I used to be an avid collector of Star Wars stuff. I say “used to” like I had a road to Damascus moment and realised it was horrendously sad and pathetic and gave it up out of choice. I didn’t. I still have an attic full of the stuff and stopped because paying for adult things (not those sort of adult things!) like shelter, clothes, food, fuel and continental style lager uses up all my spare cash.
My collecting days were pre internet as we know it today so I actually had to go out into the real world, with the fetid masses, and search this shit out. I used to love nothing more than jumping on a bus and going to a local shopping centre on the off-chance I would find an action figure I didn’t have.This was genuinely exciting as you’d often but not always find something new (God, I was and still am a sad bastard).
After one successful trip, clutching a small Fenwick’s bag containing a new and “rare” figure (as rare as anything that is manufactured in the ten of millions and sold worldwide can be. Also, if you’re interested it was a Tri-logo carded Han Solo in Endor gear) I was sitting on the bus home and it was busier than a Northern sexual health (ill health?) clinic when a remarkably fat guy came and stood next to me.
I don’t mean fat in the slight gut-hanging-over-the-wasit-of-a-pair-of-supermarket-jeans-accentuated-by-a-tucked-in-Ben-Sherman-shirt. I mean the socially unacceptable fuck-me-blue-he-looks-like-a-peeled-sperm-whale-sewn-into-clothes-who-has-just-eaten-Pavarotti-Barry-White-and-Jennifer-Patterson-for-dinner-and is-eyeing-up-the-hairy-bikers-for-dessert.
When I see hugely fat people or bag ladies, I always think “What must their cock/fanny be like?”. I can’t help it, literally. It always, without fail, pops into my head!
Now, I’m a little jolly myself. Not jolly in the irritatingly-upbeat-alcoholic-uncle kind of way but in the shooting-pains-down-your-left-arm-life-limiting way. I often look at people and think “you fat, lazy, fat, greedy, lazy, fat, lazy shit” and then realise they are thinner than me. So I don’t want to seem judgemental about his weight but I was justly judgemental about his natural pheromones.
He fucking stank! He smelt like that sweet cloying smell you get from piles of rotting leaves (Yes, exactly like the path leading to High Barnet tube station) and the unmistakable smell that lurks at the bottom of belly buttons and in toe jam. I once heard a comedian describing someone’s fanny as like a hole kicked in the side of a dead hog. He smelt like that hole. The one in the hog, not the other one. Well, maybe both.
The journey home was 45 minutes. But time stood still, I think it was stunned. I certainly was as I had his cock, balls and arse at face level. It was so bad I thought I was going to puke and tried to avoid the smell by breathing heavily out of my nose and in through my mouth. It didn’t work, it never does. I just ended up looking like a snorting gagging bull.
It wasn’t just me, a large proportion of the passengers surrounding him were struggling to hold onto their lunch. I saw girls holding their hair to their nostrils and one actually squirted perfume into her face.
After about 15 minutes the bus got a little less busy as people got off and at the next stop so did he. I said “Jesus, he was a little funky, my eyes were watering”, there were a few pained groans of relief and agreement and then I said “If you think that’s bad, just imagine what his arse smells like. If he got that out lives would’ve been lost”. I said this quite loudly and most of the bus started groaning and laughing, a lot. Alot alot.
I then said “Imagine collecting the detritus in his pants into a pouch fashioned from squares of his pissy y-fronts and making tea with it!”. Some people started crying with laughter, some people just started crying.
The bus got to the next stop and the people thinned out a little more. Too my surprise and horror sitting a few rows ahead was Mr Smelly Bollocks, looking entirely mortified.
He actually looked at me as I got off the bus, but he didn’t have anger in his eyes, it was more like resigned agreement. He also had a small Fenwick’s bag in his lap and was holding a Trio-logo card Han Solo in Endor gear (This is true!).
As I got off the bus I couldn’t help but think of our apparent similarities and “what must my cock be like?”. So I immediately went home and washed, just in case.
This post is dedicated to Kate T as she is leaving London today and going to live up North, out of choice apparently. (Why? Why would she do that? She’s even been there and knows what a terrible backward shithole it is. Madness!)