Brummie slags
Out in brum t'other weekend, we stumbled on a quiet pub near the Mailbox. The only punters were a gaggle of twenty-something, erm, slags. But really really fit dirty ones, short skirts, fake tan and big tits so its OK to call them slags. Us 4 lads couldnt believe our luck. They were half cut and when we walked in we didnt get blanked. Bingo.

We inserted ourselves strategically amongst them and everyone hit it off quite nicely, nothing serious, just some flirty fun and did I mention they were fit. (yes i know i'm talking like i'm 18 but it doesnt happen to me often).

So about an hour of this, and discussions are heading toward that 'shall we all go somewhere else' vibe - and the anticipation is peaking. Rog stumbles off muttering something about a fag and a piss - and the true test of any fit slag is that this sort of male unpleasantness shouldnt register - and it doesnt.

Rog seems to be taking his time. After a while, we become slightly concerned and glances are passed between us. It takes a minute before Ste realises. 2 milliseconds later we read the panic on his face.

Rog has gone to the jukebox.

Now Rog knows he isnt allowed near a jukebox on any occasion. Certainly not now. Rog has started actual, proper fights, wars, terrorist and asthma attacks after plundering the jukey. We all instinctively know that we're fucked.

Just as we're about to go and find him, he ambles round the corner, unlit fag, smiling mischeviously. The jukey kicks in; The White Stripes, one of the slags nods appreciatively, "nysh one mate". We all breathe a sigh of relief, the slags unaware of the horrible moment, and normality is restored. Hands surreptitiously placed on thighs have unconsciously relaxed. Girls knees are still occasionally brushing ever so slightly against groins.

The White Stripes gives way to November Rain, and the slags sing along with the vocals and one even does air guitar. The atmosphere is happy, and slightly sozzled, everyone is laughing. Rog has gone quiet.

There is an ominous pause in the music and the banter at the end of Guns and Roses, and for a moment the rain sound effects in the song make us all feel slightly warm, as if we're sheltering from the storm, and the crackling of the pub fire adds to the moment. For a seconds I realise that these are the nights that makes you feel great to be alive. Nothing can harsh my mellow now.

Roger's third choice on the jukey shatters into the bar.

"TELLYTUBBIES SAY EH-OH TELLYTUBBIES EH-OH" blares out loudly.

It really did fuck up the evening. One of the slags got annoyed and tried to twat Rog as up until then she'd been enjoying the closing hour songs, and knocking over Ste's pint in the process, drenching another girls skirt and barely clad legs. Everything descends.

Us boys ended up back in our apartment, huddled over doner kebabs talking loudly about how we pretty much definitely pulled and how it was all Rog's fault and then we were all tired and everyone drifted off to their rooms and to sleep.

Not me though, I texted the slags and they snuck in to my room and I had a fivesome. Actually, come to think of it, that might have only been in my head.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 10:14, Reply)