Accidental Section 66 violation, your Honour.

Last Friday morning, unusually for me, I was running late for work. In fact I was running late for a rather important external meeting. The meeting was in Lambeth but because it was a crisp winter morning and I was feeling pious I decided to walk from Moorgate. Little did I know this was the start of a journey that would end in me accidentally infringing the Sexual Offences Act 2003 – c’mon we’ve all done it.

Various travesties meant I was late, including being stuck in traffic whilst someone was cut out of their car and the tube stopping in the tunnel for ten minutes whilst the service was “regulated” – I wanted to kick in the door of the driver’s compartment and shout “I’ll regulate you in a minute”, but didn’t as I was at the opposite end of the train and would have had to push past about 2000 sweaty mouth breathers, the driver’s door opens outwards so can’t be kicked in (I’m not Chuck Rogers*) and also I’d essentially be threatening to either impose some kind of figurative legislation on the driver or enforce a metaphorical diet regime to make him crap more regularly. So it seemed a bit fruitless, the threat not the diet regime, that would have to include fruit because, as my catastrophically unsavoury gran used to say “Do you want some fruit? It really works ya!”. I don’t think she ever realised my regular fruit refusal wasn’t because I didn’t like fruit (I do) it was more that the thought of her having a diabolical fruit based shit put me off some what.

Anyway I digress, which is fine because I meant to, so back to the story in hand – that phrase is a little more prophetic than I’d like. Having decided to walk I realised it wasn’t a crisp morning, it was actually colder than a step-mother’s love and strangely despite being freezing I ended up getting quite sweaty. There really is no better feeling than that of ice-cold sweat running down your back. I stumbled on, in a flap because I was late and unsure of the route, and the location of my final destination. My scarf felt like a polar bear sitting my shoulders to warm my neck, whilst it dribbled ice-cold piss down my spine.

I ended up having to walk behind the ITV Studio on the Southbank and saw blokes unloading a lorry that obviously had bits of the set from The Biggest Loser final. They unloaded a couple of life-sized posters that two of the Biggest Losers had obviously had to walk (waddle) through to much applause no doubt. Looking at the posters I couldn’t help thinking, you’ve essentially lived in a retreat for weeks on end, eating mung beans and doing 6 hours of exercise a day and whilst admittedly you’ve lost some weight you still look like an upside-down Moomin painted by a dyspraxic onto the back of a ladle, you fat cunts. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirrored window – it turns out I actually feel quite a lot of empathy for fat cunts, especially ones with endangered mammals pissing down their backs.

I was nearing my destination and it dawned on me that as it was a Friday and I was in civilian clothes rather than my usual suit and tie it was bad enough that I was late but the least I could do was try to look a bit smarter. So I decided to tuck in my shirt. I ducked into a deserted Clockwork Orange-style alley running alongside a sixties housing estate. Sweating and panting from rushing I undid my long duffel coat and let it hang open. I then undid my belt, the ends swinging down like an Orangutan’s arms. For ease of tucking I decided to undo the top button of my jeans. In my frantic state instead of applying one button’s-popping worth of pressure I applied five and ripped my jeans open like someone who had just got to the end of the toilet queue in Tripoli airport. At that moment, a woman walked round the corner. She looked at me like I was just about to get a hammer out of my coat so I decided the only way to remedy the situation was to tuck my shirt in as fast as possible and do my trousers up. Which to a terrified female observer might have looked like a man standing in an alley with his trousers undone pulling his arms in and out of his pants like a pneumatic drill and struggling with trousers.

*I meant Chuck Norris, see comments below!

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This entry was posted in Travelling travesty, Work travesty and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Accidental Section 66 violation, your Honour.

  1. tim says:

    Post rationalising pervert. I was tucking my jeans in your honour and my winky was sick. I’m disgusted.

  2. Stefan Dennis says:

    Professor,

    Do you mean ‘Buck Rogers’, or ‘Chuck Norris’?…

    Stefan ‘Paul Robinson from Neighbours’ Dennis

  3. Stefan Dennis says:

    Wow – Maybe you were right – Did you mean the guy who runs this outfit?:
    http://www.rogersprecision.com/

    Stefan ‘Paul Robinson from Neighbours’ Dennis

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