Beaty Swollocks

Writing Fuss Pots reminded me of another travesty at the same pub. It was high summer, I was working a back to back double shift (two 14 hour days in a row). Instead of going home at the end of the first day, I drank my wages and fell asleep on the floor of the pub.

I woke up in the morning, in fact a few of us did, and realised I didn’t have time to go home and get changed and would have to work in the clothes I’d slept in. My shirt looked like it had been stored in a thimble and I smelt like a rotting donkey.

Hangover and looking like I lived in a car (probably a Datsun or a Nissan Sunny) aside, all was fine until I got struck down with a rather brutal case of Chef’s Arse (my younger brother’s name for it!).

For those unfamiliar with Chef’s Arse it’s essentially a terrible medical condition caused by chafing. Normally because you’re too hot, sweating and walking around a lot.

In our younger days a friend of mine used to call it Geography Syndrome (we always had to sit next to the blind free window, with the sun shining on us, next to a radiator* that was always on, even during the summer).

Without going into too much detail I must explain Chef’s Arse. People often assume it’s chafing of your cock and balls, which it can be, but it’s more likely to be the tops of your inner thighs, or your barse (the bit between your bollocks and your arse).

On this balmy, close, summers day I was unfortunate enough to be suffering from the Holy Trinity of symptoms. I tried to struggle on but ended up walking around like John Wayne after a long day riding on a horse with an orbital sander for a saddle.

It got so bad I had to tell my female boss, plead to use the shower in her private living area and ask if she had talcum powder.

After I got out of the shower I was stumbling around the bathroom looking for the talc, half-blind because I’d left my glasses in another room. I eventually found it, in a yellow bottle with a red top, poured every last particle of the relief giving talc into my hand and comprehensively patted it on my Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Then screaming and hopping started.

It felt like I’d detonated a phosphorus grenade in my pants. I squinted at the bottle and read “anti-septic fungal foot powder”.

When I came down stairs the landlady said:

 “So how are your bollocks?”

“They’ve been better, like that time I staked them out in the Sahara, and you’re going to have to get another bottle of fungal foot powder”.

*I once absent-mindedly put my arm behind that radiator and as I pulled it out it looked liked I vajazzled my sleeve with multicoloured melting mozzarella.

It turns out radiators are exactly the same temperature as the melting point of chewing gum, it sets back to concrete almost instantly and the joy of shouting “Oi dickhead! What’s on your sleeve?” never wears off.

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