The Italia 1990 football world cup was memorable for so many reasons; England's semi final showdown with Germany, Gazza's tears as he got sent off, Linneker's subsequent gestures to the bench, Pearce and Waddle's penalty misses, and me getting caught masturbating by my dad.
I am sure it's happened to us all at some point during in our life's, but I doubt that many have crossed as many boundaries as I did, that fateful Sunday night in June of 1990. So, here is a warning to any youngsters, or indeed oldsters that fancy a quick fiddle, when the circumstances are far from cordial. Please read and take note. If I myself had listened to such good advice all those years ago, the following story may never have happened.
Deep breath - so here it goes.
It's Sunday night and England are playing Egypt in a first round tie of Italia 90. I've been eagerly awaiting the world cup for, well 4 years actually. However, illness has meant that I have been bed bound for the past week and something unprecedented has occurred. Yes, that's right, you got it! I have not had a five knuckle shuffle for a whole 7 days. Right now, I'm feeling much better, and consequently, I am fully aware that my balls are the size of water melons. The sterility of the game does not help my predicament, neither does the fact that I know my dad has got a stash of porn in his bedroom, some 5 metres to the South East of where I lie, as the compass points.
We live in a modern house. You know, one of those Barrett type affairs. Those alive in the 80’s may remember the advert, where a helicopter flies over the housing estate, and by sheer luck the houses do not blow away. To say that they were not well made is a understatement. From my room, I can hear my mum farting downstairs, and that's with all the doors closed. There's no sneaking into your room, in this house - the floor boards have a life of their own. They creak and groan, like they are ready to consume you for standing on them. It's a 4 bed roomed house, but if you put all 4 rooms together, you could make one normal size room. I can hear my mum and dad watching the game downstairs, in fact if I turned the volume off on my portable tv, I could quite easily listen to the game. You could say, the raid that I am planning on my dad's bedroom is more like a suicide mission really, but so is the nature of the swollen beasts, that are currently forcing my legs apart.
My mum and dad sleep in different rooms, for whatever reasons. When my sister, flew the nest (literally a nest), he moved into her room. Well, I call it a room - it is more like a box. It's approx 6ft long and 4 ft wide, and to add insult to injury, a large portion of it, is taken up by a big wooden cube which covers the top of the stairs. The top of the cube is now used to store his books, including my current objects of affection (his mucky book collection). I first discovered these in the late 70's when my 10 year old friend and I went rummaging through dad's cupboards and found a huge pile. Nothing outrageous like, not by today's standards. This was in the days before people realised that women even had an arsehole. It was all soft porn back then, Fiesta, Playboy, Escort and the likes. Thank god for that. God knows how I would be now if I was reared on Red tube, Tube 8 and Porn Hub (commission there for advertising). I dread to think how the youth of today are going to be in the future. Anyway, our secret, did not stay a secret for long. In our excitement, we knocked the pile over and in a circus like fashion did not manage to re-assemble it before my mum came home and caught us sliding around in the ocean of porn, that was now the bedroom floor. We were informed by my mum that dad was looking after the magazines for a friend whilst he went on holiday. I must admit, even at 10 years old, I found this a strange concept.
Back to the story. So, I've made up my mind. I am going to endure the first half of the game and then when half time comes I am going to carry out my daring raid. I'll be in and out of there in a matter of minutes, right? No wrong - if only life were so uncomplicated. As soon as the half time whistle blows, 2 things, which are not to work in my favour, occur. Firstly, Dave Grime my mate comes knocking on the door, and my mum sends him upstairs (bastard). Secondly, and even more instrumental in my downfall - the telephone rings and my dad picks it up. I can actually hear the whole conversation. I am not exaggerating about the sound proofing of the house.
So, Dave walks through the bedroom door, as I am making my exit (I almost take his eye out). I make an excuse that I am going for a shit and he should wait in my room. He complies and I hotfoot it to my dad's porn emporium. I know the routine, big "Nightmare before Christmas strides", so as not to be attacked by the floor boards. Downstairs, I hear my dad on the phone, talking about a book that he is in possession of. There was never going to be a bigger warning sign, of the events to follow than that. Unfortunately, testosterone has fully enveloped my body and it is the point of no return.
Once in his box room, I head straight for his Model Engineer collection and count down six editions. I know that this is where it starts. At this point I have about 200 fingers and they all seem to be doing different things at different times. Fortunately I have enough composure to grab my favoured copy of Fiesta, before plonking myself down on his single bed. Before you know it, my pants are round my knees and my inflated member is in my hand. Hastily I flick through the pages for my favourite picture.
Meanwhile, my dad has interrupted his phone conversation and is making his way up the stairs in search of the book that he has just been conversing over. Of course, I hear him coming up ever stair and somewhere in the realms of my rational mind - I know that this can only spell, one gigantic FAIL for me. They say, a standing prick has no conscience, and a lust filled mind, it turns out, has no modicum of common sense. I live in hope, that he is either going to the bathroom, or he is going to go into my mum's bedroom (despite the fact that all his books are in his room). Undeterred in my mission, I tug away at an accelerated pace, whilst flicking hastily through the pages of Fiesta.
I am assuming that you are picturing the scene in your minds right now (god help you). But there are to be a few extra twists in this tale, which make it even more remarkable. The only plus point is that my dad is a mad professor type and therefore slightly absent minded. This delays my destiny by at least 20 long seconds, whilst he rummages for "THE BOOK".
Those that are familiar with Fiesta, will know that there are a few pages in the magazine dedicated to the readers wives. These are the pages where Mrs Miggins from next door, gets her flange out, for all and sundry to witness. But also in the magazine, there is a page dedicated to the reader's husbands (or should I say the readers)? This page is labeled "One for the ladies" and depicts such terrible scenes, as Billy Smooth from Grimsby with his John Thomas in full glory. Can you guess what happened next?
So, dad bursts through the door in search of "THE BOOK", just as I am about to explode a weeks worth of pent up aggression. I hear the door, and in an act of bare faced cheek (and desperation), I flick through the pages with increased haste.
As he enters the room, there I am, spread eagled on his bed, pants around my knees, penis in hand and yes, you've guessed it - the magazine wide open with a picture of Ron from Huddersfiled proudly displaying his cock. Does it get any worse than that? Yes, it does, comes my reply. You've heard people say that when they have had an accident, it all happens in slow motion. Well, this was certainly an accident and yes it did happen in slow motion. I actually see a weeks worth of sperm flying through the air, as dad comes through the door. It seems to linger, in suspended animation, as if a porn cameraman is trying to capture that golden cumshot. It almost hits dad as he enters the room. Fortunately, the mad professor, absent mindedness in him, is to my benefit.
Unbelievably, in a room that size, he fails to notice me, frozen to his bed, as if rigamortis has set in. He walks straight to the pile of books and negligently searches through them -in search of "THE BOOK". For 20 long seconds, I think I have actually got away with my daring raid, until he turns around and witnesses the whole sorry scene - Ron from Huddersfield an all. With a comedic edge, he lets out a cry of "WHOOOPS". Seriously, that is the way he reacts, with a big "WHOOPS". I'm not sure what I was expecting! Despite my terrible situation I find this amusing. He then scurries off through the door and halfway back down the stairs. It is only then, that he realises that he has forgotten "THE BOOK" - and who can blame him? He turns around and comes back up the stairs, arresting his progression outside his bedroom door. Which he knocks on and utters the following words "Andrew, you haven’t seen my book on lead mining in the Yorkshire Dales have you? Seriously, all this, and my downfall is a book on lead mining in the Yorkshire Dales.
"Hold on", I mutter, and attempt to rise from my unfortunate position. At this point my pants slip from my knees to my ankles and I fall to the ground. Dragging myself up, I stumble to the solid wooden cube that doubles as a bookcase, where I stare at the books, like a rabbit hypnotised in car headlights. Unable to compose myself, enough to fully realise the enormity of the task in hand. After much fumbling, I locate "THE BOOK" and upon nervously, making my dad aware of this fact, his hand appears around the side of his own bedroom door. As if this story needed any more humour, his hand is making grabbing motions in mid air, not dissimilar, from the hand in the Addams family. It continues to do so, until I place "THE BOOK" within the grasp of his fingers. He thanks me for my efforts and trundles off downstairs.
I return with haste to the safety of my own bedroom, where I am met by the sentence "Fuck me lad, that was a long shit".
England, beat Egypt 1 - 0