Last Night I Ate My Tea In The Style Of Tony O’Neill The Red Army General


Nose bag Tony style

I could go early doors and tackle the chilli in its own backyard-on the cooker simmering in the pot-but that was to easy and bang on top as the kitchen was crawling with dibble( the Mrs and baby actually-but lets not ruin a good story with facts-it’s the Tony way).

It would have to be a snide ambush attack, so without thinking I jumped behind the couch and waited till I could smell the chilli, It wasn’t long before I could hear the footsteps of the plod(Mrs) escorting the chilli into the living room, I would have to be quick, there would only be a small window of opportunity for me to get at the chilli(when the Mrs goes for the salt and pepper) So once the aroma of the Mexican dish entered my nasal passages and the dibble had retreated into the kitchen I was off. It was like showing a red rag to a bull, nothing could stop me. I was up and over the couch and in amongst the ‘carne’ within a millisecond, there must of been two, two fifty… yeah … about three hundred little fluffs of rice all looking dead hard on the plate giving it the come-on but they were all basmati and no bite and what followed was total con-carne carnage. The chilli was going down spoon full after spoon full, it didn’t take long for the boiled rice to join in but the rice was quickly despatched with. Soon there was only a few stragglers of con carne and boiled rice left on the plate and I left them to live another day.I was full, I ‘d had my fix for the day, I was off to celebrate.

The plod was quickly back on the scene though, asking fucking questions as per ” you must of been hungry love…… ready for your dessert yet?…… It’s your favourite….. Manchester tart and cream.”

Doin’ Me Swede In


by Bernie Bostik

“I was on the dole, no fixed abode, I was sick of sleeping rough. I’d spent me rent on a two man tent but I’d just about had enough” wrote some streetwise intellectual.

Those eloquent words of prose were a mirror reflection of where my life was going around the Winter of 95. I just managed to secure myself a small bedsit off Lower Breck Rd thanks to some housing association, just before Jack Frost led his merry dance all over December.

The flat was just behind the Liverpool Supporters Club just across the road from Georgesons car gaff on Suburban Road. One of them old three storey Victorian drums, mine was the middle flat. Below me was a zimmer frame assisted old lady who was about 80, who got frequent visits off the family to check on her well being. And the top one was empty. The flat was painted in a hideous fluorescent suicidal yellow colour. Front room had a sofa bed, fire and TV. Kitchen had cooker, fridge and sink. Bathroom had bath and sink. You know all the necessities, but with no-frills , a bit like the scran in the fridge. I had a rusty fire escape leading down to a small dull yard, which housed the bins. The depressing yard had a wall with the inevitable broken glass cemented on top.With a locked gate leading the way to a dog shit smothered playing field behind. I have never seen so many dogs in my life as when I lived in that flat. One night I remember getting on the wrong side of the local gang of mongrels that hung in a pack outside the chippy, when i came out with my fish cake & chips they chased me all the way to my front door.

If it wasn’t canines it was the gangs upon gangs of kids that hung around the backs of the houses drinking, shrieking and generally getting up to no good that done my head in. You see I was going through a bit of a rough time of la Vida loca lately. Bernie was Bernie Flint, no job, no prospects. The only thing I had to my name was the cloths on my back. I wont bore you with the details of how I ended up in this situation, but I was at a low ebb.

The only highlight in my high rise low life was my biweekly visits to me mates Longy in Noggsie. When we would go a see old Eddy on the Boot Hill Estate to stock up on supplies for the next week or so. There was always a full house at Eds and if young Eddy was home, from working in Germany, you were guaranteed an aching belly from laughter. As he spun his yarns of Bierkellers, Brass and Bratwurst through the plumes of smoke.

I went to see Longy one afternoon were I found him in his usual spec. Up in his room reading the Echo or the programme from last weeks game. Now walking into Longy’s room was like walking into the Liverpool equivalent of the Hardrock Cafe. On the beanbag you had ‘Pink’ – the four foot stuffed dummy that appeared in the Wall ( and appeared for a while at some Wall memorabilia show in Berlin until a few wags walked out arm in arm with it ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ style, complete with shades on, when Roger was rocking the Potsdamer Platz in 90). A turning of the worms full face mask also from the film on top of the portable and Gabriels shoe taken off him at the Empire back in 83 in the wardrobe.

Longy took a call from their kid Fran who ran a boozer down in London and put me on. Long story short some Swedish barmaid he had working for him wanted to come to Liverpool to see the sights and was looking for a bed for the weekend. He also informed me she would have a months wages on her (£600) and when she was drunk she fucked like a rabbit (what he failed to tell me was that when pissed she turned into a head-banging Swedish fruitcake…..but more of that later). Was she 6ft , blonde and good at massages I wanted to know? He told me she was “dark short and not bad”. Now, “not bad” in Frans book is borderline in anybody else’s, believe me I’ve seen the proof! Anyway what the fuck, in for a öre in for a Krona.

I met her at Lime St, My briefing was “she will be wearing a leather jacket”. Little did I know it would be a full on Greaser type leather thing, and as I viewed the rest of her get-up I was horrified. Tatty denims pulled right up with a big biker belt. I couldn’t look no further I just knew what was coming next…..that’s right a hefty pair of Ox blood coloured dockers……..AARRRGGGHHHH!!! I DETEST WOMEN IN DOCKERS. When she got closer I must say her kipper was as Fran said “not bad” and the rest of her form was okay. With the footwear forgotten for a moment, she informed me in her mad drunken English accent that she had been drinking Stella on the train and she had 8 cans of Stella in her Rucksack….AAAARRGGGHHHH! A giant Rucksack of Chris Bonnington proportions on her back to go with the hideous shoes.I thought I was getting some Bjorg Scandinavian little minx and I end up with Suzy Quattrosson.

I tell her my flat is a short bus journey away (secretly hoping she suggests hopping a cab, knowing full well she’s got a pocket full of cash and I’ve only got a fiver). She keeps her trap shut and we jump on the 17C for the journey from hell. Once on the top deck – her sitting next to the ruccy me behind pretending not to know her – she proceeds to delve into the bag and pulls out a can and sparks it and starts swigging from it, like a man whose been in the desert for days. She tries to engage in conversations with the whole of the top deck, telling them she loves rock music especially Bon Jovi. She even stands up to show a couple of school girls her Axle Rose T-shirt and starts talking to an arl drunk about how much the Beatles changed the face of rock music for ever. When we turned right onto Breck Rd (passed the estate on the right that has probably been knocked down by now,) I could see her mood change as she viewed the surroundings outside. Then she blurted out for the whole of the top deck to hear “OH MY GOD LOOK AT THOSE APARTMENTS, DO PEOPLE LIVE IN THEM?….THEY MUST DO, LOOK THERES LIGHTS ON IN SOME OF THEM” I wish some cunt could hurry up and invent some stupid button that you press that makes you magically disappear cos I could have done with one then. I spent the rest of the ride with my head down until it was time to jump off at the Cabbage Hall. I was well off the bus and already making my way down the pavement while……(.fuck me it’s just come to me that I don’t even remember the girls name…..that’s bad)…..what’s her name was still struggling on the stairs of the bus.

We get to the flat and settle in by getting stuck in to the Stella and after a while I move in for a fumble on the sofabed . All is going well till I get down to the knicker stage and she stops me and tells me she is on. Now speaking from past experience (not my own I may add) i was a tad sceptical. So a good grope down below was had during the next neck and I was exctatic to say all I could feel was the thin crash mat in the gusset to catch the congealed blood. So the night was spent me lay back on the sofa bed watching either The Word or T.F.I Friday (cannot remember which), can in one hand, spliff in the other while Suzi chewed the bone.

Suzi had a quick blow on the flesh flute as the birds twittered there early morning tunes to eachother. We eventually stumbled out of bed around 11ish. Over tea & toast I explained I was between jobs and brassic. That didn’t matter as she promised a day out on the ale, but first she wanted to see a few of the well know Liverpool land marks. After a quick magical mystery bus tour of “There’s Liverpool’s ground” “There’s the Liver Buildings” “This is the Albert Dock and this is the World famous Pump House Boozer” we were back on the ale. Suzi could bevy like an Irish navvy; pint followed by pint, followed by pint, followed by pint, there was no quenching Quatro’s thirst. I got a tad concerned when she started ordering whiskey chasers, which once downed she performed the most embarrassing piece of air guitar I have ever seen.

Late afternoon we found ourselves in the Cabbage Hall legless. She’d gone through all that bravado bit of being drunk, you know loud and obnoxious. And was now at the fall asleep at the bar stage. I was also sat at the bar making love to a tonic and gin. It took me an hour of physically lifting her to get to my front door, were we both collapsed in a heap on the step. We finally managed to make it up the steps to my flat, were we both ended up on the sofa bed. After a few hours kip we became semi awake and It wasn’t long before we found ourselves naked. She sucked me to a tremendous stiffy and I was aching to penetrate her. She was transfixed with my tool and I could tell she wanted the rock hard cock inside her. She looked up at me an said “you can if you want, but it might be a bit messy”. I pulled her up kissed her and inserted the middle digit into her quite hairy bush. A few seconds later I pulled the finger out and placed my arm around the waist and brought the hand up head height, and sneakily start kissing the neck and ear ready for the old ‘lift your hand up behind her back to have a sly sniff/lick ( and on this occasion check for blood ) routine’.

There seemed to be no physical evidence of claret so I quickly set too on the fornicating front. I must say she was a good ride, we did it every which way but loose. And boy did she howl, this base line throaty grunt every few seconds followed by a few Swedish expletives (it was like being in bed with Björn Borg). I hope old Mrs C down stairs had turned her hearing aid off for the night because when Suzi orgasmed she did this high pitched squeal that sounded like she was being strangled. I managed to throw a silencer on it a few times with the aid of a pair of undies – a trick I’d picked up after seeing (as a kid) the delectable scouse kitten, Kim Cattral AKA ‘Lassie’ get some sweaty jock-strap stuffed in her mouth, to stop her screaming the gym down when getting porked in Porky’s.pork19.jpg ¨

With it being dark (saving on leccy) and the frantic love making I had neglected the period situation. I knew it felt extra squishy in the jam butty mine when pumping away, but it was only now that i had cum and was a sweating, heavy breathing lump on the bed did I notice all the blood around my midriff and on closer inspection of the bed, found there was blood caked all over the sheets. When Suzi came to her senses, she got all embarrassed and pulled the sheets up to cover her tomato sauce drenched bacon sarnie. I jumped up and put on the big light, so I could inspect the damage.

When I turned round I was mortified at the sight. I remember seeing MTV cribs one time when some BMX/Skateborder dude was showing you around his dream home in the Hollywood hills. He had this spare bedroom he had decorated to scare friends who stayed over after wild parties. It had a big iron and chain four poster bed in the middle of this all virginal white room, the only colour was the bright red blood like Jackson Pollock splashes all over the floor, walls, bed and bedspread -also there were words written on the walls in bloody handprints (Help, Kill etc) for that added effect. Giving the illusion that something very horrible had happened in the room. I remember thinking at the time if I ever won the pools I’m getting one of them for the mansion in Alderely Edge. Well I didn’t have to wait till I won the pools, I had created my very own Hammer House of Horror with out the aid of some poncy long haired interior designer in a ruffle shirt.

The blood had splattered up the wall at the side of the bed. The sheets and pillows were fucked and I was sure that by the amount of blood letting on show, it was nailed on that it had seeped through the bed spread and stained the material of the sofa. Suzi jumped up with an ashamed look on her face and with tears in her eyes bounced off to the bathroom. Leaving bloody footprints on the beige carpets behind her. I tidy myself up in the sink with the dish cloth and dried myself on a tea towel. I tackled the frontroom the best I could by throwing an old sleeping bag over the maroon damp batch on the blue material of the bed and using a duster to swab the splattered wall. I heard the bath running in-between bouts of sleep and Suzi returned about an hour later smelling of jojoba and sure.

She wasn’t very talkative and we both fell asleep shivering under a couple of beach towels infront of the 2bar fire. The next morning over tea & toast she was still somewhat sheepish as she informs me she has to get back to London (which is a lie because I know from Fran she had 5 days off). I wanted to fuck her off anyway and now she had saved me the job. I couldn’t just leave her to fend for her self so I jumped a cab with her down to Limey and waited with her in the Yankee for a couple of hours till her train was due to leave. The last thing I said to her was if we get to the cup final and your still working at Frans then yer better be ready girl cos ‘ I’m a devil on the run, a six gun lover, a candle in the wind’ and I’m comin’ for yer. Little did I know what was to happen.

I got back to the flat and begun the big clear up. It was during this clean up that I drifted off into a scary hallucination of what it must be like for a murderer to dispose of evidence after a kill. As I properly cleaned the blood off the walls and scrubbed the couch and carpets (front room & bathroom) with bleach. And got every bloodstained item (sheets, pillow cases, 2 towels, tea towel, dish cloth and duster) put them in two binbags and because the bin in the yard was full I thought placing them outside the gates ready for collection in a few days was a good idea. I know, I know, if I was a proper murderer the bin bags would have got the same treatment as the body. Put in the boot of a car for the journey to Delamere to be doused in petrol burnt beyond all recognition and then the remains buried in the under growth. Satisfied with my work I settled down to an extra snotty egg butty with lashings of tommy sauce and the Antiques Roadshow.

Monday, and all thoughts of Suzi were lodged in the back of the grey matter as I emerged myself back in to my no-job life style. This Morning, then go and get the Echo. Get back have a cup of tea and a spliff whilst reading the Echo. Then a lazy afternoon watching through the window the kids on the park playing footy, no jumpers for goalposts (to cold), only binbags today. But today the wild pack of mongrels are disrupting the game which is annoying the young budding Robbie Fowlers. They seem to be attracted to one of the bin bags. They all surround it sniffing away. Then all of a sudden they were off, ravershing the binbag. throwing it around like a rag doll before finally ripping it to shreds. The contents and rubbish were strewn all over the show, a big white sheet with red stains, now hold on , A BIG WHITE SHEET WITH RED STAINS….MY BIG WHITE SHEET WITH RED STAINS!!!!!!! along with the pillow cases with red stains, the towels with red stains, the tea towel and duster all of them spread out on the field in all their glory for everybody to see.

The game had come to a halt, most of the dogs had been chased off, except for a few stragglers who continued to sniff and lick the sheets. Everyone was stood round inspecting the contents of the rubbish bag. I was peeping from a gap in the curtains and after a few minutes the talking turned into pointing as a few of them started signalling towards me. (obviously pointing out where the bags had come from).Next minute a few of the nosey neighbours appeared and there must’ve been a good 20 people stood in the centre circle looking at the exhibits on display and generally pointing in my direction. I hit the ground and started sweating profusely. What if they think something un toward has happened and phone the plod and the plod come knocking…….What if nothing you daft cunt!!, get off the floor and stop thinking your Theodore Robert Bundy for fucksake.

Mrs C must have had the earring aid on because her and her family treated me with contempt from that day on as did most of the neighbours. I stayed in the flat till the summer, just till I received my crisis loan (what was it the women in Breckfield dole office said “you know this is the toughest area in the UK to recieve a crisis loan” – what did she know Ha!) I got £460 quid off the fuckers just in time for the Cup Final in May. I had plenty of cabbage for the ale, I was on a promise with Suzi, I had a ticket for the Final, what could go wrong?

I got stinking drunk, goosed Suzi good and proper and we wont mention the match. We got back to Fran’s after the match and hit the Caffery’s with brandy chasers to numb the pain, the mood was sombre to say the least. After a few hours gargling and a few away day favourite belting out the juke box (American Pie – Don Maclean, Follow You Follow Me Genesis – Hi Ho Silvelining Jeff Beck – Ring of Fire Johnny Cash, which was always an away day favourite) it turned into one of the best nights of my life.

After the Karaoke session to the tunes on the Jukey, it was only a matter of time before Fran got on the old Guitar. He belted out his usual medley of Beatles/Simon & Garfunkel/Dylan as everyone sang along. It was magical nights like this, that made away days down in Frans so special, and we weren’t going to let the result -how ever soul destroying- ruin our party. The party finished with the usual ritual as Fran got the bottle of Woods Navy Rum down off the top shelf, for the end of night toast to absent friends. With the measures of rum that Fran was giving out, this signalled the end of the road for most people. Those who had beds and could walk got off, the rest just crashed where they fell. Me and Suzi found ourselves a quiet corner. We were found the next morning by the cleaner. Me with my kecks round my ankles in a half standing, half crouching position with my head resting on the wall and wedged inbetween the two fruit machines. With Suzy on her back next to me dressed only in a pair of dockers and a cowboy hat, with her hairy moggy on show.

Rough Guide To Foreplay

Rough Guide to Foreplay

by Jimbo346


Drinking from the Fairy Cup

Some men love it, some men hate it. The wide eyed lads in attendance here in Swine Towers watching porn waiting for the brass to arrive also give it the thumbs up – As there general consensus is ‘there’s nothing better than having some floozy squirming on the end of your tongue’. But It takes a lot more than just a few jabs with the tongue with the eyes shut, to get the bird in squirming and sometimes squirting motion ( that’s if your lucky enough to come across a squirter). In my experience it takes at least 15 – 20 minutes of oral action just to get any women warmed up. So here’s Jimbo’s guide to the perfect formula for getting your Morde moist.

1. Lay her on her back. start kissing and caressing her neck then slowly make your way down to the breasts. Spend as much time on the tit as you feel right, I usually spend 2-3 minutes on each nipple. Unless they are quite a sticky-out pair of chewable studs, then I would spend 5 minutes.

2. With your tongue make your way down the stomach to her belly button. Give this a quick lick – only if it is fluff free mind you. Then make your way down to the clam area.

3. If she is still wearing a thong or knickers even better, as you can rapidly give her a teasing nibble and slurp through the material as you make your way to the area around her honey-pot. Pay the inside of her thighs extra attention as you circle the slit kissing, licking and slurping away. At this stage I like to roll the bird over and kiss each cheek of her arse maybe giving them a few playful spanks before turning her on her back again

4. Now’s the time for a bit of toe sucking action. Get her legs straight up in the air and then caress and tickle those pinkies with the tongue before getting down to some full on sucking of the big toe – but be on the look out for the odd bitter tasting fungal nail getting stuck in the throat, it can reek havoc with the sexy ambience.

5. Clit time! – Start by giving the whole ensemble a few playful long loving licks (like licking a drippy 99er) Then part the lips so the bean is on full show and lightly flick it with the end of the tongue. Then throw a couple of big slurps in and maybe a couple of prods into the love tunnel every known again. But all the time returning to the clit. Remember variety is the spice of life. Tease her with a few light brushes followed quickly by a suck then a nibble. Maybe getting it between your teeth and giving it a little tug. If the birds got a piercing in the nether regions and is into a bit of bondage all the better. As a game of ‘see how far the labia stretch’ can be fun, but if you find they can stretch past your ears get up and run. Carry on with the clit attention until the her legs go all jiggy and her toes curl up as she orgasms. It is now time for the next step.

6. You are now ready for the after orgasm carry on. You know when a girl is a quivering wreck on the bed after an orgasm and you get pushed away as she enjoys the ‘tingles’. Well this is the time to move in for the kill. Pin her legs behind her ears and bury that face in the flange once again. But this time act like a wild boar burying its snout for truffles. Get a bit rough if she permits and lap all the love juice up. I just adore it after a sloppy tongue fuck when I come up for air with my face dripping in all the blondes sweet dew.

7. Insert a finger or two, but make sure the tongue is still working the clit, and if any toys are available know would be a good time to introduce them. Maybe at this stage with her legs still behind her ears you might want to give the star-fish a little tickle with the tongue. If you get a positive response flip her over on all fours with her derriere in the air, giving you easier access to eat the anal area. I know a lot of fellas wont go near the arse even with their fingers let alone the tongue, but I find if the women you are with has had a pre-fuck shower and has disposed of the rust from around the key-hole with the flannel then I see no problem.

8. By this stage she should be on all fours with a dildo up her snatch a tongue up her ‘arris and a small vibrating egg pushed against the man in the boat. It shouldn’t be long before she succumbs to her second orgasm. Only when she has achieve her second orgasm is it time to move onto her part of the bargain, the blow job.

Smoke My Bone

I think it was Frank Skinner once said “there is no such thing as a bad blow job”. Well believe me Frank there is. From grinding teeth on the bell to women who monotonously just go through the motions. These type of women should go and get lessons off Ashley Blue (who is devouring 7 cocks on the plasma as I type and has the undivided attention of the wrecked lads – who are still waiting for the brass god help them when they do arrive!). So pay attention you Swinettes. Follow these rules and you might get that Chloe Paddington hand bag in your Xmas stocking.

1. Tie the hair back, there is nothing more infuriating for us fellas than not being able to see all the action

2. Don’t just do the one motion of bobbing the head up and down. Boring. Take it out your mouth tickle the top with your tongue, lick down the sides, bite it, spit on it, slap it on your tongue – believe me the dirtier and sluttier you behave, the more your fella will love it.

3. Give the balls a good lick and suck (remember to lick underneath – the area between the balls and anus is quite sensitive for us blokes).

4. Wank off the sausage at the same time as sucking the balls, whilst looking up at your man with a wanton look in your eye.

5. Don’t be alarmed if your fella suddenly grabs the back of your head forcing you down and making you choke on his cock – this is a well known past time called gagging and it should be done with no moaning or disproval.

3. If you’ve done all of the above your man should be nearing the ’emptying of his beans in your mouth’ stage, so know would be a good time to stop and move on to full intercourse.

So there you have it, follow My rough guide to foreplay and it wont be long before you and the other half are all revved up and ready to tear chunks out of each other.

Next Month – Rough Guide to Anal, were we will be answering that all important question. Is it okay to feltch your own cream pie from your birds crack?

What’s Your Brass?


What’s Your Brass?

By Jimbo346

Right your a 100 grand a week Premiership pigs bladder kicker for a top four club, what type of Brass do you require for those seedy afternoon sessions in the Lowry while your heavily pregnant wags at home fussing around the nursery with some extremely expensive interior designers.

The Rooney Brass – Your bog standard 20 year old stunner that can be found hanging around any VIP area in the city’s nightclubs and casinos. She will befriend you at the craps table and woo you with her charm and flash of cleavage, but you will wake up in the morning a couple of grand lighter in the pocket after she informs you that her services did not come for free. Also expect this one to run to the papers in six months time to sell her story.

The Ribery Jailbait – Plucked straight from a Pierre Woodman Casting X film, this particular piece of jailbait meat can be found getting abused in the sex clubs of Paris and the French Riviera. Be very wary of this one, as she will also run to the papers – when she turns 18 – to sell her story and end up getting you the collar.

The Carra stripper – This one isn’t a proper prostitute so to speak. She describes herself as a ‘raunchy’ stripper. This one will quite happily turn up at your birthday or Xmas party and perform a titillating, tassel swinging tit show then finish up with her legs akimbo. The pint pot will then be passed around and then it’s a free for all on stage as she gives out blow jobs willy nilly. The downside to this one is the undercover reporter stood at the back of the room trying to get a decent picture of your cock.

The Crouchy Señorita – This Latino lovely will have your head in a spin as she rhumbas her rump in front of you in some Madrid nightclub. This one works on the same principles as the Rooney Brass, in that she will approach you in a nightclub when you are drunk then charge you for sex. These ones do most damage when they run to the press and give embarrassing quotes about you like… “Peter was humble and kind. The Spanish players are arrogant divas who treat me like a whore. I don’t think Peter is good looking, but he is a nice person.

The Anderson/Nani/Ronaldo Handful – These five girls hail from an escort agency in the Leeds district (which came highly recommended by team mate Rio Ferdinand). All five are party animals of the highest order and they will prove this by coming around to your massive Cheshire mansion and drinking you dry of champers while gyrating around to some shitty R’N’B. Then it’s skinny dipping in the pool followed by sex in the sauna, then when the four hours is up, the card swiper comes out the fake ‘Louis’ handbag and your credit card gets milked of five bags. Surprise surprise these are also the type to go running to the press with embarrassing stories.

The Ronaldo TV – After dropping off your drop dead gorgeous girlfriend at home, you can zoom in your ultra expensive sports car to the local flavela’s and there you will find this ‘different’ type of brass flogging themselves on the pavement. Be very careful though because after taking them home and discovering they are in infact blokes in drag, don’t offer to pay them off for their silence, boot them in the balls instead. Even though you didn’t indulge in fornication with the blag females they will still run to the newspapers with your money in their back pocket and demand even more money from the editor for stories of drug taking and bumming.

The Avi Cohen Harem – These horny little Jewish princesses can be found plying there trade in the Gash Chamber sex club in down town Tel-Aviv. After partying with them all night they are quite willing for a ‘carry out’ back to the team hotel, to carry on the party till the early hours. Word to the wise, don’t do this on the eve of an important Euro qualifier against Denmark because you will end up getting stuffed 5-0.


By Meyer Lansky

Touched for the very first time

Let me take you back to Autumn of 85…..

The leaves on the trees had started to curl up at the edges and from a fresh vibrant green that they once were, they’d now turned a dull dusty brown. Empty concker shells littered the school path, deposited there by the big horse chestnut tree and left to rot but not before having there contents collected by the 1st and 2nd year lads. I was stood under the tree a few weeks into my last year at school, sheltering from the wind and rain before the bell went for registration. I had to turn up and get my mark in the book so I then could dodge lessons and not become a wanted man on the form teachers radar.

The wind was making the branches creak as they swayed backwards and forwards creating a ghoulish shadow across the doorway to H Block. I was getting lock jaw from a smoke ring marathon on a Berkley SuperKing I’d robbed off me Mum. Some waif and stray circled me and yelped away asking for a tug on the Berkley. I left him with the arse end and trotted over to H block and It was then I looked through the door and saw her for the very first time. A mini Madonna in all her glory. From first sightings I knew she was the one and I well wanted to get into her groove.

She had the look down to a tee – black bow in hair, wayfarer sunnies, bright red lippy on luscious lips, hoop earrings. She was getting shown around by our head of year with this being her first day at the school. Her family had moved out of the city to a better life in suburbia and as luck would have it her family chose this wool-land enclave just off the M62 thoroughfare. I watched her through the glass in the door as she fiddled with her umbrella on anticipation of going out into the lashing down rain.

Being behind the times with the fashion fraternity on account of my wool locality, my school uniform consisted of blue Farah’s, Adidas Colombia’s and a navy crew neck Lyle&Scott. All of which was soaking wet through as I stood out in the rain motionless and stared at the wondrous sight before me on the other side of the door. I made my way inside and caught the eye of the head of year who commented on my trainers. With no note off parent to back up my lame excuse of ingrowing toenail discomfort with shoes, he summonsed me to appear at his office at a later date. For the rest of the day I spent it desperately seeking Susan (for that was her name), I kept asking people ‘Who’s that girl?’ as I tried to gain as much info about her a possible. Like which lessons she would be attending and what form she was in. With the info gained I slid into the same Biology class as her in the afternoon on the hope of making initial contact with this material girl (ok I’ll stop with the madonna puns now).

She was put on a desk in front of me and to my right. I could see her majestic form and curvaceous body from a 45 degree angle as she sat seductively on the wooden school chair. I was making good use of the ray of light coming in through the window which made her white blouse translucent, giving good detail out on her pert bangers. The white school blouse also had a nasty tide mark around the neck from over use of cosmetic powders and creams but hey nobody’s perfect and if she could see some of my semen encrusted skid marked scruds she would probably run a mile. Were as if the boot was on the other foot and I come into contact with a pair of her crusty knick knacks, I wouldn’t run a mile, I’d run towards them, pick them up, sniff them and then put them in my pocket for a later scratch and sniff wank.

Susan was a bit of a loner and didn’t mix with the other girls that much but after about a week, I’d got word that her and a mate would be attending some bulbs house party whose parents were away. Because I spent most of my time hanging around the horse chestnut tree with the roughnecks smoking, I never normally got invites to these type of do’s. But what we and the roughnecks used to do was turn up anyway uninvited – like the mutant biker gang in Weird Science – and wreck the gaff. Our reputation went before us and any formal gathering was spoke about in Chinese whispers and out of ear shot of us tree dwelling bifter heads.

Its Saturday night and nothing really matters but getting to that party, so armed with a Tupperware beaker filled with a mad cocktail from various sources (Bacardi/Gin/Rum/Whiskey), me and the rest of the gang are party bound. The sidewalk talk was about which girl you were going to try it on with. I knew exactly who I was gunning for and like it or not I was going to justify my love for Susan by expressing myself in a beautiful stranger type of way, by not forcing myself on her but by talking to her thoughtfully and inquisitively and telling her a little about myself but not too much, leave her with an air of mystique. I must sense a physical attraction off the girl and if I look meaningful into her eyes as we natter I’m sure I will glimpse those come on eyes giving me the green light. Her sparkling windows to her soul will give me the clues I am looking for if I try hard enough. Engage her but don’t be over powering in the conversation. Pick her brains but let her ask question back also. Throw in a few compliments but not too many as you don’t want to come across as some desperate perv licking her arse. I had the strategy in my head and it was just down to the execution now.

We knocked on at the party, barged our way in and took over the kitchen as the gang went on hot knife duty. I toured the house like Jimmy off Quadraphenia hunting for fish pout lips. My soundtrack wasn’t the Who though, my soundtrack blasting out from the Matsui record player and double tape deck combo in the lounge was Fergal Sharky telling me a good heart these days is hard to find. Tell me about it Fergal mate, I’d visited every room in the house bar one and there was still no sight of Susan. Finally I hear screams coming from the main bedroom upstairs and i open the door to investigate. I am met with Susan and her fat mate using the double bed as a trampoline and they are both trying to do somersaults. They are both bladdered and after noticing the empty bottle of Merrydown on the bedside table to confirm it, I hear an almighty thud as Susan goes arse over tit and cracks her head on the wall next to the bed. She lays motionless, all crumpled up like a rag doll discarded in a toy box as her mate comes around with the seriousness of the situation and notices me stood at the door. “See if she is alright” fatty commands. I oblige and scuttle over to Susan and gently turn her head to see if I can see any signs of life. Her long eyelashes flutter, then her eye lids open and she looks around trying to come to her senses. When she does come round I play the Nurse Nightingale role perfect, I take her downstairs and get ice and wrap it in a tea towel for her bump and I spend the next hour supping my cocktail in a tupperware and holding the DIY icepack on Susan’s forehead as she lays on my lap.

I tried to strike up conversation with her but it was me against the music and anyway she was a comatose mess and couldn’t utter two words in succession. Dribbling from the corner of her mouth, she was leaving a wet patch on the ever increasing bulge in my Tacchini bottoms. I fantasie about her nibbling my bell through the acrylic material and the throb in my groin got worse with every wicked thought I had about Susan and my penis. The throbbing gristle was bucking and twitching all over the show beneath her head and sometimes the force of it was so much that her head would jerk up with every twitch. The rocky spliffs and the home made cocktail were starting to take there toll and I was having evil thoughts about fucking her in the ear and penetrating her ear drum then literally fucking her brains out of the other ear. With the room full of other party go’ers I thought it best not to. So I got up and staggered to the toilet instead and I was followed by some older slaggy arsed bike in chipped white high heels and way to much hairspray. I had my cock out and had both hands holding on to the toilet walls either side of me for stability when the bike made her move. I hadn’t noticed her before and the first time I was aware of her was when her hands came from behind me and grabbed my now semi tool. “Let me hold that for you love” she whispered in my ear with her ashtray breath and seconds later she’s pinned me to the floor in one of the bedrooms and is riding the life out of me while Colonel Abrahams ‘I’m Trapped’ bellows out from the Matsui downstairs.

When I returned to the party downstairs Susan was nowhere to be seen and after my escapades spread like wild fire around the school yard on Monday morning, Susan never looked or spoke to me ever again.

Crisis? What Crisis?

Crisis? What Crisis?

By Meyer Lansky

What does a mid-life crisis consist of? Is it a financial crisis that hits you with the sudden realisation you’ve got another 30 years of slogging your guts out, before being put out to some knackers yard care home with no pension. Or that dream of spending your later years of life in a rustic Tuscany villa sipping on vino tinto in the afternoon sun, is just that, a dream, a dream that disappears quickly in a stench of piss and disinfectant as you sit in front of the TV with all the other retards in the home trying to remember were it all went wrong? Or is hitting middle age the time of life went it becomes apparent that you can’t do all the things you used to do in your youth, so you have one final fling to make you feel young and get the testosterone causing through those veins for one last time before you retire to the land of M&S cardies. I’ve often pondered these things as I arrive at mid-life stage single after jibbing the ex. You hear stories about other men who start dating women half their age and start driving around in expensive soft top sports cars or sad lonely seedy men who head out to the Asian market and buy themselves a young nubile Thai beauty to spend their pending years with. I promised myself that when I finally arrive at the 40 year old stage I wouldn’t be so susceptible to those kind of cringe worthy mid-lifeisms. But fuck me, I’ve been doing them in spades that much over the past week or so, I’ve become the mid-life crisis king.

My soapbox opera started last week when I had a spare 7 day window in my busy graft schedule. I got on the blower and sorted myself out some quality time in the sun with my newly acquired woman half my age (22 year old South American bird with a perfect bottle). The holiday was booked and the expensive soft top sports car was hired for some sun, sea, sand and sex on the coast.

Now I’ve gorped with bitterness at odd couples before and I’ve often thought what it would be like to be on the receiving end of some jealous glares as you walk arm in arm with a half dressed woman who is in the springtime of her life. Well I can confirm that it feels fucking great! From the very first moment I entered the airport with the Latino bird on my arm I could feel the daggers of jealousy from all the other males and the look of disgust from all the females – that look of disgust that says ‘I wonder how much he’s paying for her?’. With my arm around the girl and a hand placed firmly on her Daisy Duke denim shorted rump, I strode through the security checks and on to the gate with a Terry Thomas bounder bowl. Sat at the gate with the little minx on my knee, as we swapped spit, felt fantastic but even better was to come when we got cosy on the flight as she rubbed my erect cock through the material of my RL cargo shorts for the full 2 hours of the flight. I swear I was on the verge of explosion for ages and the relief that I experienced when we reached the hotel as I tore the clothes off her back then pummelled her for a good two minutes before emptying my tank all over her back was things that dreams are made of.

We never left the hotel room for 12 hours after that and we done it every which way but loose. Even when we finally decided to leave the room and go and see some sights it took us another hour as I watched her in the mirror fix her hair and got turned on yet again by her peach of an ass as she swayed and shimmied it in front of me.I lay back on the bed playing with myself before the temptation took hold and i jumped up and ravaged her from behind, pulling hair and making mad sex faces in the mirror. ‘Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the best gooser of them all? You are you fucking animal’ I said to myself as I pointed and winked in the mirror in true Patrick Bateman style.

We eventually made it to the playa and we chose one of them expensive beach bars with chill out music playing and big whicker comfy furniture to worship the sun on at $200 a pop! The Latino lovely stripped to her thong and topped up the colour on her olive skin by dipping in and out of the sea, then lying spread eagle on the sun lounger, glistening in the mid-day sun as it shined off the droplets of sea water on her body. I quenched my parched thirst by demolishing two Mojito’s then fell a kip on the sun lounger and topped up my redness on my milky white complexion.

The Dad daggers had gone from sneaky snidey sideways glances to full on open mouthed dribbling down the chin pervs as the South American rolled over and nestled her sweet behind into my groin. I nibbled on her neck and stroked her hair as we spooned in a world of our own and ignoring the hundreds of people round about us. I got carried away when I started stroking the side of her neck then down the side of her body, gently brushing her already hard nipples as my hand made it down to the hips. She’s had a tit job so her boobs were of epic pertness. After an hour of bumping and grinding we were so turned on we hastily left the beach and fucked in the toilets of the underground garage where the car was parked. A sweaty frantic five minutes in the cubicle was followed – 15 minutes later – by a another sweaty frantic five minutes in the car, when we reached the hotel underground car park. Two times in the space of minutes, christ I hadn’t managed that since I was a teenager. This babe was insatiable and she knew how to push the right buttons.

‘I tell you somethin’, I need good lovin’, but you don’t understand. At night I see you cannonball com in’ to blow me to the promised land.’

With the age difference I knew it wasn’t going to be all plain sailing though. I was too long in the tooth to expect that. I wanted nice restaurants with a good bottle of wine and bed, she wanted noisy bars with shit music and MDMA. I bit the bullet a few times and succumbed to these hell holes full of knobs and even managed to stay out and watch the sun come up in some Funky after party, which was nice. But I’d learned a trick or two about this girl in such a short space of time and I knew how to get her home early. I’d let her off the leash for an hour or so with a few crumbs of magic, then I’d offer her a line of some decent beak (she never refused) and this would result in the powder knocking her socks off and putting her on a bit of a para one, which made her want to leave the place and go home. Mission accomplished, lets get home and catch a bit of the MOTD on the telly.

At times her immaturity shone through and I’d have to tell her to pipe down and shut up which resulted into some heated exchanges. She had a fiery latino temperament and wouldn’t back down an inch and I’m a stubborn old so and so who stands my ground (until she gives me that pussy wiggle). She knew what she was doing because most arguments ended up with me buying her a pair of shoes as a peace settlement. Sometimes it was worth the price of a pair of shoes just to shut her trap. One crazy day started with us both at each others throats around the swimming pool at the Hotel. She squirted way to much sun cream on my back so I picked her up and threw her head first in the water. I got blanked for the rest of the afternoon and the only interest she shown in me was a couple of hours later when we were walking past some shops. She got a handbag for her troubles and she was that happy with her present, I got a blowie on the drive home. We both got carried away though and next minute, I didn’t see the car infront stop at a zebra crossing and I pile right in the back of it as I’ve got two fingers up the girls slinky slot. I jumped out to confront the driver in the other vehicle while she puts her bikini bottoms back on and when she does emerge from the car she joins me in berating the tit in front. Things calm down when the plod arrive to take everyones details. With another two hours wasted exchanging the crumpled up soft top for a brand spanking new Audi A3 convertible at the car hire gaff, we finally get back to the hotel and continue were we left off before the crash.

So we may not be a match made in heaven, you could even describe it as a car crash relationship if you excuse the very crude pun but I liked this girl and she was fun to be with. In my book the pros certainly out weighed the cons with the relationship. With the pros being: Good sex. And the cons being: Goldigger, immature, leaves the bathroom in a state, makes you crash the car, puts greasy finger marks on your laptop screen, insists on listening to shit flamenco pop way to loud in the car (which was another factor in the crash!), never shuts up in an argument, never finishes a plate of food or drinks a full drink, throws snotty hankies on the floor at the side of the bed, gets bored very quickly and has the attention span of my pet goldfish called Floyd, fights for control of the remote, likes to practice flamenco dancing in high heels on the tiled floor of the hotel room at six in the morning whilst high on magic, does all the magic and beak in on the sly when your asleep at seven in the morning, TWOC’s the car to go and buy bitfers at eight in the morning and last and by no way least, it has a pet dog!!

Crisis? what crisis?

Thalys To Paris

Well here I am on the Thalys bound for Paris and I’m like a dog with two dicks. In the next couple of days I’m am about to witness the first ever triumph by an English man /British person/someone with daft sidies to win the Tour De France. To say I’m ecstatic would be an understatement. With the warm glow hovering around my body that only a small bottle of wine off the train trolly dolly can produce, I’m sat back in my seat listening to a bit of the Kinks and I’m in a Wiggish kind of mood. Well the type of mood Wiggo will be in after he finishes helping Cav win the gold medal at the Olympics and is then free to go on a bender or two and celebrate his winning of the Maillot Jaune in proper fashion.

It’s Friday morning and I have a weekend of debauchery in front me. The plan of action is to check into the hotel once I disembark this rattler and go on the ale and do a bit of shopping around the Champs Elysee, maybe dipping into a few bars along the way to see how the Tour is getting on. Its safe to say that barring any accidents or misfortune Brad will be pedalling down Frances main thoroughfare donned in yellow, so todays flatfish stage is no case for concern and I think it will be a day for a small break to stay away or a come together at the end for the sprinters to fight it out. So a basic take it easy and not too much pressure for the Sky boys today then, a bit like my day. Tomorrow will be a different story for me though as It entails an early start on a rattler so I can venture outside the Paris boundaries and head for a small suburban town and the finish of the penultimate TT stage. After spending all day on my feet collecting as much footage as I can on my newly bought handy cam, I will hot foot it back to the city centre for a night of good food and good wine.

Sunday will be another pressured day for me as I will be waking with a hangover for sure and will have to keep my wits about me as I go on the hunt for a good speck to view the final stage of the tour. With no proper press accreditation at hand I’m going to have to blag it with my IPC card and see how far that gets me. Speaking from past experiences it will be a little difficult to pierce the accreditation bubble and get close enough to get some good footage of Brad on the podium, but one can only try. Then after celebrating like mad on the Sunday night an early dart will be needed on the Monday morning so I can catch the bright an early and get back to work on time. It’s hard graft being a cycling fan.

Mission one accomplished reached the hotel and now I ready for my intake of food & wine.

au revoir cunts.

Up In Smoke At The German Grand Prix

By Bernard Bostik III

‘Grab your bag mate we’re going to the German Grand prix’

Is how my flat mate woke me on this tequila sodden humungus hung-over morning. I tried to speak but was badly suffering from a ‘smoking to many bifters the night before’ croaky throat. I grunted and disappeared back under the duvet for warmth and comfort.

‘Come on if them two can fuck off to the states to watch the world cup we’re going to the Grand Prix’

Dave my flat make was back in the room undrawing my curtains. A thick slab of sun light spanned the room immediately, I shot up in my bed and covered my eyes. When I felt brave enough I opened one eye and took a peek from between two fingers. My eyes first detected all the specks of dust floating about within the slab of light, then through all the dust particles, I spied Dave, stood in his undies holding a piece of paper.

He dropped the paper and walked out of the room shaking his head. I snaked out of my pit and went over and retrieved the discarded paper. After I’d cleared all the sleep out of my eye’s and regained my vision from the watery blur from which it once was, I read the note.


Me and Dave had been on a 24 hr bender the day before in the West End and we had neglected our mobiles and only noticed the note the lads had left us the next morning. I dropped the note and went back to lay on my bed. I put my weary head back down on the pillow. I spied my Anna Friel pictures from Loaded, that I had stuck to the wall with tooth paste. It was then I made use of my early morning stiffy.

For the sake of our last minute booking a direct route wasn’t available, so our route took us from London to Hamburg, stay the night there then fly to Stuttgart in the morning, watch the Grand Prix at Hokenheim, stay one night in Stuttgart, then fly back to Hamburg before catching our last flight back to London.

So there we were, me & Dave enjoying a Bloody Mary on our way to Hamburg, on board a Lufthansa Airbus. After enjoying the refreshments on offer in the hotel bar we tried it on with a couple of off duty stewardesses, who knocked us two drunken mutants back. The night porter then told us to go to bed and stop harassing the hotel guests. Dave crashed out in his scratcher straight away and was snoring within ten minutes. This allowed me to sneak a quick ‘ham shank’ in whilst viewing some late night telephone sex adverts on some German TV channel.


Nothing like a stern knock on the door to wake you from your slumber. I sat up severely and surveyed my surroundings, when I noticed I was in a hotel I put my head back down on the pillow. Dave was still dead to the world and snoring his head off. Then the person knocked on the door again and said something in a female German voice. I guessed it was the maid to service the room, so I did what I always do when I’ve been in similar situations before – fling the sheets back, expose Adonis-like body, whip undies off and lay as still as a statue awaiting the maid to enter the room – I’ve done this on numerous occasions and it’s funny to gauge some of the maids reactions. You get the ones who on seeing a naked man, apologise straight away and close the door immediately. You get the ones who stand there and have a good look for 30 seconds or so. Or if your lucky you get the plump Glaswegian one from the Holiday Inn in Glasgow, who serviced me then serviced the room.


The door opened and out of my ‘pretending to be asleep eyes’ I spied the maid poke her head around the door, she then apologised and closed the door rapidly.

We finally arrived in Stuttgart and after dropping our bags off at the hotel we were soon in a Mercedes taxi doing Michael Schumacher like moves on route to the Grand Prix. The weather was scorchio, so as the sun baked down on our lacoste polo clad backs, we traipsed off on the hoof in our Adidas, for the final part of the journey and rather inevitably we bump into a gang of English scalpers about two minutes into our journey. Two cracking briefs were purchased for quite a reasonable bat and within ten minutes we were being escorted across the track to be placed in our seats above the pits.

The crowds in the main grandstand were amazing. Schumacher went past and what would follow him was a Mexican wave of fireworks along the stands (the Germans would produce these starter pistol things that fired out fire crackers and they would be firing like fuck every time they spied the Benetton of Schumaker ).

I think I was on my second or third bottle of wine when I poked my head over the edge of our balcony and was having a good nosey at what was happening in the Benetton pits below. They were getting ready for a stop, Verstappen was due in next lap. I sensed the edginess of his crew – stood there kicking there toes into the ground and others jumped from one foot to the other. The pit boss gave the call and the driver could be spotted at the top of the pit lane. Within seconds he was up on the jack and was just having his tyres changed, when the the fuel guy never engaged the nossel in the car and sprayed his highly inflammable liquid all over poor Verstappen stuck in his car. It took a split second for it all to ignite and I nearly lost my eye brows.

I turned around and looked at Dave and gave this long drawn out “FUUUUUUUUCKIN’ ‘EEEELLLLLL”……which started out with me being shocked & surprised and ending with with me giggling.

After the race it was back to the hotel (to get drunk and abuse the guests), then in the morning we caught the flight back to Hamburg for our last nights stay before returning to London the next day. Dave checked in and hit the sack but I fucked off for a bit of a wander on my own. After about ten minutes walk I discovered the red-light district. To say I was happy would be an understatement. I had wedge in my pocket and I was off to satisfy my lustful urges.

I first entered this run down strip joint/brass gaff with some big beefy blonde German woman wrestler type on the door. The place was empty and stunk of sweaty socks and cheese. Blondie followed me in and served me up a beer and I asked her what was on offer. She told me to choose one of four doors at the end of the bar and the ‘show girl’ would give me a private show. I parted with some Deutschmarks and got ready to see what would face me on the other side. I thought I would be entering some kind of wank booth were I could tickle the little fella too death, watching a wanton woman tickle herself too death, until I ran out of spunk or money depending on which came first. What I was confronted with was a totally different scenario. There was two other men stood either side of me and we were separated by a chain rail and in front of us all was a bored looking German housewife with bruised legs.

A hastily retreat was had and I found myself in a sex shop with video wank booths. So without further a do, I spent the next 30 minutes or so knocking a couple out, sat on a rickety old stool with my shorts around my ankles . I pulled my Nike shorts back up and went for a tour of the shops for the next couple of hours. I then returned to the comatose Dave in the hotel room. Upon entering the room I woke Dave up and walked over to the mini-bar to grab myself a beverage. It was then Dave spotted it.

“What’s that on your arse?”

“what do you mean?” I answered

“eeeerrrrggghhh! there on your arse, looks like a dollop of spunk! Ha Ha what have you been up to?” his inquisitive mind questioned me.

It took me about ten minutes trying to explain where the offending ‘harry monk’ must’ve come from.

“Honest Dave it must of come from the floor of the wank booth when I had my shorts around my ankle’s” I protested my innocence.

Bed Knobs and Big Shits

Bed Knobs & Big Shits

‘Here we go again, it’s Monday at last,
He’s heading for the Waterloo line,
To catch the 8 a.m. fast, its usually dead on time,
Hope it isn’t late, got to be there by nine.’  Smithers-Jones   by The Jam

It was actually the 7:21 am and I had to be there by 8, but that song would always filter in and out of my head as I was buying the Mirror from the corner shop, on my way to the station to catch the train to Hunts Cross.

Through a family friend I got a start with a fridge firm in Speke. They were gonna start me off on the first year as a YTS lackey and maybe if I showed any promise, they would give me a proper apprenticeship. I showed absolutely no promise at all and ended up leaving after six months. The family were disappointed to say the least but what did they expect? I was a 17 year old yoof who had just discovered sex, drugs & rock ‘n’ roll.

The train journey would take twenty minutes, which give me and a friend (from round by ours who also worked in Speke), able time to stick-a-spliff, read the back pages, have a natter about the footy and then jump off the train to take a ten minute walk to the Industrial estate chonging away. I hated the job, I hated getting up early, I hated that train journey, I hated everything about it but it had to be done. I needed the 35 quid pay-cheque every week for my pills, thrills & belly ache escapades over the weekend.

The job was pretty easy as it goes but it bored me to tears. Driving round in a van, going to fix the fridges in supermarkets, doesn’t sound that bad and it wasn’t, don’t get me wrong – loads of perving on the check-out girls in the staff canteens and spending hours in greasy spoons demolishing egg & bacon on toast with loads of brown sauce. It was groundhog day again and again and again. Turn up at the depot of a morning, get job, go to job, tell the supermarket manager you’re off to get some spare parts, go to cafe, go back to depot for dinner, go back to job, go to cafe, go back to job, finish job and go home.

It was during one dinner hour, fooling around on a forklift truck, when my career in fridge maintenance ceased very abruptly. I was sat on the front forks of the vehicle arsing around, as another colleague was driving it, trying to do donuts in the warehouse. Crash, Bang, Wallop! and I’m in a heap under a fridge with my steelies in my mouth. I was in some mad position, with my head down by my feet and severe pain in the back area. Half an hour later I’m in Broad Green, smacked up on morphine, getting my clothes cut off me as men in white coats prodded and poked me ( I still get a chill down my spine and get cold sweats just thinking about it ). The parents soon arrived and tears were in abundance from my mother but they soon stopped after a Doctor came and gave us all his analysis of the situation. The X-rays had showed a fracture of the L2 (lumba vertebrae – the second bone up from your coccyx) and what he prescribed was bed rest for 4 to 6 weeks until the bone had healed. He also said I was very lucky and if the fracture had been a quarter of an inch bigger, I would’ve been leaving the hospital in a wheel chair.

It wasn’t all plain sailing though, the first two weeks were a painful nightmare of; weird drugged up dreams as the drugs took hold and uncomfortable bad tempered lapses as the drugs wore off. I was on a timer thing that injected the morphine into my drip every so often, but through the night, I needed extra to induce some shut eye. After the first two weeks of agony the last four weeks were a stroll in the park; lying in bed with not much pain, watching the nurses going about there business on the ward.

The ward had six beds in and a TV. My bed was at the end and from my vantage point I had a great view of the nurses staff room. I would be making tents in me bed as I watched some young student nurse fix her stockings before she started her shift. I was in agony most days, with a throbbing member and no opportunity to relieve the pressure. How could I? I was stuck in a room with five other blokes and the only time I was alone was when I was having a dump (which wasn’t very often – see below) with the curtains drawn around me. If I’d have been on the outside world I would’ve been knocking three a day out for sure but here I was, six weeks of no wanking. I was in fucking bits.

It wasn’t just the wanking habits that had gone to cock. My toilet routine had gone down the pan as well. For the first two weeks I never took a dump and the medical staff got a bit worried – I blame the cheeseburgers from the Maccies that my visitors would bring in – then when it got to three weeks they decided to do something about it and just my luck it was the fit student nurse who got the unfortunate task of moving my bowls. She had to give me an enema! After putting the tube in my anus and squeezing all the liquid up into my guts, she told me as soon as I felt the urge to ring for a bed pan. She’d not even pulled my curtains back when I screamed for her assistance. Half an hour and three full to the brim bedpans later, I was empty. The pain while i was pushing was excruciating and the screams were deafening, according to the lads on the ward. As well as the sounds I also left them a rather pungent whiff, which they got rid of by opening every window available.

They even let me smoke on the ward, that was until they put some mangled up fella next to me, who had come unstuck with an iron girder. He was on oxygen and the bottle was right next to my bed. So ten times a day one of the nurses had to wheel me out to the smoking room and leave me outside while I sucked on an embo filter and there was one time I shared a spliff with a kid from Page Moss.

The bed baths were a load of plop, here’s me thinking I’m going to get some nurse to fondle and stroke my under carriage while I lay back with a cheesy grin. Not a chance! They would scrub you all over then hand you the flannel and turn their back, so you could clean your important bits yourself. I was tempted a few times to go for a really on top danger wank but always lost my bottle when the chance arose.

I did cum my muck once while I was on my six weeks of bed rest. It was mid afternoon and I was day dreaming away – having a delightful little film playing away in my conscience about getting one of the nurses to come and strip and do dirty things to me & herself. I must’ve drifted off and the next minute I’m waking up to a full on orgasm as multitudes of lava spurted from my knob. It felt great, infact it felt better than great, it felt fantastic. It felt like I was cumming for about a minute as the spunk just oozed out of my japs eye. After I’d finished , I lifted up the sheet and i had this gigantic wet patch on the front of my boxer shorts. There was no way I could take them off myself (I could barely lift my head off the pillow), so there was only one thing for it and I rang for assistance and just my luck it was the fit student once again!

‘Could you help me I’ve had a bit of an accident?’ I sheepishly said to her.

I didn’t tell her what type of accident and she didn’t ask but by the redness in her cheeks I think she guessed, as she pulled down my rather sticky under garments.

Standard Liege

Standard Liege – By A Blag Journalist.

After an altercation with some traffic plod I was put back a day and ended up missing the prologue on the Saturday. I plotted up late on the Saturday night at a pleasant hotel in a picturesque Belgium village just over the boarder from Maastricht, which left me only a half hour jocky to the start of the first stage of the Tour De France in Liege in the morning. My evening meal in the hotel was exquisite and so was the beverage. With a full belly I waddled around the village square popping into two or three bars to replenish my alcohol intake. Contented I staggered back to my abode and fell a sleep.

When I was rudely awoken by my alarm in the morning, I did the zombie shuffle into the shower and hit the cold for 30 seconds just to wake me from my slumber. I switched to hot and stayed beneath the comforting warm water for a further 15 minutes before returning to my pit for a quick 10 minute dog nap. With a Red Bull demolished out the mini bar and two espresso demolished in the cafe, I paid the extra’s on my room bill at reception…”no way did I watch the movie* channel!”….”I’m afraid you did sir, that will be 12 euro 50 please”…I was ready for my drive.

Liege was reached in no time and after dumping the car on some double yellows I headed off for the centre of town. A quick bunk over the barrier and I was in amongst the team buses. Obviously I headed for the Sky one to hunt out the World Champ, ‘the favourite for the Tour’ Brad and Eddy Boss. I fancied Eddy for the stage win and after I got a reassuring “Eddy’s got good legs today” off Sean Yates, I was straight on to my bookmaker. I did my usual and snapped and filmed away as the Sky bus was surrounded by the ever increasing numbers of journo’s. Me a pretend journo had my IPC in my pocket but this wouldn’t do me no good if come into scrutiny by some big burly French security chap. I stood back and let the real pro’s get up to their business. Which consisted of all the Ned Boultings of this world spending 30 minutes smooching around the bus – with it being the first stage old acquaintances were rekindled – followed by a ten minute frenzy of fighting for a riders attention, then finally finishing off by asking the most tiresome and snore infested questions I have ever heard  -I swear at one point I thought Cav was gonna lamp some idiot from Sporza. How these fellas put up with the same questions over and over again and refrain themselves from using psychical violence against the interviewers I will never know. One minute Cav is all smiles as he fools around with his family, next minute he’s all dead pan and poker faced as he turns to the media scrum behind him.

On to the finish it was then in Seraing. The police woman wouldn’t let me drive up the 4km of the final climb, so I hoofed it up only stopping off once for a well earned Jupiler and horrible ‘dog’ sausage on an unbuttered French loaf. Gary Imlach was spotted halfway up the climb doing his little talking while walking monologue. The proper professional done it in only a couple of takes and he was not put off  at all by two drunken yanks in wigs and speedos who attacked him during the first take. One quick read of his dialogue, a smoothing down of his ruffled hair with spit and he was off, one more take, job done and lets get on to the next assignment. Gary it was a pleasure to watch you work. YOU are the Don.

250 metres from the line an ageing Belgium gent was selling freezing cold cans of Martens Pils from his front garden. I perched on his garden wall and drank four of them as we both kept one eye on the action being shown on the big screen over the road and one eye on our discussion about Martens (the cyclist not the beer). His knowledge was second to non and as he regaled me about his favourite cycling stories his wife sat next to him on a her garden chair in total stone faced silence. The finish was fast approaching so I jumped down off his garden wall and mooched up to the finish line. I didn’t fancy no corporate bunk (I had a nasty security mush on me case who was watching me like a hawk), I wanted to get as close to the finish as possible so I could obtain some footage of Eddy storming it over the line in first place, with it being six deep at the roadside this was going to be difficult, so I spotted a  bus stop sign that had a bin attached to it with my name on. With the riders only having 2km to go I shimmied up the sign and perched on top of the bin. Got some shit footage of Sagan doing the funky chicken across the line, I then jumped down and darted over the barrier to film the riders crossing the finish line as they got hassled for bidons off the over enthusiastic Belgium crowd.

Eddy hung on for third after putting in a great effort to bridge the gap up to Sagan and Cancellara but just never had any fuel left in his legs to come around the both of them for the win. Never mind one last glance around the Sky bus to cheer me up, I found all the lads warming down on the turbos. I wanted to wish Brad all the best foe the rest of the tour and hopefully I’d see him in Paris wearing yellow but he was pre occupied by Matt Rendell, with the ITV man poking a mic under Brads sweat dripping nose and asking him those toe curling, cringe worthy questions like only Matt can.

I know Brad can do it  and I don’t know how he’s feeling on the inside – might be a bundle of nerves for all I know – but I do know one thing, from the outside he looks cool, calm and collected with a hint of arrogance. I just know he can carry that swagger all the way to Paris. Imagine that eh? a fucking English man winning THE Tour and they laughed at Brailsford when he spun the press his five year plan. Dave B will be dancing around in his Stan Smiths If Bradley manages to pull it off. Allez Wiggo.

Then that was it I was off back to the car for the 2hr plus drive home and before bed I tanned the fridge of all its heineken.

Gripes from the Tour

1) All this negative twittle twattle broadcast over the airwaves about Sagans celebrations. Can I just say leave the poor kid alone. He’s twenty fucking two for christ sakes. The kids got heaps of talent and what’s wrong with a bit of charisma and character if you can back it up by winning all the time. And I bet you any money there are 1000’s of kids all over the world doing the ‘funky chicken’ or the ‘running man’ as they cycle around the streets wanting to be the next Cannibal.

2) Plan B Froomy – More negative vibes broadcast over the airwaves about Plan B and leaving Wiggo exposed as the sky riders dropped back to help get Froome back up after a puncture. The way I see it is this;  Sky will need Froome to be up there on GC threatening Evans come the mountains. If Froome sneaks in a brake or went on the attack this would force BMC’s hand and push them into sacrificing men to chase Froome down which might leave Evans exposed in the final kilometres of the stage. Were as if Froome was not a threat, Evans will gladly let him disappear up the road for the stage win and keep his troops around him.