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» Drugs

Shroom with a view
Many years ago my colleagues and I stayed in a Cornish cottage over Christmas. One morning we quaffed mushie tea and set the board up to play Risk. I wandered to the bog but my attention was caught by a picture in one of the bedrooms as I passed. It was a painting of a spaniel in a bosky glade. But it was odd. I looked closer. It was 3D, "Oho! A hologram", I thought. It wasn't. But it was very 3D. By moving from side to side in front of it, I could actually look behind the spaniel. I decided it was an alcove in the wall, painted with a woodland scene, with a china spaniel statuette sitting in it. And with a clear glass frame over it all.

I went to the shitter and returned, with my interesting 3D spaniel alcove tale, to start the game of Risk. The living room was quiet. And dark. And empty. The board had been put away and there were empty wine bottles strewn around. Everyone was in bed.

Turns out I'd been looking at the spaniel for something like fourteen hours.
(Fri 17th Sep 2010, 19:21, More)

» What was I thinking?

I know it's a middle-class cliche but I do love old Stephen Fry. Statistically, you probably do, too. So imagine the scene five years ago. I was walking down Piccadilly in TV's famous London when Fry himself popped out of no 195, BAFTA HQ, like a tweedy poo from a sleek and privileged bot.

Fry stood for a moment, blinking in the sunshine. In a split second I decided that, as this was the only chance I'd ever have, I'd go up to him and engage him in witty banter. He'd laugh at my cleverness, perhaps even suggest we collaborate on a TV show and would even maybe shower me with quality goods bearing the Apple logo. You never know.

I went up to him. I said, "excuse me." He looked down at me politely. I said, "I'm sorry to bother you." And my courage fled. I shrugged apologetically like a twat (or a Frenchman - much the same thing) and scurried off. As I went I heard him say, in a kindly if bemused voice, "oh. Well really it was no bother."

What hurts, what hurts like buggery on a ski lift is that ever since then I can't see him on telly without my toes curling in shame as I remember that cringe-worthy day. I am such a sphincter.
(Thu 23rd Sep 2010, 21:11, More)

» House Guests

Religious experience
Back when I was 15, a friend of my mum's came to stay at our house for a weekend. She was called Carol, raven-haired, mid forties, and was what we'd now refer to as a MILF. At the time I think I just made that "phwoar" sound that comprises 46% of the script of the original On The Buses movie.

Carol was in the spare room next to the bathroom. My folks kept their books, nick-nacks and the souvenirs from their care-free, pre-sprog travels in there. In pride of place was a brass statuette of Buddha which the olds bought in Bangkok, en route to Oz for a holiday.

Late that night, as I returned from what the Americans call a comfort break and I call a piss, I noticed the door to the spare room was a tiny bit ajar. So of course I slowed and peeped. Lying on the bed was Carol, naked apart from her socks. She was frigging herself off at impressive speed using Buddha, the Supreme Teacher of Gods and Men as a big shiny makeshift dildo.

Carol, I saw, had an impressively huge growler, and the image of the Serene One's face appearing and disappearing into that bush has stayed with me, clear as you like, these intervening years. In fact I had an uncanny flashback not long ago watching Michael Mcintyre pogoing about enthusiastically under his mop of hair at the Apollo.

Carol never saw me and a, "hey, big boy. Why don't you join me" scenario never happened. You wouldn't have believed me anyway.

On Sunday evening, after Carol had left, I went in to the spare room. The Buddha was back in the centre of the shelf, looking calm and benevolent as always. I gave him a good sniff. Alas he just smelt of brass.
(Fri 7th Jan 2011, 11:37, More)

» I didn't do it

Too much blood.
I woke up late and shaved too fast. I cut my lip. Well, did that sideways slice with the Mach 3 move that hurts worse than childbirth. Undeterred, I rammed Andrex onto the new pulsing lip-slit and sucked down some Cheerios which were nevertheless lubricated by enough escaping blood to taste like oaty menstrual grommets.

In a hurry I rode me trusty Yam 600 to work at high speed, and arrived twenty minutes late. I took off my helmet and a thrill of disgust ran round the staring office. The blood from my chimp-fingered shaving had continued to flow during the ride. Speeds in excess of 90 mph and open lid vents had caused the gushing blood to smear around my clock like a dirty protest from someone with burst haemorrhoids.

Quick as a sharp nine-pin tack I said I'd had my visor up and had been hit square in the mush by a piece of metal flung up from the road by a lorry in front of me.

I got commiserated with and immediately sent home on a wave of goodwill because of my lie. I spent the day on a sofa watching a box set of Peep Show and probing the finally-forming scab with my tongue. Soothing Cookie Dough ice cream may have been involved too, whilst peering at the episode with the burnt dog.

I lied on the day but can't lie to you now. This occurred. And it taught me that self-harm, even if inflicted accidentally, is always the right choice.
(Sat 17th Sep 2011, 1:10, More)

» Sex Toys

If you fantasise about sex with a film star...
Do what I did. Buy a rubber sex doll and turn it inside out. It'll be exactly like shagging an impressively erect Yul Brynner.
(Thu 17th May 2012, 21:36, More)
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