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
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Friday, 24 June 2011
Strawberry flavoured poo poo's
And so it was, that every year, the Mitton family holiday was a trip to Butlins. For those that have not heard of Butlins. Think cheesy holiday camp; the knobbly knees competition that commences at the Olympic size swimming pool at 2pm prompt, the Uncle Leslie show in the Gaiety theatre, the happy families and glamorous gran competition in the main pavilion, and then off to the Billy Beaver dining hall for some prison food. Not that I found anything wrong with this at the time. On the contrary, I longed for our summer jaunt. Two weeks, or was it one? away from our normal existence, amongst legions of jolly kids, who chased you around the chalet blocks with shit on a stick, or stole your carp that you'd just nicked yourself from the Rose garden pond.
Then one year, for reasons that I am unable to pinpoint, my dad decided that we would neglect our annual trip to Butlins and head for sunny Great Yarmouth. For those that don't know either of these destinations, the upgrade is akin to shopping at Aldi instead of Netto. If you still have no clue what I'm talking about, then you're either, too young, too foreign or too middle class.
So, off we set in our clapped out Ford Escort Mk1. This was our second Ford Escort MK 1 in as many years. With a twist of irony, the first had been resprayed in a shade of brown which could only be described as excrement coloured. Needless to say, the car's performance was also shit. That it made it to the end of the road was enough reason to praise the lord. Anyway, our Mk2, Mk1, was slightly better in performance and a rather nice shade of sky blue. It didn't matter that it had a large hole in the floor behind the drivers seat. In fact this should have come as standard issue, because it was easily covered with a rubber mat and if you crouched down to the floor close enough, a kid could (did) manage to empty his (my) bladder whilst the car was moving. Come to to think of it, every car we ever possessed seemed to have a hole in the floor - maybe my dad was onto a winning idea. Drill, a hole in the floor and cut down on expensive service station stops.
Every trip we ever made always went by direction of Burnley first. Burnley? Why Burnley? you may cry. Well, this was where most of my family lived, all on the same street as it happens. The routine would always be the same; ride over the tops, past Clowbridge reservoir, down Manchester road and then a sharp right onto Springhill (mum's anxious cries of watch out Malcolm, this is a terrible bend - are echoing in my mind, as I write). Past the Elgin factory, and up the cobbled street of Healeywood Road, calling in at many family members houses on the way up. This was before they opened up Clevelands road and therefore eliminated the bad Springhill bend, sometime in the late 80s (much to my mum's glee).
A quick stop in Burnley, would never actually be that quick, but to a kid, it would be lucrative. Uncle Edgar and Aunty Annie, would have saved their 5 pence pieces, all year in an old coffee jar and this would be cashed in and given to us, as we were about to embark on our annual holiday. Grandma's form of saving for us meanwhile, would take place in her bloomers. Here she had sewn a pocket, to save for our holiday funds. The running joke was that this was the place where my granddad was least likely to find it, although to my granddad this was no laughing matter. She would always summon us into the parlour at the last minute, where she would delve into her rather large knickers and produce a fist full of cash. My granddad, who was completely in the know about my grandma's secretive behaviour, would be pacing around in the lobby, in an attempt to catch my grandma red handed in the midst of her benevolent act. If he happened to walk in on us, by chance or as a result of his detective work, my grandma would shout his name, "Alfred" with such venom that you would think that it was he who was carrying out the sneaky act.
We'd set off eventually and as often as not, we'd look out of the back window, as we drove off down Healeywood Road, to see my grandma chasing the car at a pace that showed no evidence of her arthritic knees. It was routine that we would accelerate at such speed that we did not give her time to remember what she had undoubtedly forgotten. But she always managed to catch us, often with a Tupperware tub, brimming with freshly baked rock buns. By the time we had reached the bottom of Healeywood Rd, an argument would have erupted, with my mum upset at my dad's gestures, as he pretended to throw the rock buns out of the window at passers-by.
"Malcolm, she's spent all day in that little kitchen making those", my mum would say with genuine hurt in her voice, whilst my dad would make a comment like "Not as long, as the council are going to spend fixing the craters where they've landed".
So, this particular holiday, we were heading off in a different direction, and it was all rather exciting. The weather was perfect, the Top Trumps were ready on standby and the words "eye spy with my little eye", were enough to send my heart into palpitations. I wasn't always an easy kid, but I was always an easy kid to please. Besides, if I got bored I could always lift up the rubber mat and watch the road pass by, under my feet. Life did not get much better than this.
The route that we were taking, took us through the lowlands of East Anglia. I can't recall the exact path we followed, but I do remember that we travelled along the A1 for quite some distance. The anguish in my mum's voice, as our car shook it's way down the middle of 3 lanes, will live with me forever "Oooh Malcolm, please slow down, this is the most dangerous road in England", she would constantly warn him. My dad, who always tended to hog the middle lane, would concur, yet take no appropriate action. I never could quite work out whether he was oblivious to the fact that drivers were honking their horns and giving him a two fingered salute, or he simply didn't give a damn. To a child in the back seat, it was a constant source of embarrassment.
I'm guessing that the month was July or August. What sticks in my mind is, the fact that it was a total scorcher of a day, with the sun beaming through the windows and causing the back of our legs to sweat on the fake leather seats of our cars interior. By the time we reached the flat lands of East Anglia, we were all crying out for a break, and what better way to divide the journey than to go strawberry picking, right? Or maybe not as the case may be.
We passed field after field of strawberries, each farmer displaying their own hand written sign, inviting us to come and help them pick their juicy delights for a reasonable sum of cash. I recall that we drove past an awful lot of signs whilst looking for the cheapest option before we eventually made the decision to stop. To say that my mum was a tad frugal (god love her), is a vast extension of the truth. We're talking about the lady that found great pleasure in taking a pair of scissors to the supermarket so that that she could relieve the supermarket magazine of all the 10 percent off coupons at the back. The next 10 people to pick up the magazines after my mum had been at them, must have been rather disgruntled when they got to the back pages, only to find that the discount vouchers had been liberated by the hasty scissors of my dear mother. Her frugality was a theme that we learnt to live with in the Mitton household.
We knocked on the farmhouse door and once the painful experience of parting with the cash was out of the way (I seem to recall the figure of £2 - although even in 1977 this seems a paltry amount for 4 peoples pickings), we were directed to the field. It was here that my mum called a house meeting and gave us strict instructions to eat as many strawberries as we possibly could as we walked around the fields. To an 8 year old child this was an invitation that did not have to be repeated. And then we were off, like 4 lunatics, eating our way through the fields, merrily making jokes about what a fantastic deal we were getting. My mum swelling with pride, as I shovelled handful after handful of strawberries into my mouth. Considering our baskets were only half full, the fields behind us were looking awfully bare. By the time, we had filled our baskets we must have eaten half of our body weight in strawberries and none of us were feeling too great.
The remaining journey to Great Yarmouth, can only be described as hell. You see, the Mittons are a family of farters. The speed that we had consumed the strawberries, in combinbation with the amount that we had consumed, came together and resulted in one almighty volatile anal reaction. And boy! did these farts smell. My dad being the main perpetrator of these crimes of the anus, decided that he would give the farts their own label. With each new expulsion of gas, he would proudly warn us by calling out "Here comes another strawberry flavoured poo poo", before raising his arse cheeks and firing his latest creation. The direction which his poots were fired, depended on which of us showed most disgust at his latest battle cry.
Much worse was to come. We arrived in Great Yarmouth without a place to lay our weary heads. I have no idea why, but our family had decided that we would not pre book a hotel this year. I can imagine my dad's voice "No, no, Kathleen, we don't need to pre book anything. There'll be loads of hotels with vacancies". How wrong he could be! After a few hours driving up and down Great Yarmouth sea front, knocking on the door of every guest house in the whole town, we finally gave up.
"We'll have to sleep in the car", my dad conceded.
Despite the fact that the car smelled like one giant toilet, these words were music to the ears of an 8 year old child. To whom, it all sounded very exciting.
Blocking the windows, the best you can, to block out the outside world, is all good and well if the car has not already been contaminated by your own father's strawberry flavoured poo poos. Otherwise, this action makes a bad situation that little bit worse. My mum's plea's to my dad to curb his fruit flavoured bottom burps, fell on deaf ears. Sleep was almost upon us, when he almost killed us with the worst smelling fart in his (arse)nal. To this day I don't think I have witnessed so putrid an odour. My poor mum was totally disabled by his latest release of gas, causing her to projectile vomit all over the car. My sister and I, could take no more and filled the car with our own particular nastyness. Which in turn, set my dad off.
Before we could say "Open the windows", the interior of the car was filled with the vile smell of second hand strawberries, ejaculated from either my dad's arsehole or the whole families intestines. (Years later, Stephen King would write his own similar tale - the Body/Stand by Me).
Even after cleaning out the car, the best we could. The car still smelt like a strawberry compost heap, and we had the added hinderance of having to sleep with the windows open. Needless to say, there was very little sleep that night because not only were we sick, but also consumed with hypothermia.
The next day, my dad made a telephone call to Butlins in Skegness, less than 50 miles away. A subdued Mitton family, surrounded the phone box, anxiously awaiting my dad's reaction, as he asked the question "Have you got any vacancies"? The positive response was met by a round of spontaneous applause.
And so, our summer holidays in the summer of 1977 were spent at Butlins afterall and it was here that I learnt of Elvis's death. The summer of 1977, it would seem was to spell the death of many things. My trust of my father's arsehole, my love of strawberries and my desire to sleep in a car, to name but three.
Then one year, for reasons that I am unable to pinpoint, my dad decided that we would neglect our annual trip to Butlins and head for sunny Great Yarmouth. For those that don't know either of these destinations, the upgrade is akin to shopping at Aldi instead of Netto. If you still have no clue what I'm talking about, then you're either, too young, too foreign or too middle class.
So, off we set in our clapped out Ford Escort Mk1. This was our second Ford Escort MK 1 in as many years. With a twist of irony, the first had been resprayed in a shade of brown which could only be described as excrement coloured. Needless to say, the car's performance was also shit. That it made it to the end of the road was enough reason to praise the lord. Anyway, our Mk2, Mk1, was slightly better in performance and a rather nice shade of sky blue. It didn't matter that it had a large hole in the floor behind the drivers seat. In fact this should have come as standard issue, because it was easily covered with a rubber mat and if you crouched down to the floor close enough, a kid could (did) manage to empty his (my) bladder whilst the car was moving. Come to to think of it, every car we ever possessed seemed to have a hole in the floor - maybe my dad was onto a winning idea. Drill, a hole in the floor and cut down on expensive service station stops.
Every trip we ever made always went by direction of Burnley first. Burnley? Why Burnley? you may cry. Well, this was where most of my family lived, all on the same street as it happens. The routine would always be the same; ride over the tops, past Clowbridge reservoir, down Manchester road and then a sharp right onto Springhill (mum's anxious cries of watch out Malcolm, this is a terrible bend - are echoing in my mind, as I write). Past the Elgin factory, and up the cobbled street of Healeywood Road, calling in at many family members houses on the way up. This was before they opened up Clevelands road and therefore eliminated the bad Springhill bend, sometime in the late 80s (much to my mum's glee).
A quick stop in Burnley, would never actually be that quick, but to a kid, it would be lucrative. Uncle Edgar and Aunty Annie, would have saved their 5 pence pieces, all year in an old coffee jar and this would be cashed in and given to us, as we were about to embark on our annual holiday. Grandma's form of saving for us meanwhile, would take place in her bloomers. Here she had sewn a pocket, to save for our holiday funds. The running joke was that this was the place where my granddad was least likely to find it, although to my granddad this was no laughing matter. She would always summon us into the parlour at the last minute, where she would delve into her rather large knickers and produce a fist full of cash. My granddad, who was completely in the know about my grandma's secretive behaviour, would be pacing around in the lobby, in an attempt to catch my grandma red handed in the midst of her benevolent act. If he happened to walk in on us, by chance or as a result of his detective work, my grandma would shout his name, "Alfred" with such venom that you would think that it was he who was carrying out the sneaky act.
We'd set off eventually and as often as not, we'd look out of the back window, as we drove off down Healeywood Road, to see my grandma chasing the car at a pace that showed no evidence of her arthritic knees. It was routine that we would accelerate at such speed that we did not give her time to remember what she had undoubtedly forgotten. But she always managed to catch us, often with a Tupperware tub, brimming with freshly baked rock buns. By the time we had reached the bottom of Healeywood Rd, an argument would have erupted, with my mum upset at my dad's gestures, as he pretended to throw the rock buns out of the window at passers-by.
"Malcolm, she's spent all day in that little kitchen making those", my mum would say with genuine hurt in her voice, whilst my dad would make a comment like "Not as long, as the council are going to spend fixing the craters where they've landed".
So, this particular holiday, we were heading off in a different direction, and it was all rather exciting. The weather was perfect, the Top Trumps were ready on standby and the words "eye spy with my little eye", were enough to send my heart into palpitations. I wasn't always an easy kid, but I was always an easy kid to please. Besides, if I got bored I could always lift up the rubber mat and watch the road pass by, under my feet. Life did not get much better than this.
The route that we were taking, took us through the lowlands of East Anglia. I can't recall the exact path we followed, but I do remember that we travelled along the A1 for quite some distance. The anguish in my mum's voice, as our car shook it's way down the middle of 3 lanes, will live with me forever "Oooh Malcolm, please slow down, this is the most dangerous road in England", she would constantly warn him. My dad, who always tended to hog the middle lane, would concur, yet take no appropriate action. I never could quite work out whether he was oblivious to the fact that drivers were honking their horns and giving him a two fingered salute, or he simply didn't give a damn. To a child in the back seat, it was a constant source of embarrassment.
I'm guessing that the month was July or August. What sticks in my mind is, the fact that it was a total scorcher of a day, with the sun beaming through the windows and causing the back of our legs to sweat on the fake leather seats of our cars interior. By the time we reached the flat lands of East Anglia, we were all crying out for a break, and what better way to divide the journey than to go strawberry picking, right? Or maybe not as the case may be.
We passed field after field of strawberries, each farmer displaying their own hand written sign, inviting us to come and help them pick their juicy delights for a reasonable sum of cash. I recall that we drove past an awful lot of signs whilst looking for the cheapest option before we eventually made the decision to stop. To say that my mum was a tad frugal (god love her), is a vast extension of the truth. We're talking about the lady that found great pleasure in taking a pair of scissors to the supermarket so that that she could relieve the supermarket magazine of all the 10 percent off coupons at the back. The next 10 people to pick up the magazines after my mum had been at them, must have been rather disgruntled when they got to the back pages, only to find that the discount vouchers had been liberated by the hasty scissors of my dear mother. Her frugality was a theme that we learnt to live with in the Mitton household.
We knocked on the farmhouse door and once the painful experience of parting with the cash was out of the way (I seem to recall the figure of £2 - although even in 1977 this seems a paltry amount for 4 peoples pickings), we were directed to the field. It was here that my mum called a house meeting and gave us strict instructions to eat as many strawberries as we possibly could as we walked around the fields. To an 8 year old child this was an invitation that did not have to be repeated. And then we were off, like 4 lunatics, eating our way through the fields, merrily making jokes about what a fantastic deal we were getting. My mum swelling with pride, as I shovelled handful after handful of strawberries into my mouth. Considering our baskets were only half full, the fields behind us were looking awfully bare. By the time, we had filled our baskets we must have eaten half of our body weight in strawberries and none of us were feeling too great.
The remaining journey to Great Yarmouth, can only be described as hell. You see, the Mittons are a family of farters. The speed that we had consumed the strawberries, in combinbation with the amount that we had consumed, came together and resulted in one almighty volatile anal reaction. And boy! did these farts smell. My dad being the main perpetrator of these crimes of the anus, decided that he would give the farts their own label. With each new expulsion of gas, he would proudly warn us by calling out "Here comes another strawberry flavoured poo poo", before raising his arse cheeks and firing his latest creation. The direction which his poots were fired, depended on which of us showed most disgust at his latest battle cry.
Much worse was to come. We arrived in Great Yarmouth without a place to lay our weary heads. I have no idea why, but our family had decided that we would not pre book a hotel this year. I can imagine my dad's voice "No, no, Kathleen, we don't need to pre book anything. There'll be loads of hotels with vacancies". How wrong he could be! After a few hours driving up and down Great Yarmouth sea front, knocking on the door of every guest house in the whole town, we finally gave up.
"We'll have to sleep in the car", my dad conceded.
Despite the fact that the car smelled like one giant toilet, these words were music to the ears of an 8 year old child. To whom, it all sounded very exciting.
Blocking the windows, the best you can, to block out the outside world, is all good and well if the car has not already been contaminated by your own father's strawberry flavoured poo poos. Otherwise, this action makes a bad situation that little bit worse. My mum's plea's to my dad to curb his fruit flavoured bottom burps, fell on deaf ears. Sleep was almost upon us, when he almost killed us with the worst smelling fart in his (arse)nal. To this day I don't think I have witnessed so putrid an odour. My poor mum was totally disabled by his latest release of gas, causing her to projectile vomit all over the car. My sister and I, could take no more and filled the car with our own particular nastyness. Which in turn, set my dad off.
Before we could say "Open the windows", the interior of the car was filled with the vile smell of second hand strawberries, ejaculated from either my dad's arsehole or the whole families intestines. (Years later, Stephen King would write his own similar tale - the Body/Stand by Me).
Even after cleaning out the car, the best we could. The car still smelt like a strawberry compost heap, and we had the added hinderance of having to sleep with the windows open. Needless to say, there was very little sleep that night because not only were we sick, but also consumed with hypothermia.
The next day, my dad made a telephone call to Butlins in Skegness, less than 50 miles away. A subdued Mitton family, surrounded the phone box, anxiously awaiting my dad's reaction, as he asked the question "Have you got any vacancies"? The positive response was met by a round of spontaneous applause.
And so, our summer holidays in the summer of 1977 were spent at Butlins afterall and it was here that I learnt of Elvis's death. The summer of 1977, it would seem was to spell the death of many things. My trust of my father's arsehole, my love of strawberries and my desire to sleep in a car, to name but three.
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
You butter believe it's not a woman
You know those mornings, when you wake up the day after a big session, and you immediately realise that something is not quite right? That terrible moment of realisation when the video recorder in your mind is set to rewind and you are paralysed by a memory from the night before. "Oh fuck!, I didn't text the ex girlfriend - please no"?, or "shit!, I didn't get my cock out in the bar again - did I"?, and other such questions. How many times have your intoxicated blunders resulted in you uttering the following sentence? "That's it, I am never drinking again!"
The tale that I am about to relay, exemplifies these 2 points perfectly. This story, unlike most of my other bizarre antics, remained untold for many years - for reasons which will become obvious. But, as with everything in life, time has diluted the incident and age has ensured that I don't actually give a fuck.
"If it's funny, it's in".
Slowly, I force one of my eyes open and peer around the room. As always after a heavy drinking session, I see that my clothes are strewn across the bedroom floor. Nothing alarming there! My next observation however, does leave me feeling slightly anxious. My bedroom door, which is connected to the kitchen that I share with my very conservative neighbour, is wide open. "Fuck"!, I think to myself - "I hope that I was under the covers when she walked past". I am given scant little time to dwell on this thought before the next level of anxiety kicks in.
I can't actually remember whether it was the sound of breathing or the sense of hot air on the back of my neck, that alerted me to the presence of the person lying behind me. Initially, this thought excites me. The possibility of a day of passion, supersedes any worries I may have, that my neighbour may have witnessed my actions of the previous night. However, the sudden flow of blood to my loins will not last for long.
Although the person does not speak, I can feel that they are awake. I sense their eyes peering into the back of my head. I want to turn around and face my prize, but I am a little nervous - "What if she's a minger"? I casually think to myself. However, curiosity soon gets the better of me and I turn over. What I am confronted by will haunt me for the rest of my life.
It's difficult to say whether it is the toothless grin, the weather beaten face or the beard which scares me the most. Although, a combination of the three was never going to be a winning formula. In total shock, I roll over to get away from this thing that occupies my bed, and in doing so my body makes contact with a solid object beneath the covers. Grateful for the distraction, I delve under the duvet to retrieve the said object. Great! Just when I thought that things could not get any worse, I re-emerge with a pot of butter in my hand.
He chooses this moment to speak for the first time.
"Alreet big man", he barks at me. (At least I think that's what he says).
"Fantastic", I think to myself, as if this situation needed a new twist of drama. He's from fucking Glasgow! The strong accent, whilst being easily mistaken for a Neanderthal man, is not mistakable as being Glaswegian.
Right now, my mind is all consumed with thoughts that should never occur, in any man's life time. These are not the normal, after drink muses, such as - Did I eat a pizza last night? How the fuck did I get home? Did I spend all my money? I would welcome these questions with open arms. The questions currently at the forefront of my mind, are of the following calibre:- Have I been date raped? Is my anal virginity still intact? Did I willingly invite this person back to my apartment? Has my neighbour witnessed this? How am I going to get rid of him?
The next 3 hours are uncomfortable to say the least. Imagine that you are on a speed date and have 3 minutes with the most awkward date ever. Exchange the minutes for hours and you have some idea of how it feels to share your bed with a naked, drunken, Glaswegian - who it turns out, is a Glasgow Rangers football hooligan.
During this 3 hours, I find out that Gary (he is quick to personalise our Sunday morning bed in), is from the Govan area of Glasgow, and likes nothing better than to smash people's faces in at football matches. He, moved to Holland (for that's where this story unfolds), 5 years ago - to escape his violent past. The conversation goes something like this:
Gary: "Ye see big man - where i'm fro - yoove either got to ren fasht or be a feighter - I'm feckin both, big man" - he chortles to himself. (he is telling me that if you are from Glasgow, you either have to run fast or be a fighter - Gary is both - in case you were wondering).
I make no retort, I am still trying to work out what in Christ's name, he is talking about (and what he's doing in my bed).
Gary: "Aye, I alwaes carried a blade big man. Wae yoost te tape tee blades togetha, we a gap tween big man. Da gash would be so big, hospitals, could'ne fix da faces" - this is met by a further bout of laughter. (Ok, here - he has just told me that he used to tape 2 blades together, so that his victims would be left with a cut too big for the hospitals to properly fix).
Yeah, you heard me right! I am lying in bed with a naked, Glaswegian psychopath. Who likes nothing better than slashing peoples faces, in such a manner that hospitals can't fix them. Now, I'd be lying if I told you that I did not like new experiences. I have found myself in more weird situations than most people would ever experience in 10 life times. Right now though, I am feeling much less comfortable than I wish to feel
The conversation continues in a similar vein for 3 hours, during which time, I hear a lot of things that I don't really want to hear - bottles in faces, knifes through necks, broken jaws, gouged out eyes etc etc etc. With each new tale, Gary seems to be exciting himself more. At one point, he tells me the story of the first black player in Scotland, Mark Walters, and how every fruit shop in Glasgow sold out of banana's at his debut game. Gary, cries with laughter, as he recalls how the pitch was literally covered in banana's, which took the stewards half an hour to clear up.
The only break I get, during this 3 hours, is when Gary goes to the toilet. During which time, I check the butter pot for penis imprints and my arse hole for any evidence of foul play. Thankfully, the pot reveals nothing more than a few old bread crumbs, and my arse hole does not feel like it's been jousted.
Eventually, Gary's blood/alcohol level and stories of football violence, both dry up, and he decides to head off.
I quickly return my neighbours butter to the fridge, close the door, withdraw beneath the duvet, and vow never to drink alcohol again.
A few weeks later, I am informed by my neighbour that she will be moving out.
The tale that I am about to relay, exemplifies these 2 points perfectly. This story, unlike most of my other bizarre antics, remained untold for many years - for reasons which will become obvious. But, as with everything in life, time has diluted the incident and age has ensured that I don't actually give a fuck.
"If it's funny, it's in".
Slowly, I force one of my eyes open and peer around the room. As always after a heavy drinking session, I see that my clothes are strewn across the bedroom floor. Nothing alarming there! My next observation however, does leave me feeling slightly anxious. My bedroom door, which is connected to the kitchen that I share with my very conservative neighbour, is wide open. "Fuck"!, I think to myself - "I hope that I was under the covers when she walked past". I am given scant little time to dwell on this thought before the next level of anxiety kicks in.
I can't actually remember whether it was the sound of breathing or the sense of hot air on the back of my neck, that alerted me to the presence of the person lying behind me. Initially, this thought excites me. The possibility of a day of passion, supersedes any worries I may have, that my neighbour may have witnessed my actions of the previous night. However, the sudden flow of blood to my loins will not last for long.
Although the person does not speak, I can feel that they are awake. I sense their eyes peering into the back of my head. I want to turn around and face my prize, but I am a little nervous - "What if she's a minger"? I casually think to myself. However, curiosity soon gets the better of me and I turn over. What I am confronted by will haunt me for the rest of my life.
It's difficult to say whether it is the toothless grin, the weather beaten face or the beard which scares me the most. Although, a combination of the three was never going to be a winning formula. In total shock, I roll over to get away from this thing that occupies my bed, and in doing so my body makes contact with a solid object beneath the covers. Grateful for the distraction, I delve under the duvet to retrieve the said object. Great! Just when I thought that things could not get any worse, I re-emerge with a pot of butter in my hand.
He chooses this moment to speak for the first time.
"Alreet big man", he barks at me. (At least I think that's what he says).
"Fantastic", I think to myself, as if this situation needed a new twist of drama. He's from fucking Glasgow! The strong accent, whilst being easily mistaken for a Neanderthal man, is not mistakable as being Glaswegian.
Right now, my mind is all consumed with thoughts that should never occur, in any man's life time. These are not the normal, after drink muses, such as - Did I eat a pizza last night? How the fuck did I get home? Did I spend all my money? I would welcome these questions with open arms. The questions currently at the forefront of my mind, are of the following calibre:- Have I been date raped? Is my anal virginity still intact? Did I willingly invite this person back to my apartment? Has my neighbour witnessed this? How am I going to get rid of him?
The next 3 hours are uncomfortable to say the least. Imagine that you are on a speed date and have 3 minutes with the most awkward date ever. Exchange the minutes for hours and you have some idea of how it feels to share your bed with a naked, drunken, Glaswegian - who it turns out, is a Glasgow Rangers football hooligan.
During this 3 hours, I find out that Gary (he is quick to personalise our Sunday morning bed in), is from the Govan area of Glasgow, and likes nothing better than to smash people's faces in at football matches. He, moved to Holland (for that's where this story unfolds), 5 years ago - to escape his violent past. The conversation goes something like this:
Gary: "Ye see big man - where i'm fro - yoove either got to ren fasht or be a feighter - I'm feckin both, big man" - he chortles to himself. (he is telling me that if you are from Glasgow, you either have to run fast or be a fighter - Gary is both - in case you were wondering).
I make no retort, I am still trying to work out what in Christ's name, he is talking about (and what he's doing in my bed).
Gary: "Aye, I alwaes carried a blade big man. Wae yoost te tape tee blades togetha, we a gap tween big man. Da gash would be so big, hospitals, could'ne fix da faces" - this is met by a further bout of laughter. (Ok, here - he has just told me that he used to tape 2 blades together, so that his victims would be left with a cut too big for the hospitals to properly fix).
Yeah, you heard me right! I am lying in bed with a naked, Glaswegian psychopath. Who likes nothing better than slashing peoples faces, in such a manner that hospitals can't fix them. Now, I'd be lying if I told you that I did not like new experiences. I have found myself in more weird situations than most people would ever experience in 10 life times. Right now though, I am feeling much less comfortable than I wish to feel
The conversation continues in a similar vein for 3 hours, during which time, I hear a lot of things that I don't really want to hear - bottles in faces, knifes through necks, broken jaws, gouged out eyes etc etc etc. With each new tale, Gary seems to be exciting himself more. At one point, he tells me the story of the first black player in Scotland, Mark Walters, and how every fruit shop in Glasgow sold out of banana's at his debut game. Gary, cries with laughter, as he recalls how the pitch was literally covered in banana's, which took the stewards half an hour to clear up.
The only break I get, during this 3 hours, is when Gary goes to the toilet. During which time, I check the butter pot for penis imprints and my arse hole for any evidence of foul play. Thankfully, the pot reveals nothing more than a few old bread crumbs, and my arse hole does not feel like it's been jousted.
Eventually, Gary's blood/alcohol level and stories of football violence, both dry up, and he decides to head off.
I quickly return my neighbours butter to the fridge, close the door, withdraw beneath the duvet, and vow never to drink alcohol again.
A few weeks later, I am informed by my neighbour that she will be moving out.
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