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My milk snake brings all the boys to the yard:


My milk stout brings all the boys to the yard:


Both, it goes without saying, are better than yours.

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» Have you ever paid for sex?

"But what if I can't get it up?"
I've never paid for sex. I've also never been paid for sex - but only just. Oh, and I'm a (fairly) straight, male.

End of 1st year uni exams, 19 and skinny. Sunny Oxford in early summer. Organised boat trip down the Thames to celebrate - arranged by college drinking society, but with proper townie crew. Unlimited free wine. All very lovely.

Idiot me decides that the best thing to do is to down 4 litres of unbelievably cheap white wine. Idiot me then starts to stagger. Idiot me then starts to copiously vomit over the side of the boat. Boatmen, reasonably if unmercifully, decide that unloading me from their boat onto the towpath 5 miles outside Oxford is the best way to deal with the situation.

The girl I'd been trying and miserably failing to pull over the course of the entire first year, sportingly, volunteers to escort me back to civilisation. Unfortunately, somewhere on the towpath trip, I annoy her so much that she returns home alone (I've never found out precisely how, and hopefully never will). Instead, I pass out on the towpath.

I'm woken by a fat-ish guy aged about 30, shaven hair and an earring, asking me if I'm alright. Yes, I say. Do I know where I am? Not really. Do I fancy a lift back to town? Yes, that would be lovely. So we get into his MX5-ish sports car. He regales me with tales of his musical talents, the fact that he's signed up with East 17's manager and has lots of record deals in the pipeline. Very interesting, I say. Do I want to go back to his house and smoke some weed? Well, of course I do.

So we go back to his parents' rather large (parent-free) country house, sit down in the living room, and he plays me some godawful sub-Pet Shop Boys dance bollocks. Very nice, I say. He rolls a joint. I smoke it. He kisses me. I kiss him back, slightly surprised and confused by what's going on. He stops.

Do you fancy watching some TV? Yes, I say. OK, walk this way to the bedroom (no, I didn't ask what was wrong with the TV in the living room). So we sit on the bed and he puts on the football.

He kisses me again. Will you fuck me up the arse for 150? Err, what, I say? Will you fuck me up the arse for 150? No, actually, I don't think I will... indeed, I don't think I'm capable in my current state.

At this point I develop the fear and demand that he takes me home. To his great credit, he does, asks for my number, and I almost feel guilty when I deliberately get the digits wrong. I return to the college bar where my coursemates are still drinking, and affect memory loss covering the entire rest-of-day.

(and no apologies whatsoever for length. I'll have you know some people would pay 150 for it...)
(Mon 23rd Jan 2006, 14:01, More)

» The Police II

Top quality Scots coppers
Long-backstory-short, the year is 2008, the month is February, 12 English idiots have just achieved a near-death-hiking experience trying to get from Currour to Fort William in a day (you can just about do this in a day in early June starting at sunrise and finishing at sunset. Not so much when there are seven hours of daylight), whilst also confounded by (what the local mountain rescue boss described as) the worst snow in years.

After an unexpected night in a half-roofless bothy, much near-death-associated bonding, eventual amazing delight and relief on reaching Fort William only a day late, and radical drinking once we reach the hostel (which, pleasingly, has a bar with one of the largest Scotch collections I've ever seen), the weekend's nearly over. Some sensible people meander off to get daytime trains. But a sturdy hardcore of about seven of us take the Scotrail Sleeper back to London.

The Sleeper has some excellent features: most notably, a buffet car with proper lounge furniture and cafe-like tables (not bolted-to-floor train seats). This particular evening, the red-faced, slightly slurring steward was also handing out free whisky as compensation for the fact that his kitchen was broken and he couldn't serve any hot food - it's hard not to love Scotland. We didn't really need the free whisky, as we'd stocked up with two bottles of Scotch and two cases of beer, but the thought was appreciated.

The train meanders rather slowly from Fort William to Edinburgh, where it's joined up with other carriages from equally remote bits of Scotland and packed off to London as one big train. It leaves Fort Bill at about 6pm, and arrives in Edinburgh about midnight. By about 11.30, we had a problem: we'd drunk all the booze. So we bought some more miniatures from the steward. Problem solved.

However, on repeating this request at about 11.50, it was denied due to 'stocktaking', or possibly 'drunk English cnuts'. So we finished the assorted dregs, and retreated to our cabins.

Sleeper cabins have two bunk beds. I'm sharing with my friend James, who's a Respectable City Banker. Our unemployable posh alcoholic friend - think Withnail, but shorter - is in the next cabin. About 10 minutes later, Withnail knocks on the door. "We should get some more drinks." "Erm, we don't have any more drinks and the dude won't sell us any."

But I have a brilliant (read: moronic) idea at this point. The trains that join up at Edinburgh Waverley, where we've just stopped up, all have their own crews. So there'll be another dude with another trolley who doesn't know how much we've had and isn't going to be quite so reluctant to sell us booze. As the most desperate would-be consumer, Withnail is briefed on the plan and dispatched with 20 quid.

Five minutes later, Withnail returns. With four miniatures of Scotch, one miniature of Bacardi, and, erm, 20 quid. "Did you follow the plan?" "No - I found the drinks trolley and borrowed these. It's OK, the steward didn't see a thing. I'm going to lie low in my cabin for a bit but I'll be back in 10 minutes".

Brief reflection on possible reasons for 'lying low' leads us to suspect that "didn't see a thing" may be an exaggeration. This is confirmed by the frantic banging on our cabin door by the red-faced Scotsman, along the lines of "give them back, or I'll call the fucking polis", "sorry mate, what are you talking about, we've been here the whole time" (which was literally true). Eventually he appears to lose interest and goes away.

So Withnail returns with the miniatures. He's already cracked the Bacardi, so I finish it; we're about to start on the Scotches toasting the success of our nerve, when the light outside turns noticeably blue and flashing. Oh fuck, the steward *has* called the bloody rozzers (in 2008, the platforms at Waverley were driveable-onto by official vehicles). We despatch Withnail, on the grounds that "my cousin is a QC", "GETINTHEBACKOFTHEVAN!"; James and I resign ourselves to obsequious apologetics.

So two Edinburgh cops join the train - both late-30s early 40s, as experienced and cynical as anyone in a TV show or cheap novel.

They point out that they've every right and reason to investigate this case at the police station, that it's bailable rather than remand-able, but that they'll only bail us if we can find someone in Edinburgh to sign for us (I get on OK with my ex's parents, who live in Edinburgh, and have their number in my phone, so at least a night in the cells is off the cards - but that would definitely not be WINNING). We apologise repeatedly, offer to pay, obfuscate somewhat on the details (coppers MUST NOT TALK TO WITHNAIL), but make clear that we're very sorry and ashamed and it was a terrible misunderstanding.

The cops then disappear to talk to the steward. This goes on for about 20 minutes. They return to our cabin - "come outside, there's a conversation that needs had".

We follow the cops to the end of the carriage, where the angry-and-deflated looking steward is standing. "You boys have got something to give to him, haven't you?" - we hand over the Scotches. Steward adds "but there was a Bacardi as well!", "Yes, erm, sorry, we drank it". Cop to steward "Well, how much was it?". Steward: "erm, three pounds fifty". Cop: "Well, give the man his three pounds fifty, then!". Money is handed over.

Final word from the cops: "How old are you?". I reply, "28"; James replies, "28". There's a pause. They look meaningfully at the steward. He replies "47". The slightly-more-veteran looking cop says "well, maybe in future you could all ACT YOUR AGE rather than wasting our time with this kind of stupid nonsense". The cops leave. The steward leaves, with a face like thunder. We slink back to our cabin then burst out in insane, inane laughter.

I almost felt sorry for the steward for that one. Right up until he served me breakfast the next morning with a hole punched in the milk packet that entirely covered my bed and clothes in milk. Still, that's probably a fair revenge.

Withnail was amused by the story the next morning, didn't apologise, and subsequently stole our money.
(Sat 7th May 2011, 15:58, More)

» Jobsworths

Rental man inflicts just punishment
Just got back from Italy with 12 mates - two of whom are Rich And They Know It, and who pissed the other 10 of us off with non-stop patronising comments, complaints that we should go to better restaurants and buy nicer booze, etc.

Cue the end of the holiday. It's time to fly home, and it's time to drop off the hire cars. The Rich Queens have their own car; they turn up at the Hertz desk being self-important.

"We've left the car in a space outside the airport, now give us the receipt, we're in a hurry"

"I'm sorry sir, you have to take the car to the long stay car park 1500 metres from the airport, and then come back here to sort out the paperwork".

When we enter the airport in our car a few minutes later, we encounter one annoyed Rich Queen, who tells us we'll need to go to the long stay car park. So to make sure we end up finding the right place, we go to the Hertz booth first, leaving the car parked in the middle of the road with the hazard lights on - and speak to the same receptionist.

"Excuse me, please can you let me know where we need to drop the hire car?"

"Ah, don't worry, just leave it where it's parked."

"But it's parked in the middle of the road with the hazards on."

"No problem. Have you filled the tank? Good. Hand over the keys and here's your receipt."

Good work, Italian rental man.
(Tue 17th May 2005, 14:54, More)

» Accidental innuendo

Chewing tail
My friend (IT geek, would doubtless have posted this already but his work blocks b3ta) was visiting a French relative with a 3-year-old daughter.

The kid had a toy rabbit, and she was chewing its tail. So my friend decided to practice his l337 GCSE French skills, asking the kid what she was up to: "tu bouffe la queue?"

...at which point the room fell silent.

Shortly afterwards, some unfortunate relative had the enviable task of explaining to my friend that he'd just asked a 3-year-old girl whether she gave oral.
(Mon 16th Jun 2008, 13:47, More)

» My Worst Vomit

Like Japanese porn, but real
Not me, thank various deities, but my friend Steve.

We're at a big party at my ex-girlfriend's house in St John's Wood - which is an excellent place for amusement, but for her mum's collection of horrible, horrible fluffy white cats (called Turkish Vans, apparently, perhaps in the hope that someone will make them into a donner).

Steve's brought a Japanese girl called Sitomi to the party with him; they've met a few times through a mutual friend. She's perhaps expecting a less drunken evening - certainly she seems slightly peturbed when I meet up with Steve on the way, and head to the offie where we buy a crate of Kronenbourg each. Then again, she seems slightly peturbed all the time.

Now, Steve has an unfortunate drunken habit of drinking six or seven pints with no discernible effect on his personality, and then instantly shifting to helpless incoherent buffoon with the seventh or eighth. Sometimes we take bets on when this will occur. On this occasion, everyone was distracted... so it came as something as a surprise to all concerned when Steve unleashed a torrent of vomit - over the kitchen floor, over the terrible cats, over most of the people in the kitchen - but especially over Sitomi.

Naturally, we assumed she'd want to leave. Instead, being (we surmised) the dutiful Japanese type, she took Steve upstairs to get him cleaned up.

The next recorded sighting of the pair was half an hour later, with the still-sick-covered pair having surprisingly energetic sex on my ex's parents bed. For a while, I considered having my eyes removed to get rid of the image...

The horrible cats form a coda to the story. By the time we reached the stage of getting cloths and other sick-clearing devices, the cats had done a remarkably good job of disposing of the sick themselves. Unfortunately, Kronenbourg-flavoured sick isn't recommended as cat food. So as people passed out in various corners of the house, the cats took great delight in vomiting on and/or licking each one of them in turn.

Steve and Sitomi lasted a few months as a couple. They eventually broke up after he drunkenly phoned her number instead of the rail timetable phone line, and verbally abused her for not knowing the time of the next train to Wimbledon.

Apologies for frankly enormous length, breadth and girth.
(Wed 25th Aug 2004, 21:03, More)
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