Love Gloves
Right, this is an urban legend created by the following events at my parents house, it's a long one - so apologies in advance as I need to sow a bit of background foliage. I will also omit the names to protect the guilty, although this is probably a futile effort as I'm sure there are a lot of people who have already worked out who I am already through previous posts.


1996 - I was working as a DJ in a private members club in Cheshire at the weekends - and working as a order picker for Marks and Spencer Deliveries during the day (when I could be bothered). The packing job is where the orange sticky coated gloves come into the story, as these were standard issue to help you move the boxes and other gubbins.

My friend from Birmingham had asked my parents if he could stay with them for a couple of weeks whilst he was doing a contracting job for Railtrack timetable changes.

My Sister and her 3 kids were also living with my parents after a messy seperation, so there was my bedroom and one sofa spare for sleeping.

So there's the background.

Cut to Saturday night - I was behind the decks, pissed as usual, playing bloody Tubthumper, Born Slippy and The Levellers for the usual pissed crusties with my mate from Birmingham and my other mate from Hull getting noisily drunk together by the bar. Around midnight, Hull mate comes up and joins me in the DJ box saying that Birmingham mate has pulled and is exploring some girls Tonsils and mammaries.

Packing up at the end of the night, there was no sign of of the Brummie, so we assumed that he had got very lucky and gone home with the girl - so Hull mate and I went back to my parents place to have a smoke. Brummie was there on my bed with girl with the lights on and curtains open for all to see as I got home, so being the understanding bloke I am, left him to it and Hull mate and I rolled a couple of fat ones and went for a flesh shredding run off our tits through a corn field.

We got back about an hour later - Brummie and friend were still shagging like dogs in my room - and as I had pulled an overtime shift at work (double time) the next morning - Hull mate slept on the sofa and I slept under a blanket, under the kitchen table - well, more passed out than slept.

I got up the following morning at 7am after 4 hours sleep and crept into my now stinking room to get my steelies and gloves for work - but in the gloom could only find one of the gloves so left quickly so not to be late and to drop Hull mate off at the train station.

I got home that afternoon to be greeted with extreme hostility from my family and have my Father shout at me that Brummie was not welcome anywhere near their house ever again...

What had transpired after my blackout and going to work was this:

The shagging in my room reached a peak and the noises became animalistic, as did the banging and thumping. This woke up my sister and her kids in the rooms across the hall. Then things quietened down for about 10 minutes before they decided to continue their exploits in the shower, which woke my parents up. This cycle continued apparently for hours.

When things had died down the following morning, I had gone to work and Brummie had left the house with friend, my family sat down to a full cooked breakfast - which was suddenly interupted by Brummie bursting through the kitchen door stark bollock naked, he didn't break his stride, walked past my agog family to the sink, filled the kettle, waited for it boil, farted and scratched his arse, then walked out, tackle swinging without even looking at them. The loud bedroom antics continued again just afterwards and then they vanished from the house.

Brummie was not seen for 4 days. Then on Thursday he turned up with a bunch of flowers looking very sheepish and wanting to apologise to my parents. He never said where he went to, he was just apologetic for getting "a bit too overenthusiastic".

Cut to a year later 1997, I was in the Brunswick pub in Crewe having a few scoops when Brummie's former boss from the Railtrack contract comes up to me and mid way through our chat drops THE bombshell at the top of his voice;
"I believe you're missing a glove!?", I looked at him in confusion not knowing what he was talking about. "When ******** stayed with you last year, one of your orange work gloves went missing didn't it! And you've never found it!".
How he knew this small detail then came pouring out amidst a lot of other sordid details of that night, again at the top of his pissed voice.

Brummie's missing 4 days and sudden departure from my parents house was due to him being in hospital - because after the morning cuppa and sudden re-introduction of fluid to their systems causing their rutting glands to start again - he allowed her to fist him up the arse with my orange sticky work glove. This in turn had gone wrong and he had her drive him to the hospital where he stayed for 4 days.

The feeling of disgust and horror that washed over me that this had happened in my room made me feel sick, as well as the sheer shuddering disgust of even contemplating the act.

Cut to the following year 1998 - I was in a pub in Nantwich having a quiet drink when I overheard a story being told by a group of students which suddenly made me sit up and tune in just in case my family name was mentioned - it was the story you have just trawled through - ending with the "friend letting the slag fist him with a cricket glove and him having to go to hospital for a month".

Chinese whispers - don't you just love them.
(Catchag "You know!....For Kids!", Tue 10 Jan 2006, 16:39, Reply)