Middlesbrough.
I was a white van man. Worse, I was a white van man’s assistant. We trawled the charity shops of the north east buying up their ‘discontinued’ stock to sell on at a profit to people with no money or taste.
It was a bleak existence of dual carriageways, sandwiches, and illegal parking. I was 19 years old. I thought I’d flushed all my existential angst away with the passing of my 15th birthday, but had never reckoned for the experience of standing in a yellow office at a weigh bridge on a deserted industrial estate in Blyth, while two fully grown men snicker “Look at the tits on that” and the woman behind the desk tries not to cry.

It was a Friday, around 11am. I'd spent the last hour carrying half a ton of awful coats into the alleyway at the back of the People's Dispensary For Sick Animals. Me and the driver had had enough.
“Fuck it,” he said, checking his watch. “We’re off to a pub I know. That’ll kill a few hours. If we hurry we’ll make the lunchtime special.”
I nodded and smiled, not having a clue what he was on about.
Miles later, we approached Middlesborough. I fucking hate that place for good and obvious reasons. Our route took us past the centre and out into the industrial wastelands of this shithole. We ended up entering some sort of decaying retail park, all single storey buildings and tyre fitters. And inexplicably, a pub.
We walked in. It was packed with men only and they all seemed full of anticipation. We ordered two pints of lager and sat down, and almost immediately the bell rang. Everyone cheered. Some music came on, the back door opened, and the only woman on the premises walked through.

She was a vision. Black wig, fake tits, a carefully looked-after backside. I’d put her around 50, judging from the creases she’d tried to hide with make-up. The place erupted. She sashayed around the room, dropping items of clothing and pouting at old men while Tom Jones bellowed in the background.
She marched towards me. I mumbled a greeting and tried not to glance at her sore-looking bald vagina. She took my pint from my hand, rammed a distended nipple into it, and swilled loads of warm Carling all over her right tit. Everyone cheered again. Then she shook the sopping breast in my face.
I was 19. I hated my life. I liked beer. I misread the situation and thought I was being invited to suck cheap booze off an ageing strippers silicon bosom. I wondered what my parents would think. I looked at the nipple. It was very dark. I put it in my mouth.
There was a collective intake of breath, and she leapt backwards. Men with large hands spat disapproving comments my way. She looked very let down. I wanted to apologise but just creased my eyebrows together instead and went hot. My driver muttered “You fucking idiot” and we left. He treated me like a rapist for the rest of the day.
It tasted like my balls smell.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 12:58, 12 replies)

The last line has made my day.

(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 13:04, closed)

amazing!

( rofl harris, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 13:09, closed)

Great tale, and you got to meet Tom Jones.

( edjogs Collared doves are shit., Tue 11 Feb 2014, 13:47, closed)

Gawd
You surely did cross the line.
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 13:48, closed)

Hahaha.
Nice.
(Set your faces to Stunned Bigly, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 14:10, closed)

Great story
..But you're flexible enough to smell your own balls??
(BeatsWork, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 15:24, closed)

or did you curl up into a ball and sniff?

(BeatsWork, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 15:24, closed)

That is all kinds of grim.

( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 9:10, closed)

That's not how you spell 'sexy'.

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 18:38, closed)

Shit, I would have done the same even now...
...I guess I'm just not down with low grade etiquette.

Sadly I know Middlesbrough too, and this reminded of the university football team's do, where a woman of similar description was only stopped from performing a "live show" in front of us because he understandably couldn't get it up! Instead she pleasured herself with a large portion of full-girth rope.

It was as alluring as watching slugs mate.
( @><|= w0nu!) or cunt to my friends, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 15:08, closed)

It's quite the place.

( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 15:58, closed)

Slugs mating is actually quite beautiful
www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtgPAQTJLQs
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 17:50, closed)

 l 
( Happy Phantom has been to Hastings, Brighton, and Eastbourne too, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 18:01, closed)