the autobiography of this great mind of our age signed (probably with an ‘X’ in crayon).

As I’ve mentioned, I was now a thin man (well, thinner) wearing a fat man’s cloths. The main problem with this was that I didn’t own a belt. Never needed one before. In my previous fat life a belt was about as useful and practical to me as a virginity testing kit would be for Jordan. So I’m stood in line, hands in pockets, sort of holding my jeans up by clamping them against my legs. Occasionally reaching down to give them a tug if they slipped out of position. I’m starting to lose the will to live. The line isn’t moving fast enough.

But eventually we get to the front. Ian Wright grins a big toothy grin. Seems like a nice enough fella up close. My mate’s extatic, I think he might have got a sudden and rampant hard on at the sight of this slightly muscular black dude with a flat top haircut. My mate steps forward, offering a copy of Ian Wright’s autobiography for the great man to sign. In doing so he automatically passes me his shopping bags (we’d already been on Oxford Street for fucking ages). I automatically reached out both hands to take the bags.

My jeans automatically slip off my lithe frame and I effectively show one of England’s greatet ever footballers (allegedly) my wrinkled pants. This was made even worse because in the morning when I was getting ready, trying to do ten things at the same time, rushing round my mates kitchen wearing only my underwear, I accidentally dropped my toast into my lap. I remember brushing off the mess thinking: no one’s gonna see my pants, fuck it, doesn’t matter. So I didn't bother changing them.

Terrible thing is I had marmite on toast that morning. Ian Wright was very amused. His agent thought for one breif moment I was going to try and bum rape his client, standing there as I was with my jeans round my ankles, wearing shit-smeared boxers. To try and make the situation a little easier to bear I remember saying: "It's ok look," and reaching down, rubbing some of the brown stain onto my finger, and then raising it to my lips to lick and taste.
(Wed 14th Oct 2009, 10:26, More)

» Neighbours

When I was a little nipper
my dad used to burn rubbish in a big metal barrel in the garden. (Not very environmentally friendly, but this was the sixties and my dad used to own a bottle opener which was a taxidermied rat with metal jaws that used to sit on his study dresser looking like a bionic mutant killing machine; my dad was not into kissing trees and hugging flowers).

I'd stand to one side and breath in the heady fumes of whatever he was burning, wathcing the dancing flames, mezmerized - probably a little turned on.

Then one time on a dark November morning a pale blue and white panda car came screaming up the drive with the big blue light flashing. The police officer (local bobby, nothing special, nice but dim), got out and ran over to us. He looked into the burning barrel, panting heavily.

"What are you burning?" he asked my dad.

My dad poked around a bit with his stick. "Errr... I'm burning some of my daughters old toys, officer," said my dad.

The police officer looked a bit pissed off. "We had reports you were burning something illegal." He looked into the barrel, saw the mass of melted plastic and wood and various other shit. Then he waved a goodbye and stalked off.

My dad appeared perplexed.

Took him until after Christmas to find out why the copper had come tearing up the drive like Starsky AND Hutch. My mum heard it from a friend of a friend of the next door neighbour.

She'd alerted the authorities when she saw my dad putting a baby in a burning barrel with some small demonic kid (me) clapping his hands in glee and looking on.

It was one of my sisters old and knackered dolls.
(Mon 5th Oct 2009, 11:03, More)

» I don't understand the attraction

My mum
Asked me if I liked eating out.

I was busy doing something at the time and didn't really engage my brain. Instead I gave her a long and rambling diatribe about my experiences of this activity. I conclulded with: "It's sort of ok, if the girl's clean and isn't on her period."

My mum sort of cleared her throat and responded: "No, son - I meant, do you like going to restaurants."
(Wed 21st Oct 2009, 17:06, More)

» Family Feuds

My family used to live in Paris
My dad, the worst man in the world to ever sit behind the wheel of a car would often end up motoring right into the fucking river causing massive rows with the rest of us.

My mum would fume. My brother would simmer. My sister would cry.

I'd just sit there and wonder how much longer I could take being driven in Seine by my father.
(Wed 18th Nov 2009, 17:07, More)
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