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I'm not very interesting.
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» Nights Out Gone Wrong
There I stood; there I spoke; there I vommed
Three years ago I moved down to London with my then-girlfriend.
She’d already secured a job down there, we’d secured a flat, and I was in an interview process for a job of my own. We had drinks with different groups of friends to say cheerio to the hometown over the course of a couple of weeks, culminating in a quiet evening in a bar on the Sunday before we moved. We wanted it to be a short one, because it was our last goodbye and she had work in the morning and I had a telephone interview. I was going to have a nice drinky, a good sleepy, and then a calm and professional interview at 10.00 the next morning.
Unfortunately, but nicely, just about everyone we knew from school, work, family, friends, whatever turned up to see us off and bought us a fucking shedload of drinks. Whisky for me, for some reason. Equally unfortunately but nicely, the bar manager was an old schoolfriend of mine and kept the place open past midnight.
Thus I got six kinds of Wednesday.
I stayed at my girlfriend’s house that night – she lived with her family at that point – and basically threw away whatever dignity and decorum I had. I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember her waking me because I’d sicked the bed in my sleep. That required her mother’s assistance for some reason – I know not – so she got to have a nice discussion with her daughter’s boyfriend as he was covered in sick, drunken as sin and naked as a jaybird. I have no memory of the conversation or the procedure – I guess I just stood in the corner like a little nude dunce, gently moaning. Possibly with an erection.
The next thing I remember is being woken, amazingly, by my phone ringing. Amazingly because it was on silent so just vibrating on a table. It was 10.00 o’clock and time for my interview, and I was still in my girlfriend’s bed and naked. She’d gone off to work and left me, presumably not wanting to have to handle a repeat of the intestinal pyrotechnics from the night. I answered the phone, of course, with the croaking voice of an elderly Bob Dylan. Dear me, did I do well. I was interviewed for an hour talking completely off the top of my head, all the time pacing around the room in an effort to stave off the voms, wanger swaying as I expanded upon my experiences and qualifications. Twice I had to excuse myself and throw up into the bin. I just claimed to my interviewer that I was coughing.
My clothes were not in the bedroom. So after finishing the interview I had to wander downstairs and hold another conversation with the mother to ask where my clothes were (they’d been washed as they got a bit of sick of them. Nice lady). She was in a dressing gown; I was still naked. Possibly with an erection.
No-one died, and I got the job. All’s well that ends well. And the problem with that is, I never learned when to say ‘no’.
(Fri 25th Mar 2011, 15:40, More)
There I stood; there I spoke; there I vommed
Three years ago I moved down to London with my then-girlfriend.
She’d already secured a job down there, we’d secured a flat, and I was in an interview process for a job of my own. We had drinks with different groups of friends to say cheerio to the hometown over the course of a couple of weeks, culminating in a quiet evening in a bar on the Sunday before we moved. We wanted it to be a short one, because it was our last goodbye and she had work in the morning and I had a telephone interview. I was going to have a nice drinky, a good sleepy, and then a calm and professional interview at 10.00 the next morning.
Unfortunately, but nicely, just about everyone we knew from school, work, family, friends, whatever turned up to see us off and bought us a fucking shedload of drinks. Whisky for me, for some reason. Equally unfortunately but nicely, the bar manager was an old schoolfriend of mine and kept the place open past midnight.
Thus I got six kinds of Wednesday.
I stayed at my girlfriend’s house that night – she lived with her family at that point – and basically threw away whatever dignity and decorum I had. I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember her waking me because I’d sicked the bed in my sleep. That required her mother’s assistance for some reason – I know not – so she got to have a nice discussion with her daughter’s boyfriend as he was covered in sick, drunken as sin and naked as a jaybird. I have no memory of the conversation or the procedure – I guess I just stood in the corner like a little nude dunce, gently moaning. Possibly with an erection.
The next thing I remember is being woken, amazingly, by my phone ringing. Amazingly because it was on silent so just vibrating on a table. It was 10.00 o’clock and time for my interview, and I was still in my girlfriend’s bed and naked. She’d gone off to work and left me, presumably not wanting to have to handle a repeat of the intestinal pyrotechnics from the night. I answered the phone, of course, with the croaking voice of an elderly Bob Dylan. Dear me, did I do well. I was interviewed for an hour talking completely off the top of my head, all the time pacing around the room in an effort to stave off the voms, wanger swaying as I expanded upon my experiences and qualifications. Twice I had to excuse myself and throw up into the bin. I just claimed to my interviewer that I was coughing.
My clothes were not in the bedroom. So after finishing the interview I had to wander downstairs and hold another conversation with the mother to ask where my clothes were (they’d been washed as they got a bit of sick of them. Nice lady). She was in a dressing gown; I was still naked. Possibly with an erection.
No-one died, and I got the job. All’s well that ends well. And the problem with that is, I never learned when to say ‘no’.
(Fri 25th Mar 2011, 15:40, More)
» The Best / Worst thing I've ever eaten
Bah-bah-bah, bah-bah-bah-best. And also worst.
A few years ago a friend and I were dining in Hull’s premier steak restaurant*, The Lantern. The eating’s good in The Lantern; it’s a favourite of John Prescott no less. They do a lovely grilled trout and a stonking steak. That was the starter and the main course, and it was good.
For dessert, we thought we’d try the cheese board for two. What they gave us – well, the food itself wasn’t bad tasting, I guess, but it was a fucking disgrace nonetheless.
They brought it over and I just looked in amazement. It’s not the classiest restaurant in the world, but it’s not cheap: maybe £30 a head for three courses. The cheeseboard for two comprised half a packet of Jacob’s cream crackers, a quarter of a Boursin, a slice of President brie, and a Babybel. Between the two of us. A solitary fucking Babybel.
I burst out laughing when I had to cut the Babybel in two, and I didn’t stop from there. I got the loud and high-pitched giggles, and so then did my friend. We sat there, barely able to eat as we each consumed a Jacob’s cracker with half a Babybel on it, and my eyes started watering with the laughter.
I think we both agree that it’s the worst cheeseboard we’ve ever had, and possibly the worst in the history of civilised dining. But it was also the most fun I’ve ever had in a restaurant: a good half-hour of crying with laughter as the empty wrappers of Boursin and President lay next to the discarded rubber cuttings of a Babybell shell. The waitress was most bemused, and asked if we were alright, but we didn’t complain. How could you when you’re pissing yourself at what you’ve just eaten?
It was fucking brilliant in the end. Not many other meals stick in the mind like that one does.
*It may have been the second best. There are only two.
(Thu 26th May 2011, 16:40, More)
Bah-bah-bah, bah-bah-bah-best. And also worst.
A few years ago a friend and I were dining in Hull’s premier steak restaurant*, The Lantern. The eating’s good in The Lantern; it’s a favourite of John Prescott no less. They do a lovely grilled trout and a stonking steak. That was the starter and the main course, and it was good.
For dessert, we thought we’d try the cheese board for two. What they gave us – well, the food itself wasn’t bad tasting, I guess, but it was a fucking disgrace nonetheless.
They brought it over and I just looked in amazement. It’s not the classiest restaurant in the world, but it’s not cheap: maybe £30 a head for three courses. The cheeseboard for two comprised half a packet of Jacob’s cream crackers, a quarter of a Boursin, a slice of President brie, and a Babybel. Between the two of us. A solitary fucking Babybel.
I burst out laughing when I had to cut the Babybel in two, and I didn’t stop from there. I got the loud and high-pitched giggles, and so then did my friend. We sat there, barely able to eat as we each consumed a Jacob’s cracker with half a Babybel on it, and my eyes started watering with the laughter.
I think we both agree that it’s the worst cheeseboard we’ve ever had, and possibly the worst in the history of civilised dining. But it was also the most fun I’ve ever had in a restaurant: a good half-hour of crying with laughter as the empty wrappers of Boursin and President lay next to the discarded rubber cuttings of a Babybell shell. The waitress was most bemused, and asked if we were alright, but we didn’t complain. How could you when you’re pissing yourself at what you’ve just eaten?
It was fucking brilliant in the end. Not many other meals stick in the mind like that one does.
*It may have been the second best. There are only two.
(Thu 26th May 2011, 16:40, More)
» Morning After Souvenirs
Christ alone knows how they did it
A friend from school, like many other people, had the habit of pinching street furniture at the end of a night out as a souvenir.
He had quite a collection of signs and the like from all over the region, but he topped it all one particular night when he and his brother stole the life-size Jesus from the cross outside the local chapel. There’s a photo of them cheering with Jesus between them, with his outstretched arms hugging them in typical lad night out pose.
It caused a bit of a furore, and the guilt consumed them for ages as they debated what to do with their trophy. They fretted and fretted, until eventually the chapel reasoned they wouldn’t get Jesus back and just bought a new one. The brothers kept theirs.
The finest part was when they watched the replacement Jesus get nailed onto the cross.
(Fri 27th Apr 2012, 15:30, More)
Christ alone knows how they did it
A friend from school, like many other people, had the habit of pinching street furniture at the end of a night out as a souvenir.
He had quite a collection of signs and the like from all over the region, but he topped it all one particular night when he and his brother stole the life-size Jesus from the cross outside the local chapel. There’s a photo of them cheering with Jesus between them, with his outstretched arms hugging them in typical lad night out pose.
It caused a bit of a furore, and the guilt consumed them for ages as they debated what to do with their trophy. They fretted and fretted, until eventually the chapel reasoned they wouldn’t get Jesus back and just bought a new one. The brothers kept theirs.
The finest part was when they watched the replacement Jesus get nailed onto the cross.
(Fri 27th Apr 2012, 15:30, More)
» Unexpected Nudity
Lightning flash
Not too long ago – oh, perhaps just two years I think – I was waiting for a taxi with a ladyfriend. We’d been out, had many a drink and were now waiting in the 50-50-50 office on George Street in Hull. In the queue ahead of us are the archetypal chavs, all trussed up in their small-checked shirts, roundneck Rockport sweaters, jeans and clumpy trainers/kickers, being all sweary and having a fun time – damn them.
A passer-by, clearly just an innocent chap who’d had a few himself, sees the chavs a-smoking.
“Scuse me,” says he, “can I borrow a ciggie?”
The lead chav seizes his opportunity. “If you wanna smoke something, smoke this!” and the speed with which he wapped his cock out was amazing. An exciting sight – not the pork sword, but the grace and fluidity of his movements. (That’s one of those sentences that you can’t predict, but are all the happier for hearing I think.) One swift action, and there it is dangling away. To his credit, it’s a cold night but that doesn’t seem to be affecting him. I stare at the ladyfriend awkwardly. The chav is still there, not five feet away, with his cock hanging out of his jeans and his fingers keeping the lob in tight control.
He was eating a burger while doing it to boot. True dexterity, élan and speed of thought – enough to make this correspondent jealous.
Obligatory length joke.
(Thu 28th May 2009, 16:39, More)
Lightning flash
Not too long ago – oh, perhaps just two years I think – I was waiting for a taxi with a ladyfriend. We’d been out, had many a drink and were now waiting in the 50-50-50 office on George Street in Hull. In the queue ahead of us are the archetypal chavs, all trussed up in their small-checked shirts, roundneck Rockport sweaters, jeans and clumpy trainers/kickers, being all sweary and having a fun time – damn them.
A passer-by, clearly just an innocent chap who’d had a few himself, sees the chavs a-smoking.
“Scuse me,” says he, “can I borrow a ciggie?”
The lead chav seizes his opportunity. “If you wanna smoke something, smoke this!” and the speed with which he wapped his cock out was amazing. An exciting sight – not the pork sword, but the grace and fluidity of his movements. (That’s one of those sentences that you can’t predict, but are all the happier for hearing I think.) One swift action, and there it is dangling away. To his credit, it’s a cold night but that doesn’t seem to be affecting him. I stare at the ladyfriend awkwardly. The chav is still there, not five feet away, with his cock hanging out of his jeans and his fingers keeping the lob in tight control.
He was eating a burger while doing it to boot. True dexterity, élan and speed of thought – enough to make this correspondent jealous.
Obligatory length joke.
(Thu 28th May 2009, 16:39, More)