Another update for you all. Not least because of all the demanding emails I’ve been getting, asking for another travesty write-up.
But despite what some of you think my life isn’t a string of end-to-end travesties, so I’ve had to dig one up from the past. Enjoy!
In the first year of Uni, one of my housemates invited me to spend the weekend at his family’s country pile (a three bed semi in the ‘burbs of Sheffield) mainly so we could go out, get shitfaced and go fishing.
This update’s not really about the fishing as that was mainly travesty free. Except that we ended up going fishing in a small stream we got to by climbing over a wall at the back of an Asda car park. I caught quite a few brown trout (good anyway, but astonishing given there was a trolley in the water) and then lost his Dad’s antique fishing lure up a tree (yes, the one I had been told specifically not to use). But the out and out highlight of the day was finding a ripped up porno mag on the bank (Bonus!). It was like being a kid again, not because of the idyllic river setting, but because of finding the discarded wilderness jazz mag of a sex offender in training. I think that we all forget that the internet and its primary function as a filth conduit has robbed teenager boys of the wonderment afforded by an abandoned rhythm magazine.
Remembering finding that nudie mag also reminded me that I worry too much. So much that I worry about how much I worry. And the worst thing is that I worry about objectively ridiculous things. As a young teenager on a cross-country run (most of it wasn’t in the country but rather the streets around my school) I found an orphaned fanny mag in a bush (Why are they always in bushes? Why was I in a bush? Why, as a man in his thirties, do I still giggle at the word bush?). My joy quickly turned to distress as the previous owner had thoughtfully and meticulously cut all the women’s eyes out with a scalpal. I spent longer than I should have deciding if this alteration was something that would prevent me from enjoying the…. articles and threw it back in the bush (hee, hee. Bush!).
Later that night I began thinking about who had thrown it away and convinced myself he was not only a mad man but also a Silence of the Lambs style sex-criminal. I also convinced myself, whilst lying in the midnight dark of my bedroom, that he had probably discarded it on the way to do something terrible to someone, that the police would conduct a search, find it, get my finger prints off it (luckily not my DNA, unless they found my missing gym sock) and I’d go down for a 15 to 20 stretch. This is not a joke (well the sock bit is, I’d put it back on). I got so worried about it that I actually got out of bed to go and tell my mum and dad but thought better of it. Not least because I didn’t want to explain the sock. I convinced myself I was being stupid, but then nearly had a panic attack on the way to school and went to find it and destroy the evidence. I rummaged around in the bush (hee, hee. Bush!) but it had gone. “Shit!” I thought, “the police have found it!”.
But that worriement was nothing compared to when, again, as a young teenager I found myself in an abandoned building. We did what any teenage boys in the same situation would do and let off fire extinguishers in each others faces (it’s in my eyes. My EYES! I’m gonna be like PJ!), javelin-ed flourescent tubes at each other, climbed into an attic on a 15-foot ladder and then kicked it away for a laugh and, of course, barged the locked door of a toilet cubicle open, whilst my mate was flying tipping (dumping) in a waterless toilet, which hit him in the face and knocked him out.
During these high spirits, I cut my hand and a little later touched a door handle that had some red sticky stuff on it. My mate looked panicked and said “That’s blood! That’s a heroin addict’s blood! You’ve caught AIDS!”. Then everyone started telling me I had AIDS.
Now bearing in mind it was clearly paint not blood, heroin addicts couldn’t have been in there as my mate had broken in and you can’t ‘catch’ AIDS, let alone contract HIV from dried blood, I still lay awake that night thinking I only had a few years, or worse still months to live. Even though this was clearly beyond ridiculous I still had, for years to come, a small niggle in the back of my head that an imaginary heroin addict had given me AIDS. As far as I’m aware, they hadn’t. But I am now addicted heroin.
Anyway, the first night of the stay in Sheffield we went into town and got catastrophically shitfaced. A true classy night all round really. We ended up in a vodka themed nightclub drinking tepid lager that smelt like bath farts, followed by isopropyl alcohol chasers.
Coincidentally, that was the same nightclub in which, a few months later, I got comprehensively beaten the shit out of by five lobotomized bouncers. It was justified though and in many ways I brought it on myself. I had committed the ultimate nightclub sin. I fell asleep. As the blows rained down I wanted to say ‘I fell asleep because I’m pissed and tired, it’s not a fucking review’.
Anyway, I vaguely remember being ladled into a cab and we somehow managed to get into the house, but not before I had hilariously set off the burglar alarm by pressing all the buttons. I then found myself lying on a camp bed watching the room waltz around me to the soundtrack of my mate puking all over his mum and dad’s new bathroom. Puking at home was something he had NEVER done before, in fact just getting home drunk was heavily frowned upon. I soon fell fast asleep and dreamt that I woke up with a “cock full of piss” and had to run to the toilet and that as I was getting back into bed I felt someone sit bolt upright and scream, as they turned the bedside light on, “Wrong room!”. Turning to my left I saw the startled faces of my friend’s mum and dad. I said “Shit, sorry”(not good as they didn’t ‘do’ swearing), left the room quicker than guests at a Barrymore pool party and ran head first into the ladder for the illegal loft conversion.
I woke up in the morning and told my mate about the dream. We pissed ourselves laughing and went down for a family breakfast before heading off for some more porno mag hunting.
That night we were sitting round the dinner table and my mate’s sister leaned over and whispered “Mum and Dad heard you puking in the bathroom last night”. I blurted out so everyone heard, “I didn’t puke, that was Dave!”. His mum said “Really? Now that is a first. But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t my son who got into bed with me last night”.