Monday, 6 February 2017

The Pickles We Find Ourselves In...

There’s no easy way to say it: I am a clumsy bastard. And when I say clumsy, I’m talking about an all-encompassing awkwardness that rules both body and mind; one that pre-disposes me to bad decisions and accidents aplenty. My clumsiness has got me into all manner of pickles over the years. As my Grandma (who, strangely, bore an uncanny resemblance to Bungle of Rainbow infamy - may she rest in peace, etc) used to say, while offering a particularly withering look, ‘You’re all thumbs, you. Fetch me the dustpan and brush…’

I have scars, broken bones and a permanent ache in my right shoulder thanks to years of relentless blundering. I’m talented at spilling stuff and dropping food down my top, especially when I’m in posh surroundings and wearing white. I’ve lost count of the number of canteen medals that I’ve acquired. I can crash cars really easily. I am able to fall over at the drop of a hat. I once accidentally threw myself down not one, but two, flights of concrete stairs in a single attempt. I even cleared the landing that connected the two. Oh, and then I tried to get up using my arm that was broken and dislocated as a result of aforementioned fall, which meant that I performed a perfect face-plant, knocking myself out and ripping my chin open in the process. And yes, of course I was drunk. Good job, really. It would’ve been mortifying to have done it sober.

Not many years pass where I don’t encounter stitches, bandages, whiplash or cracked ribs. To be honest, I think I’m ready for my post-traumatic stress disorder diagnosis. Please send the appropriate drugs and funding when you have a minute. Thanks.

I’m also top notch at making clumsy choices that seem a good idea at the time, but ultimately propel me into strange situations. It doesn’t help that I’m a magnet for social freaks and misfits. If there’s a nutter in the house, you can bet your last biscuit that he or she will seek me out. I should wear a t-shirt that says: Are you weird or of disputatious character? Are you a pervert or just plain odd? Does your hair grow in inconvenient places? And do you carry with you a faint whiff of TCP and desperation? If so, call me. I’ll probably fucking marry you. And I’ll end up paying for the ‘pleasure’ too.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve got myself into inexplicable situations. A while back I went out into Soho and ended up missing the last train. I didn’t have the money to get a cab home so I went to a late bar where I bumped into some old friends who were on their way to a nightclub and invited me along. Everything was fine until we got there and the club turned out to be a gay sauna. I freaked out a tad, but my mate reassured me that I didn’t have to have any random rumpo and that there were places you could go and sleep until the trains started again. I shouldn’t have worried about feeling obliged to shag strange strangers: no one showed an iota of interest, but this might have had something to do with the fact that I refused to take my comedy pants off and I wore my towel under my armpits like I was Victoria Beckham in her Spice Girls days - only because it wouldn’t go around my waist. It was roughly the size of a tea towel and at the time, I was roughly the size of a house. Anyway, I found what I thought was the sleeping quarters, pulled my pants up to my man boobs, wrapped the towel around my head like an Eastern European Big Issue seller and got my head down.

The next thing you know, I was being shaken awake by a man who was complaining about my farm yard machinery-esque snoring. My apparent sleep apnoea was putting him off his cheeky blow job. It also transpired that my olympic snoring was providing the sonic backdrop to what can only be described as a fifty man orgy. All I could see was a plethora of knobs and knackers flying every which way as people merrily did each other. I, meanwhile, clutched my pearls and let out a semi-manly yelp as I scuttled away from the fuck-fest and straight into a dark room where I slipped on a spent condom and flew, feet first, into a heaving mass of humping homos. I got myself to my feet, apologised and fled while wailing like a wronged banshee. When I finally got home, hours later - reeking of stale booze and shame - I wept.

On other nights out, I’ve been mistaken for being a rent boy; I’ve been befriended by gangster dwarves called KitKat and I’ve ended up in illegal clubs, just because it seemed like a good idea at the time. I once found myself in the middle of a Sri Lankan gang fight and ‘ooooh’ and ‘aaaah’d’ as one bloke swatted at his enemy with a machete. I’ve had my drink spiked and hallucinated all the way home. I’ve thrown up over lots of people at the same time. My best chum and I have have driven to France twice. The first time saw us cast asunder when the car (and all our belongings) blew up after less than twenty four hours. The second time was for a booze cruise. Except that it turned out that France was shut that weekend due to a religious festival, so all we came home with was a bad mood, a Toblerone and mild food poisoning. Speaking of which, I have managed to shit myself while wearing a onesie in Prague and have had to sit in my own swill from Czechoslovakia to Nottingham. I have been chased through foreign restaurants by angry cleaners for reasons unknown. As a student, I thought it would be a good idea to dye my hair purple (with a wash in, wash out thingy) and then go out. At first, my head simply resembled the glans of a huge penis, but then it rained and as the dye ran down my head, it looked as though someone had taken an axe to my bonce. People actually screamed when they saw me. Rude!

Anyone fancy a night out?

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