Strip Me Of My Dignity And Send Me On My Way.

Suprisingly, looking at the stack of jazz mags I have propping up my bed, I've only been in a strip club once or twice. The last time was around 3 years ago on one of my best friends stag do in Budapest and it was a rather soul destroying experience. There was about 10 of us there and we had been out drinking all day. For some reason, rather than just have our own cash, another one of my friends insisted that we clubbed our money into a kitty for the day and just bought massive rounds for all. A simple enough idea in theory, but it ultimately led to later complications as to who had put in what and a few unnecessary rows broke out over the course of the day. A long, hazy drunken first day, which ended up with us all in the VIP area of this rather natty strip club. I had arranged for the Stag to have a private dance with two of the ladies of his choice. I'm not sure if any of you have ever been but there's no such thing as the No Touching rule in Hungary. Basically, you can do what you want and if you've got the cash you can really really really do just about anything your sad heart desires. I had a girlfriend at the time, coupled with the fact that the thought of paying someone to pretend they're enjoying dancing for you does absolutely nothing for me, so i was just sat at the bar having a drink and watching the girls float around in their skimpiest of skimpies. It was my turn to get the round in so i took control of the kitty and made sure everyone topped it up with 200 each of the local currency. When i went back to the bar I noticed that some idiot had put in 2000 (about £60) instead of 200 (£6) into the pot. If i went back to each of them and asked who had made the mistake, they would all undoubtably claim it was them and another needless row would ensue. So i took the executive and noble decision to keep quiet about the error. Everyone was smashed and if i just spent the money on a quick private dance with two of the pneumatic lovelies in there everyone would be none the wiser and i would be the secret hero/peacemaker of the hour. So i quickly made my choice and targetted a blonde and a brunette for a little ying and yang menage a trois. They took me by the hand, relieved me of my ill-gotten money and led me away to a curtained booth on the other side of the seedily lit room. In side of the room they immediately got down to their act and began gyrating away to the excruiating Euro Pop tones that were being blasted about the club. At this stage I wasn't aware that the No Touching rule did not apply and so sat there quietly watching with my hands on my lap right up until the brunette stripper took my hands and placed them right onto her fake boobies. This was all going great I thought, but then i was soon reminded why I had such an aversion to paying for this kind of thing when the two girls started talking to eachother in Pig Latin and started to completely fucking ignored me, despite the fact that I had a hand on one of each of their tits. I had no idea what they were talking about but they were talking about it with such little enthusiasm that it was probably something as mundane as what they had had for dinner or how theit stilletos were giving their corns gip. After a minute or so of putting up with them rabbiting on and ignoring me completely, i kicked up a bit of a stink by reminding them that i was still there and that if they wanted to talk they could do it on their own time. They must have understood what i said because they immediately turned their attentions to me. Due to a serious cheese addiction i was then battling, I was a couple fo stone overweight at the time and when one of them started pulling up my t-shirt, I got indredibly uncomfortable and immediately started pulling it down again before reminding her that i wasn't the one who was supposed to be getting naked here. "Whazza madder, Teddy Bear" the other one said in pidgin English."Teddy Bear!" I retorted "Fucking Teddy Bear!!!""Aaah Teddy Bear!!!" The other one giggled as she pulled up my t-shirt and poked me in my flabby belly, before the two of them burst into laughter and continued to talk to eachother in a language i could ill understand. Well this was the giddy limit! I had paid these women to do a sexy dance for me but had somehow found myself becoming the victim of their nasty abuse about my weight as they danced half-arsed and chatted about their fucking kids or something. For the remaining two minutes or so I sat with my arms folded, sulking and waiting for this shitty experience to end. When the music stopped the girls pulled back the curtains and i got out of there as soon as i could. As i walked dejectedly back to the bar, both strippers shouted out "Bye bye, Teddy Bear" and waved and giggled at me as i huffed off. Unfortunately, a couple fo my friends heard these hurtful Teddy Bear jibes and they ribbed me mercilessly with that name for months and months endlessly, until i could finally take no more and went and lost a shit load of weight by holing myself up at home and starving myself. And the worst of all this horrific story is that when i went to the bar after the dance to drown my sorrows, I looked in my wallet and discovered that the idiot who had put the £60 into the kitty by accident was none other than me.

Meet The Fuckers!

I had been around loads of times before but this time something seemed a bit off. Her Dad, who was usually a complete twat, was being extra specially nice to me and was more animated and cheerful then i had ever seen him. He was clearly as drunk as ever, but instead of sitting in the his usual spot chainsmoking and being a miserable cunt, he was up around the room telling jokes and actually being a nice person for the first time in years. He had some other friends around, including his best mate and his family, so the two of them were getting pissed and having a great time. He was also showing an unusual interest in the cooking of the dinner, which had always been left to his battered wife, and when it was finally ready he insisted on serving it up to everyone, over their shoulder style, jovially continuing with his banter with the sunday afternoon "Are you a leg or breast man? classic. As i sat there waiting for my turn, I prayed that he wouldn't ask me the question, as he would ultimately be referring to his own daughter when he told that tired old joke. Thankfully, he gave up on it when it came to me and instead said; "Here'ya Boy, you must be hungry!" as he piled my plate full of chicken and roast potatoes before sitting down for dinner. Everything was going ever so smoothly; the food was nice and, for once, there was a good atmosphere at the table. I was suffering with a nasty hangover and was wolfing down the first meal i'd had in 24 hours. I picked up a small roast potato on my fork and put it straight in my mouth. As it hit the back of my tongue I instantly felt a seering, burning, agonising sensation fill my mouth. My eyes started to water instantly and, as it touched the roof of my mouth, the pain increased. I let out a little cough as i tried to release the heat from my mouth. "Everything alright, Paul?" her dad piped up. I looked over to him with watery eyes and he gave me a knowing wink before looking over to his smirking friend. The fucker had deliberately super heated a potato and stuck it on my plate. He must have been microwaving it for a good hour or so before dinner because it was hotter than the sun! Ordinarily, i would have spat it out on the plate, but i didn't want to give the cunt the satisfaction and besides, i also didn't want to cause a scene and show myself up infront of everybody at the table, which is what he obviously wanted. "Yeah i'm fine", I struggled to say; "something just went down the wrong way". I then did my best to chew up the nuclear potato and swallow it as fast as i could. It was destroying the inside of my mouth and it was equally as painful when it went down my throat but i couldn't let the bastard win. Every mouthful after that was a struggle. I couldn't taste a thing and my mouth was burnt worse than it had ever been before. After the meal was finished, I thanked everyone and me and my girlfriend made our way out. Her dad outstretched his hand and said; "Enjoy that, did ya?" with a toothless smile."Yeah very much so, Tony. The potatoes were lovely. You'll have to tell me how you did them?" I replied with a knowing glare."Well come around again next week and i'll show ya." he said as he squeezed my hand that little bit tighter."No no no, Tony. I insist you come up to us next time." I said, throwing him a wink before saying goodbye again to everyone and getting into the car with my waiting girlfriend. "Well that went well, i thought" she innocently said."Yeah it did go very well.....except for this" I responded as i reached into my mouth and pulled out the flapping bit of burnt off skin from the top and dangled it in front of her."Jesus, what did that? she asked."Oh i don't know, i just seemed to have one potato that was a bit hotter than all the others. I'll be alright in a minute". I replied before we drove off home.Well the next time, i'm pleased to say he did come over and i cooked his wife and him a lovely 3 course dinner. I kept looking over to him every so often to try and unnerve him and trick him into thinking that every next bite could be the one that fucked him up. But i'm better than that, there's no way i would stoop to that level and try and deliberately physically harm someone with a cheap shot like that. And, besides, I had already taken a piss in his cup of tea and wiped my arse on his knife and fork before he arrived.

Job Satisfaction!

I had an job interview today for a position that I could have pretty much done standing on my head. It had all gone swimmingly right up until the last question. I was being interviewed by a rather heavily set man, whose last question was; "So, objectfully speaking, if you were in my shoes, ticking the boxes, looking for reasons why i should or shouldn't employ you, what reasons would you consider for not employing you?"Well straight away this sounded like a trick question, so i fobbed him off with a stock answer. "Anything else?" he asked. Realising that he was looking for something i bit more substantial, i said; "Well, as we've already discussed, I've been out of this line of work for just over a year, so i might be a little concerned that the person would be little rusty!" I then went on to reassure him that this wasn't the case. "Anything else at all you can think of?" he ventured again. "No, nothing at all!", i replied. "Well, let me put it another way." he said "How corporate do you think you are?" This seemed a bit of a strange line of questioning. He obviously had his concerns over something but there was no way i was going to hang myself by offering up any more reasons as to why he shouldn't give me the job- "Well i'm very sales orientated and i'd work to the best of my ability for any company that i worked for." I could see by the look on his fat face that this wasn't the answer he was looking for; "Um...I'm not sure I follow you", I said. "Well, let me put it this way; if you were to take a walk around this office, there's really no one that would stand out from anyone else. All the guys have short haircuts and they are, pretty much identical"; I didn't walk around the office, but if they were all identical then the vending machine profits could probably fund a coup of a small country. "But" he continued "i look at you with your designer stubble and fashion haircut (my haircut cost a tenner and it's shorter then it's been for years) and I don't think it's giving off the right impression. First impressions count and if you were to be representing this company outside of this office then i would be worried about the first impressions our clients would have of you. What do you think your appearence suggests? So, you see, if you were in my shoes, would that be a reason you'd consider to not employ you?"I'm not sure if it was the hot weather or the smug, patronising look on his bulbous, sweaty red face, but this made me incredibly angry. I didn't want the job enough to pander to that crap but I know that if i handled the situation better i could have probably have done this blimp for discrimination. I was fucking livid, practically shaking with rage at the gall of this twat. I finished off the water in front of me in one gulp, collected my thoughts with a look at the calm summery scene out of the window, before fixing him a steely glare; "Well, let ME put it this way; if i were in your shoes, firstly i think i'd go and get some cushioned insoles for them because my feet would be fucking killing me from carrying all that extra weight", his face dropped as i pointed at his belly, "And secondly, i'd take a long hard look at myself and stop being such a patronising, smug fat fucker who thinks he's in a position to judge others just because he's sat in the same fucking desk job all his life!" "Right, interview over. Get out!" he said as he stood up and started shuffling his papers nervously. I stood up to and collected my things but i wasn't finished; "You talk to me about first impressions. Well my first impression of you was that you're over weight because you're lazy and like comfort eating, probably because you haven't got a wife or, if you do, she's as fat and ugly as you are and the two of you have stopped trying for eachother a long time ago. And you're condescending tone throughout this interview would also suggest to me that you have self esteem issues and you don't want a young man like me around the place making you look even worse. So, for first impressions, would I want a lazy fat bastard with self esteem issues working for me? No, I don't think so!""Well, you're not the one doing the hiring!" he quite rightly pointed out, as he walked towards and opened the door in an attempt to usher me out."No, i guess you're right" i said as i put my bag on my shoulder, "but i wouldn't work for a wanker like you if you paid me!" "Well That was the general idea!" he slyly said as he shut the door behind me and reached straight for the telephone. I then realised that one of my finest angry moments had been all but undone by my one stupid slip at the end and that Fatty had ultimately won. I was kicking myself as i made my way to the elevator and even more so as the security man met me at the bottom and escorted me off the premises. My apologies for the longwinded rant but i just needed to get it off my chest. I still feel a bit aggrieved; partly at the nerve of the bloke but mostly with myself for ruining a near perfect response in that circumstance. The hunt for a job continues.

Feel As Good As The Skin You're (Sleeping) In!

I was supposed to be staying at a friends house in East London but met a nice girl at a party. When she asked if I wanted to come back to the flat that she had just moved into she did warn me that it was a bit of a mess. I wrongly assumed that she was being a typical girl and that they'd just be a few towels left lying about on the floor or the odd bit of lingerie sticking out of a laundry basket. How wrong i was! We ended up walking for what seemed like miles through the grimy streets to what looked like East Londons version of The Projects. I was led up a darkly lit flight of stairs that were strewn with litter and stank of dank, stale piss into a run down flat that could quite easily have been kindly described as a squat. She lived with two other people who, thankfully, I didn't meet but I knew that I had made a bad mistake when I went into the toilet to take a piss and noticed that inhabitants had been wiping their arses with week old copies of The Metro. Perhaps I should have left then but horniness and, after feeling incredibly lucking for having avoided being gang smashed in downtown east London, self preservation took over, so I went into her bedroom. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire! Her room was an even bigger dump then the shambles of a flat that preceeded it. There was a single mastress strewn in the corner, old clothes all over the floor and an empty Fray Bentos pie can laying next to the bed. Worst still was that there were clearly visible racist slogans dawbed all over the walls in big black writing against a bright red wall that had been hastily painted over with one coat of white paint. As i stood looking aghast at C18, Niggers Die!, Buddhas F*ck Off, Pakis Burn etc etc the girl could see I was a bit shocked and said 'Oh I've been meaning to paint over that again!'. I looked at her bemusedly and said 'Yeah, it probably needs another coat or two.' Once again I considered making a dash for it but i had no idea where my mate lived and he had turned his phone off, probably out of spite because I had ditched him, and I didn't fancy walking the streets of Hackney or where ever I was at 3 in the morning, so i took the English stiff upper lip decision and decided to grin and bear it. I turned off the light and tried to block out the mess surrounding me, the orange glow of the street lights shone through the single bed sheet draped shodilly over the window and guided my way through the unholy mess camouflaging the carpet. I lay down on the bed with her on the bare mattress, quickly realising that the sheets had been sacrificed for window coverings. Now you'd really think that that complete horrow show would have put me right off my stride but when faced with triffling moral dillemas such as that I like to revert to the 'When in Rome' theory and throw all caution to the wind, so I started to get down to the inevitable nitty gritty with her. A couple minutes in i noticed she was scratching her arms with increased ferocity. The sheetless mattress was pretty itchy on the skin but this was beyond a joke. I asked her if she was alright and it was then that she told me she had a serious ezcema problem and the horrific, colouring filled Barcadi Breezer drinks she had stupidly insisted I bought for the walk home had set her skin off in a nasty itchy reaction. Well that was the final straw! There's only so much a man take. Only so many hideous faults he can overlook before he decides enough is enough! Wiping your arse with a news rag I can take, living in a complete tip of a flat in a derelict part of London I can just about accept. Hey, I was even willing to ignore the Nazi-esque scribblings on her bedroom wall but i'm afraid i have to draw the line at a woman frantically scratching herself to bits during sex making all because she was f*cking dumb enough to drink 4 bottles of multi coloured piss water which she must have realised would set off her advanced leperocy. With that I pulled on all my clothes and summoned up enough strength through the resentment to just about make a half hearted 'are you alright' noise and left the room telling her that i'd get her a drink of water. In the equally filthy kitchen I turned on the tap and let it run to try and disguise the noise of me desperately ringing my mate to try and get a reprieve from the horrible fate that had once again found me. No answer. After leaving a hushed but despairing distress call on my so-called friends voicemail I slowly resigned myself to the fact that i was hopelessly alone and was going to have to spend the night in this tramps hovel. There didn't seem to be any cups in the kitchen except a handleless mug and a Dolmio jar, with its label wet and faded. After checking with the increasingly irritating girl I was told that the sauce jar was hers and that they hadn't got around to buying any glasses yet. Considering that they hadn't got around to buying toilet roll, curtains, furniture or anything else of any discernible value i can't say that this came as much of a shock to me. I filled it from the browning taps and skulked back into her room before passing it to the doe-eyed vacuous bint looking up at me, who was desperately trying to act all feeble and lady like amongst the shitty mess that surrounded her. As she bleated a pathetic 'Aw thanks, Babe' i realised that i now hated her but would have to hide this best as possible if I was going to make it until morning. Thinking ahead, I told her i had to be up really early and turned the light off again, stumbled towards the bed and lay on it fully clothed with my back to her, my arms folded, fruitlessly trying to block out the sound of her scratching and the thought of her flakey dead skin all over the bed. Tired and feeling sleepy from that nights drinking I shut my eyes and prayed for sleep to take me. When I awoke the sunlight was peering through the bed sheet. I looked at my phone, it was only half six in the morning but I knew this would be the best time to make my escape. Hopefully she wouldn't hear me and the streets would be relatively safe now that it was daylight. Whilst I hurriedly put on my trainers I noticed the girls red raw arms laying ontop of the duvet and the grim dusting of white skin flakes against the dark blue cover like eerie stars in the night sky. I looked down at the black sleeves on my jacket. They were covered in skin flakes too. Feeling repulsed, I crept out of the room. As soon as I reached the front door I started to pull off my jacket. Once outside and with the door quietly closed behind me, I gave it a damned good trashing against the wall in an attempt to remove all the sickening skin crust and ran for my life through the streets to try and flag down the next passing taxi to take me all the way back to Paddington. As i sat on the train back to Reading feeling positively dirty and having severe difficulty eating my M&S Breakfast sandwich for thoughts of the leper skin i was no doubt encrusted with, I got a message on my phone, it read; Had a really fun time wit you last night. Sorry you had to leave early. Thanks for bein so cool bout my xma. Wanna meet again soon? Needless to say I didn't reply and spent the rest of the journey looking out the train window at the fields whistling past wondering why these terrible things always happen to me. She sent me a few desperate messages on facebook, the last of which said, and I quote 'Is this not the dude who drank barcardi breezers with me in our secret garden...?' By secret garden she means rundown, needle filled park next to her dodgy block of flats where we sat and drank the grim booze while I chained smoked and waited to get gang smashed. Perhaps I should have mentioned that bit in the story because we were nearly attacked by an overly tame fox and she nearly got me into a fight with a group of lads who asked for a cigarette. I've just looked at her photo again now and she wasn't nearly half as good looking as i remember. For shame! She said she was a promotions girl but the only thing I'd employ her to promote would be massive f*cking tubs of calamine lotion.

Dirty Sexy Stories!

I've received a few requests to put up all the ranting, long winded bits and pieces I wrote ovefr the past few months on a site called Drownedinsound up on here. I can't entirely see the point myself as, out of context, they'll only seem more rant-like and long winded than they did originally. I also thought that they were consigned to the darkest depths of the DiS Social Board (a harsh and unforgiving place at the best of times) forever, but a new pal (thank you Mike) has, rather scarily saved each and every one of them, which is why I am able to slap them here again now.

I'm hoping that this blog will one day entirely be made up of posts and musings of this nature, but life has become somewhat boring of late, so like all good people who feel that their life is slowing down to the point where Coronation Street becomes the only relative source of enjoyment, with the days and hours in between each episode serving only as the ill-timed and unwanted advert break where you have to get up and do stuff before it's back on again , i'll just reminisce about the glory days until I land myself in more sticky water. Fuck! I don't even like Coronation Street.

How does this work then?

So I got i blog. Now what? This blog won't change your life and it'll only take time out of mine, so who's winning? Someone is always winning, it's just very difficult to tell sometimes.

Check back here sporadically (not everyday) and I may have written something. I probably won't have. Not because I'm monstrously busy, but because I'm monstrously lazy.

Keep it real like a glockenspiel