The real ‘rush hour’ for men

Men. You don’t have to live in a city to experience ‘rush hour.’ Many mistake the term as the frantic dash to and from work between 8-9am or 9-5pm, whilst stuck in traffic thumping a steering wheel or squashed up against some prick on the tube trying to read a broadsheet in your face. But you don’t need to be a wanker wearing a suit or carrying a brief case to know the true meaning of ‘rush hour’… you just need to be a wanker.

I’m talking about the real ‘rush hour,’ that crazed hurry to get home for that half hour window of opportunity, when mums, girlfriends or wives are still out, when men want to masturbate undisturbed.  By 4:30pm, or in some cases even days in advance, you already know what you’re going to do, ‘I’m going to get home first and have a nice quick wank!’ 

At 4:55pm your groin is already twitching. You begin shutting down your computer or clearing away various work tools ready to be out the door bang on 5:00pm. You skip the usual exaggerated goodbyes to colleagues, instead waving your hand in the air and shouting; ‘see you tomorrow,’ to as many recipients as you can at once. Arriving outside in the fresh air you feel light headed from the combination of exiting the premises so quickly and blood rushing to your cock in anticipation. You walk quicker than you’ve ever walked before, to onlookers it looks like you may be about to shit yourself. Extreme efforts are made to avoid eye contact with anyone that might slow you down in your mad surge to the car or tube.

You arrive at the tube. Being a man reluctant to succumb to the Londoners way of life I refuse to walk down an escalator whilst looking at my watch or tutting… Not during this ‘rush hour’ my treasured readers, I become one of them. If some daft Northerner or tourist is stood on the left hand side of the escalator (where Londoners like to charge) blocking the way you become enraged. You have no choice but to make loud footsteps, so the offender is aware of you, as you bellow inwardly, ‘get out of the fucking way you’re eating into my wanking time!’  

The tube arrives and the platform is packed with dickhead commuters. Usual procedure may cause you to wait, to rest your weary body against a wall or pillar until the commotion dies down. After all there will be another train in two minutes, there’s no rush… ‘Yes there fucking is, I’m getting on this train, even if I have to elbow a disabled old lady in the face to do so!’

You’re on the tube or in your car, the hardest part is done. If you’re on the tube you’re not even bothered if you’ve got a seat or you’re standing up. Of course it’s easier to hide your out of control erection sat down, but that doesn’t matter, at least now you can begin to plan to save important time when you get home. You start thinking of what you’re going to type into the search engine of ‘xvideos.com,’ you form ideas in your head of who will be you’re imaginary object of desire; you quickly scan through your fellow commuters for inspiration. A man accidently pop’s into your thought stream causing an involuntary pep talk with yourself, ‘fuck off I’m not gay.’

Settled on a ‘wank type’ all you want is for the transport to move quicker. By the time the train reaches your stop you’re already waiting for the doors to open with your bag nestled on two straps across your back. It’s not cool, but you need maximum mobility, you don’t care that you’re panting like a dog waiting to be let outside for a piss. Despite your Olympic sprinter style exit from the train people block your way or dawdle down stairs. You’re enraged again, ‘get out of the fucking way before I knock you down with my cock!’ You’re cock is so hard it probably isn’t an idle threat.

The house, your awaiting sexual boudoir, is in sight, you almost break into a jog and feel like a loser for the first time throughout your journey. But that thought doesn’t last long; you have no feelings when you are a prisoner caged in a wank frenzy. The keys are already in your hand when you’re still one hundred metres from the door, you even begin positioning them to minimise the possibility of fumbling on arrival.

The relief on getting through the door is like the very first breath a baby takes when freed from the womb. You start ripping your clothes off whilst preparing your environment. Yes, men can multi-task… when a wank is dangled in front of them. You fire up the laptop, close the curtains, but leave the window ajar, grab the tissues, take out the lube, double check you’ve locked the door (being careful to leave the key in – it’s your first wall of defence in case of an untimely interruption) and reposition the tall mirror.

Suitably naked you reconcile into your ‘masturbation booth’ (the sofa, bathroom, bed, little cupboard under the stairs… wherever you like to do it) and stretch your fingers ready to type quickly. Fucking ‘internet explorer’ is still loading; you look towards your BT Broadband Hub and give it a hefty death stare. You’re in. You’re computer knows you so well you only have to type the ‘X’ into the toolbar before it locates ‘xvideos.com.’ You don’t even look at the days offerings flashing in multiple windows, you have no time for distractions, instead you head straight for the search bar already knowing what you want. ‘Big arse red head amateur squirter.’

For the next few minutes of your life you can be whoever you want, fucking whoever you want, in anyway you want possible. It doesn’t matter about the size of your penis, what ridiculous faces you are pulling or if you’re making noises similar to farm yard animals/aliens. Nobody is watching you; it’s just you and her, or you and them. You can be as loving or disgusting as you please; you can be Axl Rose singing ‘You’re crazy.’

‘You get nothing for nothing cuz that’s what you do/

Turn around bitch I got a use for you/

Besides, you aint got nothing better to do/

And I’m bored.’ 

Once your spawn has gone A.W.O.L. into a strategically placed tissue, or misfired up your belly, you have one minute of post self ejaculation guilt. ‘I turned into the devil on the way home just for that!’ But any remorse quickly disperses and you remember you’ve still got the clean up job before she arrives. Tissues are flushed down the toilet, the shower head is turned towards your smeared belly, the curtains spread wide, the window is pushed open to full capacity and ‘xvideos.com’ is replaced by ‘BBC Football’s latest news.’ The evening clothes are on and you wonder what the rush was about. Then you here a key rattling in the door and spot the strawberry lube still on the bed. You dive towards it and throw it into a draw, before removing your keys to let them in.

‘Hi honey, you been home long?’

            ‘Nah, just got in before you.’

It’s like nothing ever happened.

‘Why don’t you just have sex with a woman instead of masturbating?’ I hear the females ask. Well, that is easier said than done, particularly if you are a married man with a sex drive like a Bonobo monkey. Besides men still like to wank whether in a relationship or not, just like girls like to eat chocolate or buy shoes.  But fear not females of the world, this should not frustrate you, even 15 minutes after having sex with ourselves, if you offer, we are ready to comply… for we are men… and rest assured mothers, wives and girlfriends… this is what your men are doing when you are out.

 

The drunken Scouser and his ball

Bodies lay scattered, almost lifeless

A minefield of sun worshipers

Nonsensical murmurs do little than add a hum to the air…

BOOM!

The roaring sun acts as an amplifier to his plastic ball

He only has two friends in the world

Alcohol and that yellow plastic ball

BOOM!

Restless he knows not what to do, but

To aimlessly kick the ball repeatedly into the air

A childlike cry for attention

He gets it

His immediate contentment nearly as loud as the ball

His innate Scouse accent made harsher

With several days alcohol on his breath

“I’m still drunk” he keeps bellowing,

In between amazement at the skill of his playmate

Annoying to all of the suns corpses

Yet impossible not to watch

Soon he has to leave

But not before

Complementing all the girls on being “gorgeous”

And declaring Liverpool as “the greatest team in the world”

I watch him hesitate by a bin

He moves on.

 

Bodies lay scattered, almost lifeless

A minefield of sun worshipers

Nonsensical murmurs do little than add a hum to the air…

BOOM!

He’s fucking back

Kicking that god damn plastic ball into the air

His former playmates get up and leave

He’s not worth the hassle

He sits alone

His only friends the thought of alcohol and his plastic ball

A white Rasta appears with a guitar

Fake Bob Marley consumes the air

CLAP, CLAP, CLAP!

If it’s not his ball it’s his fucking hands

He’s a chancer

He has the certain charm of an alcoholic

And doors are opening up

A couple walk by with a bag full of cans,

Inviting the Rasta and his guitar to join them

“I’ll ave one if ya got one goin like?” shouts the Scouser

They nod

He’s in

This evening he’ll have a good time.

 

I watch as he shakes hands with his new friends

Not doubt complementing the two girls on being “gorgeous”

He’s meant to be going home in three days

The bottle is lifted to his lips

I have my doubts that he’ll make it.

 

Drinking made me homeless

I try not to drink too often with work colleagues. Most people that have witnessed alcohol pass my lips will know of the chaos, confusion, stupidity and self imposed misfortune that follows. Wisely I’d planned to keep displays of self destruction away from my fellow professionals… I failed.

 

On my debut drinking session with work I quickly learnt that it is unforgivable to simply buy a drink. The correct etiquette is to purchase a drink of choice AND a Jäger bomb with each round. It’s a recipe which soon leads to a black curtain encasing my brain and my body switching to auto pilot mode. Throughout that night I was spotted in various locations displaying differing behavioural patterns. The first sighting saw me verbally berating passing business men progressing down Chancery Lane and shortly after I was found asleep on a bench at Oxford Circus underground. A colleague fed me water and put me on the train. I soon fell back to sleep and travelled to the end of the line with no more trains running. Time to ‘one- ring’ my wife and request directions home. She failed to comply. It was at that point I decided to start a one man revolution against the repulsive invasion of modern technology into our everyday lives. With the form of a javelin thrower I launched my phone into the main road and instantly felt the comfort of knowing I’d made the world a better place. After about twenty seven different buses I made it home. Having originally set off somewhere between 9.30-10pm I didn’t arrive until gone 2am. Done correctly it should have been a 35minute journey door to door.

 

After a number of weeks I was surprisingly invited to drink with them again. We started in the work bar proceeding with the routine cycle of pint/bottle plus Jäger bomb. After persuading staff to keep the bar open for a further half an hour we moved to the Weatherspoons next door. I approached the bar and put in an order.

‘No, you’re too drunk.’

‘I’d like to speak to your manager immediately,’ I informed the po-faced waitress.

‘I’ll go and get him.’ She did just that.

‘Uuuum, I’m afraid your young waitress there has made a rather large judgement call. She believes that I am drunk when I have only had two drinks,’ I lied. ‘I’d like a pint of cider please.’

‘Yes sir,’ said the manager, pouring my drink. I shot the young waitress a look of ‘fuck you!’ and returned to my colleagues.

Shortly afterwards the manager threw me out of his establishment.  I was soon on a stationery bus at the bottom of Kilburn High road desperate to get to Chicken Cottage at the opposite end. The bus driver wouldn’t move because two Chavvy girls were drinking alcohol on the back seats. Fuelled by my lust for cheap fried chicken I addressed the unruly females.

‘Get off the fucking bus you’re ruining it for everybody else.’

They responded in a language that can only be known as ‘Chav.’ We argued a little more before they finally made their way off the bus. In doing so they threw their drinks forcefully into my face. It felt like I’d been fucking Maced. Whatever pineapple concoction they were drinking stung me eyes like fuck. A sea of passenger hands come forth offering tissues to wipe myself off. I knew at that moment that heroes smell of Pinacolada.

When I got to Chicken Cottage it was closed for refurbishments. I knew I’d have to upgrade to a kebab, which meant I needed more money. I went to the cash point and somehow managed to put my card into the slot where the receipt comes out. My card was stuck. I kicked the cash point six times and told two approaching males that the ATM was out of order. I went home hungry, cardless and the following day played my worst game of football in years.

 

Only last Friday I went out for more work drinks. I was only meant to stay out for a couple and was mindful to pace myself at that. Several hours later, with my stomach swimming in shots, I found myself in a bar full of ping pong tables. My recollection of what happened halts, until once again I arrived at the bottom of Kilburn High road. It was then I suffered a rude awakening. Where was my bag? This was bad news. My wife had gone to Barcelona for the weekend and my keys, IPod, football kit and other such valuables were in my bag. My immediate thought was not to worry; I’ll get myself arrested and sleep in the cells for a night. I set about my fool proof plan by kicking over every bin I could find along the high street. The Police didn’t come. I pulled out my phone and began calling mates for a place to crash for the night. The only one that answered lived in Carlisle. He laughed down the phone for ten minutes before saying, ‘what would Orwell do in this situation?’

‘He would have at least had a pen and paper on him,’ I replied.’

I went to Chicken Cottage to help myself think. I didn’t even finish my ‘number 3’ meal because I was so angry.

‘I’ve lost my keys, I’m literally sleeping on the street,’ I text to my wife, ruining her pleasurable holiday. I went to my flat, hoping somebody would let me in so I could at least sleep outside my door. Nobody came in or out. I thought about smashing the window to my car or flat and flirted with catching a train back to Shropshire to sleep at Mum and Dad’s. Finally I went to inspect the vicinity near our bins, even the locked storage rooms that local tramps have been using for prostitution. Halleluiah!  God had placed an assortment of saviours at my feet behind the large aluminium waste containers. I positioned the unwanted mattress up against a wall. Conscious that it might be soured by humans or animal piss I found a plush cardboard box to lay on top of it. As far as cardboard boxes went this was a fucking Hilton and even had a lid. There was also a duvet nearby that felt unreasonably dry. I crawled into my large box, pulled the duvet over me and shut the lid down to block out any light. I was five star tramping.

 

I slept from 1.50am until 6.05am, only woken by the haunting realisation of losing my bag. I had been warm and comfy throughout the night, my only concern being that I might be in somebody else’s bed or that a fox may poke its nose into my abode and bite off my face. I caught a train and bus to North Acton to knock on the door of friends unannounced. The door opened.

‘Sean, I’m thinking of giving up drinking, essentially it’s made me homeless.’

‘Come in,’ he replied. He gave me a sheet and I went into the spare bedroom. When I re-woke the house was quiet. I helped myself to the internet to message colleagues about the whereabouts of my bag and put my dead phone on to charge. The bag would be in one of two bars, abandoned on public transport, or stolen as I slept in one of the aforementioned. Eventually I worked out the name of the bar and phoned ‘Bounce’ in High Holborn.

‘Did anyone hand in a green and black bag last night?’     

            BINGO! They had it. I went to collect it in the afternoon and my belongings were still intact. I briefly checked into my flat for a shower and to take a photograph of my cardboard bed. Then I returned to the house in North Acton to drink. Carrying a black bag full of cider my transformation into a tramp was complete.

Who’s got ‘Big Issues?’

The other week, as I walked to work with a Northern friend, it quickly became apparent the differing points of interest we possessed. Whilst he perused the impressive historically significant buildings leading from the Strand to Fleet Street, I failed to answer questions as to what they were and instead pointed out the various favourable dwellings of the local vagabonds. Masterfully I highlighted a small alcove that would make good sleeping ground if I was a tramp in the locality; I warned of the blonde haired homeless man we would pass sat outside Tesco’s Express, before nodding my head at the Big Issue seller on the corner of Chancery Lane.

Frequently I find myself attracting and connecting with street urchins, possibly because looking at me is like delving fifteen years into their past? The blonde man outside Tesco’s Express I like. He has a friendly if not weathered face, is always grateful and exchanges a daily thumbs up with me. Weekly I grace his filthy palms with whatever change I have and wish him well for the day ahead. ‘The Big Issue’ seller however is a more awkward passing.

Imagine, if you will, a walrus wearing a red cap (too small for his head) and an immovable lump of snot wedged to the more central wall of a left nostril and you might just know the man. Quickly I progressed from a discreet nod of my head to a more elaborate head bow and ‘good morning.’ His usual response would be a snarl and an exaggerated shrug of the arms and shoulders. If my IPod fell quiet at the opportune moment I would also hear him declare the words, ‘unbelievable, is anybody going to even look at me?’ to an uncaring audience.

On one occasion, during my choreographed ‘good morning’ and nod, I saw his mouth moving frantically in my direction. I pulled a headphone out of my ear in time to hear him say, ‘is it a good morning?’

‘Well it’s quite sunny,’ I replied.

‘I haven’t sold one magazine all week,’ he growled, ignoring my response. I looked at him silently, sensing he had more to say. ‘People don’t even have the decency to look me in the eye, or if they do they look at me like a piece of shit.’ I glanced down at his reddened swollen fist, to make sure that he wasn’t about to punch me. ‘You know what?’ he continued.

‘What?’ I replied, professionally playing along.

‘Do you know what this French lady said to me the other day?’

‘What?’ Fuck I’m good at this game.

‘She told me that I might sell more magazines if I wasn’t so aggressive.’

‘You are pretty aggressive,’ I thought, as he laughed in disbelief. ‘I don’t think you have an aggressive manner,’ I said.

‘It’s fucking shit,’ he said. ‘Absolutely fucking shit, I’m thinking of quitting you know, it’s not worth it.’ I watched him spin three hundred and sixty degrees, talking at me, the wall, and thin air.

‘Well, I hope it get’s better for you,’ I said, walking away and feeling like a slight cunt for not buying a magazine.

The mornings continued in the same fashion. Sometimes he would nod back to me, sometimes he would simply rant loudly at the rushing commuters, ‘somebody look at me!’ Despite me being one of the very few that actually acknowledged him each morning I felt more and more of a bastard for not buying a magazine. Walking past him became a chore. It was as if he looked at me with more scorn for actually noticing him and then deciding not to purchase the ‘Big Issue,’ but £2.50 a week is a sizeable margin to spend, on a magazine that you don’t even want from a snotty nosed walrus with attitude.

Recently he answered my ‘good morning,’ once more. After asking him if sales had picked up he told me that he’d only sold ten magazines all week and that his target is thirty five. I tried to sympathise stating that thirty five was a lot. He rubbished my support, informing me that the others on pitches nearby sell thirty five and that it should be easy considering that five thousand people pass him every morning between 8-9am.            ‘

Alright, I’ll buy one off you tomorrow,’ I said. His frown slightly straightened.

The next morning I stuck to my promise. As I handed him £2.50 I saw him smile for the first time.

‘You’ll feel good for the rest of the day.’

‘Hopefully it will bring me good karma,’ I replied. I needed good karma. That afternoon I had an audition for Bear Grylls ‘The Island 2.’ There were fifty to a hundred people with the same 4.30pm time slot as me. After being told that 70,000 people had applied and that we had done well to make it this far I was led into a room with 12 other men. Twenty minutes later, having had one minute and twenty seconds to answer two spontaneous questions, a lady entered the room and said, ‘you can all go now, none of you have made it through.’ The process had been brutal and I was devastated. In my head I was already on the island and only three days prior had ordered some nice new swim shorts.

The following day he stopped me, smiled and said, ‘how was your karma?’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him.

‘Not bad,’ I replied, ‘I’ll try and buy it more often.’

I got into the office at 8am and was the only cunt doing overtime. At that moment I couldn’t recall a moment when I’d last felt so alone… Maybe I’d be more content as tramp?

Men at Gyms are TOSSERS

I am a man that goes to the gym. My body is not a temple, but it does help you look and fuck better. I use a council gym, meaning that it smells of odours of the poor. Not long ago someone actually shit themselves there. The trail of human turd traversed across the tiled changing room floor like a hopscotch game gone horribly wrong. It only halted by somehow climbing the wall by the end shower. A yellow cone bearing a false announcement was the extent of the clean up for an hour. The floor may well have been slippery, but nowhere on that bright yellow warning did it mention shit. I returned the following day. The floor was clean but the wall by the shower still held the marks of a revolting accident. Every time that I visit a cubicle I find myself wiping piss off the seat or flushing other peoples shit.

Sadly it’s not just the changing rooms that are full of shit. The gym displays it in male form. There is something about the gym environment that brings out the inner tosser of a man. Maybe it’s the overwhelming presence of testosterone? Maybe it’s the mirrors? But whatever it is I constantly find myself methodically working my way around machines looking at men and thinking ‘what a tosser!’

There are several behavioural traits I have witnessed that cause me to have this reaction:

•  THE PERVERTED “HELPERS” – Some men seem to think the gym as the ideal location to pick up women. The presence of an attractive female walking past seems to have a domino effect of men being able to lift an inhuman amount of weight, albeit only for half a rep. Male eyes collectively follow the peachy female ass, before turning to their mate (or a stranger) and nodding in a manner that says, ‘I would wreck that.’ This behaviour of course is quite acceptable, it is when man purposefully interrupts a female workout to “assist” that it isn’t. I have seen countless men in my gym stop girls mid workout to inform that they ‘are doing it wrong’ or ‘you should do it like this.’ Not content with verbal instruction they will then stand behind the girl and manually assist them with their movement. It’s the classic pub scene, of man teaching woman how to hold a pool cue, except this kind of carry on has no business in a fucking public gym. I have yet to see one girl benefit or enjoy this type of hands on assistance. Usually the female in question will cut her routine short, offer a weak yet polite thank you, and disperse to the opposite side of the gym to finish her session uninterrupted.  Of course there is a place for perversion in the gym. I often glare and reproduce filthy thoughts, but I do so in silence and keep it to myself. Do not be so open in your perversion. – TOSSERS.

• THE POSERS – It still surprises me the arrogance of some men. If you’re in a gym there is probably a slight chance that you are quite arrogant anyway, but to have the audacity to flex your muscles in front of a public mirror for two minutes flat is something else. It’s ok to look at yourself and watch your muscles bulging as you are working out. It’s even ok to look at your impressive naked body in the mirror as soon as you get to the privacy of your own home. But to hold your bicep in the ‘swan’ pose, in front of forty plus people, without trying to be sneaky or discreet is scandalous. The worst culprits are those that do twenty sit up’s before lifting their t-shirts in front of the mirror to see if they have magically sculpted a six pack. – TOSSERS.

• THE NOISEY – Ok, yep, you’re in a gym we know you’re lifting weights. There is no need to draw attention to yourself by grunting like a hungry Neanderthal. You’re not a professional weight lifter so stop pretending that you are. I know that you’re only doing it because you want us to see how much you are lifting, I know because your eyes dart around the room afterwards, hoping to engage someone in conversation about how strong you are. I can strain in silence, my face might contort, but I don’t sound like I’m shitting out a cactus. These are the type of cunts that also grunt during sex.  Sometimes the grunt isn’t enough, or they haven’t quite worked their way up to the confidence levels of the grunter, so instead decide to drop their weights to the floor rather than place them down in a controlled manner. This really pisses me off. The huge thud is designed to say ‘everyone look how much I am lifting’ when in actual fact all it says is, ‘these weights are way too fucking heavy for me.’ – TOSSERS.

• FUCKING TEENAGERS – That’s the problem with using a council gym you get fucking teenagers there. Teenagers haven’t got the self motivation to work out by themselves so do so in gangs. They hang around equipment in groups of four or five for half an hour so nobody else can use it. Then they don’t even use the equipment properly. Many a time I have seen boys stab the pin into the heaviest weight possible and instead of trying to lift it they hang from the machine, with all their body mass, like a fucking monkey. Worst of all they think they are cage fighters and walk around jabbing each other on the arm or pretending to kick each other in the face. Yeah great work out, fuck off. – TOSSERS.

• THOSE THAT DO FUCK ALL – Some men use the gym to socialise. Clearly not having a friend set of their own they prowl the gym looking to make eye contact with someone. A bit like the ‘perverted helpers’ from point one, they often prey on those they don’t think are performing the exercise correctly. Gaining your attention they will tell you how it should be done, or how they do it themselves to gain maximum benefit. The strange thing however is that you never actually see these men practicing what they preach. They read articles in ‘Mens Health’ magazine and talk a good game, but are there to chat rather than exercise. There is one guy I regularly see telling gym users to lift lighter weights, because ‘it is more important to get the full range of movement rather than doing half a job with twice the weight.’  To a degree he may be right, but who wants to listen to a pot bellied man that has splashed a bit of water on his t-shirt to give the impression of a hard work out. He hasn’t tried talking to me yet, but that’s because my eyes say ‘fuck off’ whenever he is near. Mobile phones are also supposed to be banned from the gym, but everybody brings one with them, because cunts in this day in age can’t live without them. It pisses me off greatly when a man is on the machine you want to use, but is sat there talking on his phone. You gesture in a manner that suggests you are waiting to use it, to which he lowers the phone to say, ‘I’m still using it mate.’ No you’re not, you’re on the phone you absolute twat. There is also a geeky guy in my gym that brings a book with him. He sits on the leg extension and does one rep every eight minutes whilst constantly glued to a book most probably about fucking wizards. If you’re not using the gym get the fuck out. – TOSSERS.

• GLOVES – C’mon. If you’re a professional, or Michael Jackson, I can understand the use of gloves, but at this level piss off. Gloves for the average gym user are simply placebos; they’re not really going to make that much difference when you’re stuck at 45kgs. Besides you’re in the gym, you probably fancy yourself as a bit of a tough nut so put the gloves down. You’ve got calluses on your hands because you wank too much – TOSSERS.

As I write this I realise that when I go to the gym I can be seen wearing very short vintage Boca Junior shorts and a blue bandana wrapped around my head. Often I also wear pink leopard skin socks. Gym users probably look at me and think that I am the tosser.  Well they are quite wrong… I am not one of the above.

Old England is alive

There was a time long ago when man walked the streets of London tipping his hat, pulling his braces and greeting those he passed with flapping lips of Cockney poetry. The local’s knew your name, they knew the registration number of your Morris Minor and they knew exactly which house to return your Bulldog to if the back gate had been left open.

By the time I ventured ‘daaan saaff’ those days were gone. I strutted confidently into a land where the “locals” don’t look up from mobile phones, nobody knows yours name and people drive Smart Cars. Riding the underground people sit in silence and on the rare occasions you do hear a voice it’s in a language more incomprehensible than Cockney. Not that I don’t welcome our global friends. In fact I’m an advocate of foreign tongue, exotic pussy’s and the diversity it brings to life. I just can’t shake the feeling that I should have hatched the vagina decades ago.

 

A few Saturdays back I reversed to a land that time forgot. The opportunity came about via an invite to watch Aston Villa play Crystal Palace. The day started with a full English breakfast in a modest greasy spoon filled with tradesman and posters of The Clash. Armed with a mate we boarded a train to Selhurst and soon found ourselves walking through tunnels past people that looked like they could kick our heads in. We appeared aimless and confused, but instead of dribbling onto small brightly lit screens the locals approached us and knowledgeably gave directions to our meeting point. People looked poor and beautiful. We watched Policemen get paid for doing fuck all, witnessed their horses hypocritically use English roads as toilets and saw old fashioned businessmen sell blue and red merchandise by simply shouting in the streets. After a bus and a brief swagger we reached the pub. Men spilled outside clutching glasses of golden liquid, a strong smelling smog bellowed from their mouths and I heard words such as ‘Caant,’ ‘poofter,’ and ‘mugged off.’ Going inside it was the same, but ten fold. There must have been over one hundred cocks and nearly double the amount of balls. I worked my way to the toilet. With red leather jacket, matching bandana and wind fucked hair most probably thought I was a dickhead, yet I was accepted due to the greatest common bond an English male can have… football.

Staff in this establishment didn’t serve me, I had to barge my way to the bar. There I immediately noticed that the pint pullers were all female. Not just any female, but a certain kind. Incredibly rough around the edges yet honest enough to still own tits, arse and pussy. More importantly they knew how to work a bar, pouring multiple pints, confidently calling for orders, engaging in rehearsed banter and seeming easily available. These were handpicked natural girls, rough and rarely intimidated, the kind that love cock accompanied by beer belly and breath.

I took the drinks to my mate outside so we could smoke and listen to groups of men take it in turns to embellish the blow by blow accounts of fights they had recently been in. Men discussed real issues, like how it was ‘fucking disgusting’ that a pint of beer in Norway cost £14. Appearance covered a manner of styles, flat caps, pony tails, short cropped gelled side partings, slick shoes, Adidas Samba’s, replica kit’s and designer polo shirts. There was even a solid looking man donning navy blue trilby hat, green bomber jacket, turned up jeans and polished Dr Martin boots that was clearly a big fan of Madness. After arousing our loutishness with liquid refreshment we met with more mates, two natives of ‘daan saaff.’ One with a rasping voice that you would suspect had been throat slashed by a knife and the other a veteran craftsman of the Cockney poetry. We sorted our tickets and headed to the stadium.

 

The game itself was a refreshing look at old ways, men trying to outdo each other using simple methods rather than flashy modern technology in an arena where opinion is noisily given.  People here aren’t afraid to stick it to the man, they enthusiastically abuse authority and call for the heads of those in power, there’s a sense of unruly justice. The masses regularly inform the referee that he is a wanker, the men in charge are taunted with chants of ‘you don’t know what you’re doing,’ diving and acting like a girl produces shouts of ‘cheating scum’ and it’s acceptable to refer to the person sat in front of you as a ‘bald tosser,’ whether or not they are in fact a bald tosser. The half time whistle causes a dash for a smoke and the downing of a ten minute pint. Penises flock to toilets and under cramped impatient conditions kids are forced to urinals to experience their first pisses as real men. During the second half Policemen arrest travelling visitors for foul, abusive or drunken behaviour and fully grown men unashamedly hug each other and dance to ‘Glad all over’ by the Dave Clark Five.

After the game it’s back to the pub where men hold glasses of golden liquid and exhale strong smelling smog as rough barmaids dream of cock, beer bellies and breath. We sit outside talking to the friend of a friend. His granddaughters jump from a climbing frame as he drinks, smokes and tells stories using Cockney riddles. He tells of a night when he cheated on his wife by banging a girl up against a restaurant window in front of dining customers… He shouldn’t have told us but he did… it was alright though… because he was ‘ratarsed’ and had ‘mountains of Charlie up his hooter!’ Despite his intoxicated mistakes he’s a good man. He accepted us into the group on the word of his mate; although we didn’t let on that we were Villa fans. Later he was due to go to a family party. He didn’t want to, but would go and ‘get pissed anyway’… because that’s what men of that era are made of.

That night I stood next to two men and pissed up a wall before passing out on my bathroom floor… Old England is still alive.

 

A Yank underground

Obnoxiously loud, intolerably rude

She sat opposite me on the tube

Sweating blonde, slurring speech

Her flowers just within reach

Cheeks flushed, accent south

She looks at me and opens her mouth

“Your country sucks man”

… Fuck off back to America then.

She’s the man

‘Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrggggggggghhhhhh!’

It was the unnecessary scream only a female or Ned Flanders can make.

‘What’s going on in there?’ I said, from the comfort of the couch. The non reply meant I had to go and investigate for myself. I walked into the kitchen to see Belinda clutching a half unhinged cupboard door.

‘What the fuck have you done, are you being clumsy again?’ I asked.

‘It just fell off,’ she replied.

‘Likely story,’ I thought. I helped remove the door and placed it against a chair in the living/bedroom. ‘I’ll fix it after.’

‘Can you?’ she said. The fucking cheek of her.

‘Yeah… I used to do it loads when I was working with Wilks,’ I said, taking the opportunity to shoot a look of arrogance in her direction. ‘Just leave the tool box out for me.’

The pink tool kit was placed on the side. She’s good like that. It’s not really a tool kit, more a candy floss coloured case containing an assortment of small screwdrivers. I went into the kitchen to study the scene of the crime. It looked simple enough. The holes were already there, I just had to screw it back in. I went about my business, soon realising that it wouldn’t work. The screws ripping out had widened the holes meaning they’d no longer take.

‘Not to worry,’ I thought, I had another plan. I cunningly wrapped an elastic band around the grooves in the screw. ‘That’ll take,’ I said aloud. It didn’t. What a stupid fucking plan. The elastic band was about as useful as using Blu-tack as a makeshift condom. Moments later the door collapsed into my hands, along with a worrying PING!

‘Fuck!’

‘What’s wrong honey?’ It was her turn to inquire.

‘The fucking screws gone down the plug hole.’

‘Hahahahahahaha!’ I clenched my fist but decided not to use it.

 

I got on the phone to Wilks.

‘Alright Kiiiiiiiiiid, hows it goin?’ We exchanged pleasantries before I got to the nitty gritty. ‘Oi, what’s the best thing to fill holes in a kitchen cupboard, Polyfilla or something?’

‘Yeah that would work,’ said Wilks, ‘but the best thing to use is Ronseal wood filler.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘You just squeeze it in and then…’

‘I know what to do,’ I said, cutting him short. ‘Will they have it in B&Q?’

‘Yeah, any hardware store should have it.’

‘I’ve lost a fucking screw as well.’ I told him what happened. He said he had loads of spares at home that would fit. I decided it best to add one to the shopping list to get from the B&Q up the road rather than travel back to Shropshire for one.

 

The next day I went to B&Q. I wasn’t in the mood to be fucking about or pretending to know what I was doing. I found the ‘Ronseal’ no problem, but the screws were being bastards. I quickly asked a man in an orange trademark t-shirt where they were.

‘Aisle twelve,’ he said.

He was right, he can keep his job. The entire aisle was crammed with screws, it wasn’t what I needed. Looking at them made my balls ache. I asked another man in orange which screws I needed. He basically told me ‘it depends,’ so I thought ‘you can fuck off’ and pulled out my phone.

‘Alright Kiiiiiiiiiid, hows it goin?’ We exchanged pleasantries before I got to the nitty gritty. ‘Oi, what size screws should I get?’ Wilks gave me a few options, but without seeing the door hinges could not be exact. The screws that looked like they could be right came in a bag of about fifty.

‘I’m not paying £10.36 for a bag of fucking screws,’ I told him. At which point he again mentioned that he had some spare ones at home that would most probably do the job. I bought the ‘Ronseal,’ but it looked like I was going back to Shropshire for the screws.

That same evening I filled the kitchen cupboard holes with ‘Ronseal’ and smoothed it over expertly. It was a terrific job; I’m good at that kind of thing. The following evening I was in the car listening to ‘Drenge’ on my way to Shropshire. I caught up with Wilks at his dads wedding, but he was there screwless. After all the fuss I never did end up getting any off him that weekend. Instead I raided my dad’s tool box for a lookalike and headed back to London.

‘Are you sure you can do it?’ quizzed Belinda.

‘Course I fuckin can.’

‘Well do you want me to help at all?’  Her question sent my arms into spasms of exaggerated movement and muscle flexing.

‘No, just leave me alone, always interfering,’ I exhaled. ‘I am the man of the house, this is a man’s job, for a man… and I am a man, so go away.’ I made sure she knew what I meant by adding a shooing motion with my hand. That always pisses her off.

I went into the kitchen armed with an assortment of screws and shrewdly put the plug in the plug hole. I went about my business, huffing and puffing manfully as I did so. Within twelve minutes I had completed the job and was feeling mighty pleased with myself. I shut the cupboard door. It was wonky and didn’t sit straight.

‘Fuck!’

I messed around for a few minutes trying to adjust screws and heights.

‘Fuck!’

I threw a mild tantrum that involved lying on the couch with my arms folded and watching TV until I had calmed down enough to have another go. Belinda went into the kitchen. Five minutes later she came out with an annoyingly pleased look on her face. She lay on the bed. I went into the kitchen.

‘Bitch!’ She’d only gone and fucking fixed it.

I went and lay next to her on the bed. ‘But I’m the man of the house,’ I offered.

That night I went to sleep fearing that the next time we engaged in coitus I may be the one with my face pushed flat against a pillow. It was time to regain my authority as a man… that is why I have signed up for the second series of Bear Grylls ‘The Island.’ 

 

 

Old men in changing rooms

Showers are great. Homemade waterfalls providing an ideal location for sex (if in agreeable company,) masturbation (if lonely,) urinating (if desperate,) singing (if happy) and washing (if absolutely necessary.) Showers however aren’t so great when taken in a public setting. Don’t get me wrong I’ve had numerous fanciful showers scrubbing the taut backs of football colleagues post match. All too often though the shower experience, when forced to mingle with the general public, becomes a needless annoyance.

I have used many public showers. Not that I loiter suspiciously, I play football and dabble with the gym. In the sweaty aftermath of both I regularly find myself thinking, ‘what the fuck is going on in here?’

My non perverted observations/recollections have concluded three distinct stages to male showering in public. These are largely dependent on position in life’s cycle and it is the latter group that are by far the worst.

1) Kids – Excluding the ridiculously young, who would prance around Tesco’s naked if their mothers didn’t clothe them, kids tend to cover up. Typical form is to stand with towel wrapped tightly to waist whilst struggling to zigzag a pair of pants up the legs without anyone seeing your cock. Sometimes the towel becomes loose causing sheer panic, with the owner having to cup his genitals with one hand and zigzag with the other. Puberty is a baffling time, heightening the curiosity of the development of those around you. The showers after P.E class at school are a particularly harrowing affair. I attempted to skip these, or at least be one of the last to get in. I was certain I had a small penis and sensed no need to send it charging into the circus of ridicule. But a small penis wasn’t the only danger. A hefty pubic mound or large penis could also bring pointing and laughter. I remember one geeky lad at my school called Robert Diamond. It was discovered in the showers that he was owner of a particularly long and girthy member… a beast of a penis that bent quite visibly. We would chuckle heartily whilst bellowing the words ‘banana dick, banana dick, banana dick,’ at him. What little we knew… that cunt’s definitely having the last laugh now.

2) Young to middle aged adults – By this stage of life the male has learnt to accept what he’s been given. Sure, there will still be men at home as you read this, secretly engaging in dick stretching techniques in a bid to gain a valuable inch. But generally any laughing is done behind your back and a sense of self confidence has been gained due to the likelihood of your penis becoming pals with several thirsty vaginas. I myself, despite the curse of a small penis, am no longer the person that shied away from showers at school. Nope, I thrive on walking around my London Studio with rosy genitals blowing in the fresh morning breeze. That’s because I’m content with my lot, as are most men at this stage. As such public showers become a no nonsense affair. You take your boxers off, shower and put your boxers back on. There are no attempts to hide the penis or a desire to exhibit them for any length of time longer than necessary. You do what you’ve got to do and that’s the way it should be.

3) Old men – Fuck me what a sight. Despite the dick having shrivelled to the size of an acorn, or in some cases becoming inverted, the old man just loves to stroll around naked for as long as humanly possible. They cannot stay still and are always followed by a trail of fucking Talcum powder. I’ve seen horrific sights; complete with creases, wrinkles and overhangs in all the places I don’t want to see them. There is a rotund old fellow during my Saturday football that stands in front of the mirror, stark bollock naked, using the hairdryer for a good ten minutes… he hasn’t even got any fucking hair. He always manages to have the locker right next to mine, where he then proceeds to splash Talc against his swinging balls. Sometimes I return home looking like I’ve auditioned for the Great British Bake Off. At Swiss Cottage Leisure Centre I regularly enter the changing rooms to the sight of an old geezer hunched over, one leg lofted up on the bench, shaking a towel around his balls like they’re a pair of maracas. Apart from a monk like haircut he is the hairiest man my eyes have ever absorbed. He’s like a furry toad with a black wolf strapped above his knob. Man he sickens me, in comparison to his my cock is an international supermodel.

I feel confident that anybody with experience of public changing rooms will agree that old men pose a particular menace to the eyes. I have even walked into a shower to witness an old man shaving his arse with a bright orange disposable razor. The said man, of course, ended up moving to the shower next to mine so that he could complement me on my tattoos, whilst continuing the process of smoothing his arse cheeks.

I understand that ball sacks get stuck to ones inner thighs and the process of peeling can be ten times more agonising than waxing, but save your ‘Talcing’ for your personal abode. Maybe incorporate it as a prelude to sex, but please don’t do it in the fucking changing rooms I frequent… it’s hurting my eyes.

Her on the train

I can’t get her out of my head
Everything about her just screams
SEX
Her confident pout
Her aching arched back
Her high heels
But especially those long legs of latex
She’s not classically beautiful
But undoubtedly holds a dirty look
Tonight she’s travelling with SEX on her mind
I can read her like an adorably filthy book.

Who is she going to meet?
Dressed in black from scalp to toe
Those shoes hiding a scrawled ankle tattoo
What it says I do not know?
Why isn’t she going out to have SEX with me tonight?
She’s got the type of body that I’d build if I were a womb
Tall
Ample breasted
Sturdy on her feet
And a bottom that I won’t forget soon.

Actually it’s the best behind that my eyes have ever seen
As if her body was built about it
Pert
Round
Powerfully shown off
Appearing almost as if it shouldn’t fit
Her lumber vertebrae arches expertly to it
Shapely black, yet she is white
Stood upright
She’s in a naughty canine position
I envy whoever she is visiting tonight.

She has the most alluring body that I have obsessed over for a long time
And she’s definitely going out for SEX
It hurts because I know that she’s reachable
I just don’t know when I’ll see her next…
I miss you girl on the train xxx