Beckham ain't got shit on me.
Playing football in the playground at lunchtime.

We’re being watched by a group of girls from our year, including the unresponsive object of my undying love (for that week anyway)

I’m chasing the ball near them, I get it, step on it, pull it back, spin and deliver a sweetly struck left footed cross onto the head of a friend who knocks it straight in the back of the net (well, against the wall between the bags that were marking the goal)

To say I am pleased is an understatement.

I decide now is the time to act nonchalant, I turn to the girls, give a slight, relaxed grin and then as I walk away I spit on the floor.

Hey, I’d seen footballers do it on the telly, so it seemed like a good idea, OK?

Except somehow the spit doesn’t break, and a long, thick line of saliva instead dangles from my mouth, down my chin and onto my shirt.

It’s pretty disgusting.

As the looks on their faces confirms.

I try to wipe it away casually, but succeed only in spreading it across my face.

Humiliated, I jog off back to the game only to step on a coke can that has been dropped on the concrete.

My foot slides out from under me, and I crunch to the floor, landing on my left elbow and jarring my shoulder so much that I was sure it was wrenched out of its socket.

Yes, I cried.

Like a baby.

As it happened, I only jarred it, but had to have it in a pink foam sling for a week.

Claire never did agree to go out with me.

Can’t imagine why.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:07, 2 replies)

Genius
Very funny and well told, I rekkin
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:31, closed)

Just
Pished myself laughing

**Click**
(sparklehorse is loving popping his cherry...again....honest, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 17:08, closed)