Evening gents
We pick up the story again at dinner. We are all completely off our faces. Danny is sitting at dinner swaying. Jack and I sit down, having dragged over the lad we had been talking to. We are going to do everything in our power to ruin his evening. We start by stealing his coat. Wayne has done this by cunningly telling him he is cold. Jack steals his bag, and hides it under the table. He'll never know. Danny mumbles something. No one listens. A jug of wine each? Sure. We need more booze. After dinner, we are all sitting around casually drinking our jugs of wine. The English fella has battled hard and won, he has his stuff back, and has left. Danny again, mumbles something, and disappears. He's probably gone to just take a shit.
Meanwhile, Jack has passed out at the dinner table. He is sitting bolt up right, fast asleep. Wayne and I are slapping him and poking him. We light cigarettes, smoke one puff and put them out on his skin. Nothing, out for the count. Half an hour passes. Danny is still missing, Jack is still passed out. Wayne and I head to the toilets to find Danny. On the way, we casually get naked and show each other manginas in the corridor. Standing in the mens room, naked, knocking on the only cubicle door that's locked, we hear a feint voice from the other side, it's Danny! “Lads, I'm ok, I'll out in a minute”
We take his word for it, and head back out. There are still 2 and a half jugs of wine sitting on the table. We decide we will leave it for Jack and Danny, when they wake up and go to make an exit. Right on cue, Jack has awoken from his slumber, and is very much back in the game. Immediately getting his top off, he heads over to a table of Oxford University students on a weekend break before they knuckle down and revise for finals. We all go over. We really pest them, really start to annoy them, and practically ruin their holiday. We make them introduce themselves to us one by one, forcing each to tell us a funny anecdote about themselves. When we realise they are on our flight the next day, all hell breaks loose. Jack and I start choosing which girls we will have in the mile high club. I take a couple, then we have a wrestle over the last ones. The table of people pay quickly and leave, practically running away. A job well done.
Still no sign of Danny. Jack goes to find him. He manages to get the toilet door open, and the sight he sees is something to behold. There is diarrhoea and vomit all over the cubicle. What has he been doing in there for the last hour? It was probably something he ate. Jack runs out laughing to Wayne and I who are back at the table drinking wine. He explains what he's seen. Half way through the story, out strolls Danny. Through the restaurant, in just his boxers and t-shirt. Shit-stained jeans slung over his shoulder, he sits back down, and nonchalantly picks up his glass. The waitress runs over screaming:
“Get out! Get out! You MUST leave!”
Danny: “I'm sorry, I just didn't want to stain your lovely chairs with my shit!”
“GET OUT!”
She runs and gets the bill, but we aren't going anywhere. We still have loads of wine to drink. In an act of disgust, Wayne pours the jug of red all over the table. The waitress looks at him in disbelief. Feeling a little bad, he pours the jug of white on it, to in his words “cancel it out”. This, for some reason, has not pleased her. He starts to hoover. We all start to hoover. We are sucking wine up from the table cloth. 4 of us. Only 3 of us wearing trousers.
Once it's all gone, we eventually pay our bill and go. On the walk home, we all stand in the street with our trousers and pants around our ankles, showing the locals what we're packing. Jack tries a no handed mangina-what this involves is a huge thrust forward, and a swing back, trying to catch your balls and wang between your legs without the us of your hands. It's a challenging feat, and it really hurts if you get it wrong. Jack gets it wrong, it's hilarious. Wayne gets his mangina going, and Jack and Wayne have a mangina race. About 30 metres with a mangina. Jack dominates. Wayne's keeps popping out, and having to restart the course.
Danny is clueless. The boy is so pissed he thinks we're in London. We head home to get ready to meet up with the waitress we meet at the very start of the day, who definitely hasn't rung Jack. Again, that bugger the casino prevents us from getting home quickly. Danny's had enough, he doesn't come in to gamble, he gets the keys and goes straight back.
We gamble for an hour, and have a couple beers. We all loose a bit, but no one is really bothered. We have a few beers, sitting around on the couches. Mid sentence, Jack passes out. He's fallen asleep whilst in the middle of a monologue, and has started emptying his beer over his trousers. Wayne and I obviously find this hilarious, as he jumps up startled that he's poured beer down his crotch. But this has made us realise: we need something else, a pick me up. The sooner we get to this bar, the sooner we can start drinking gin. We head back-a quick turnaround, and out.
Wayne and I head into our room, and hear Jack burst out laughing from his. What's happened? Wayne and I run in, to see Jack pissing himself laughing on the floor, pointing at Danny who has clearly panicked. He's got back, gone into his bedroom, changed out of his shit/vomit covered jeans, put on a rabbit onesy, climbed into bed, and passed out. Brilliant. Where do we go from here? Shall we leave him just sleeping here? Surely we can't waste a beautiful opportunity? It's 11pm. The 3 of us who are still awake want to go out. But not after we move Danny to the corridor. We slide him out on his mattress, and into the corridor. During the process, we've woken up some of the other guests. They come out, look at the situation, and just head back into their room, barely saying a word. It's a weird situation. 3 lads moving a guy, passed out in a bunny outfit, in his bed, into the corridor. Fun hasn't stopped there. Wayne gets naked, and manginas over Danny. I put on my tiger onesy and spoon him.
Photo opportunity over, we all get ready for the night. Upon leaving the hotel, we have a debate. Do we lock the hotel rooms? Will our bunny security guard have his wits about him enough to not let burglars in? The answer: no he won't. We lock the doors, essentially locking our mate into the corridor for 5 hours as we head out.
We jump into a taxi and head to the bar we were promised the waitress from earlier will be in. We head past two huge security guards, and straight to the bar. We nail 3 double gin and tonics. There are token girls selling shots, the honey shots from earlier. We make good friends with them, buy loads, get our photos taken with them and straight arm the shots. Literally pour them all over our faces. 3 more gins, this time triples. Now we're talking. We head over and find a table, shit it's reserved. We ignore this and sit at it anyway. We get 3 more triple G and Ts. The barman, Ivan, has promised us that every time we wave at him, he will bring us 3 more. Great! No need to leave this table, and we look like high rollers with the bar man bringing us drinks over. The only problem with this is the fact that we find it hilarious, and wave at him once every 3 minutes. At one point, I look down at the table, and see 5 triple G&Ts each. There's only one way to get rid of all of these: straight arm. However, it's got to the point where I can't really straight arm, I'm that pissed. Instead, I resort to just pouring. Pouring straight on my head. 3 triple Gins. I'm soaked.
There is a dancer on the podium, like a stripper who doesn't take off the two best parts of her clothing. To get a good view, you have to go and sit underneath the podium and watch her dance. To test this theory, we play 5s. Wayne loses, and down he goes, through the crowd of Friday night Croatian punters, and sits, cross legged on the floor, staring straight up at the stripper like a 5 year old school boy. Obviously people point and laugh, and it doesn't last long as he is being tapped on the shoulder by a massive bouncer and being told to get up.
He heads back over, to applause from us. Another round Ivan! We wave. I pour it on my head. A waitress comes and wipes our table down and takes our empty vessels. I head over to the bar, and buy some cigarettes. Heading back over, a fantastic idea comes to mind. We should all refuse to use ash trays and put the cigarettes out on ourselves! Quality! I am typing this today with what can only be described as leprosy like sores on my arms where I've put out 9 cigarettes. It hurts, but is hilarious. Especially when Jack loses 5s and you get to put one out on him. Or when Wayne loses 5s and he puts one out on his forehead, leaving a permanent scar. Or when instead of putting one out on me, Jack decides to flick ash from the cigarette over me onto my very flammable gin soaked t-shirt.
The shots girls are back, selling to us again. We have all decided we're a little horney and want some action. We also have decided that in Croatia, we are high rollers and are willing to pay for it. Shots girls=prostitutes? Jack puts the theory to the test. He asks how much. A slap, once she finds out what he's said. Admittedly he started low. The equivalent of £6.50. He raises his price. Another slap. Confirmation they aren't hookers. The don't try to sell us more shots again. We wave at Ivan and pour more triple gins over ourselves. The same waitress clears it up, and this time brings an ashtray. I have decided I don't use ashtrays. It's my own arm, or the bit of the table right next to the ashtray. The waitress watches me as I tap my cigarette out right next to the ashtray, then pour yet another drink on myself. She clears it all up. Good girl.
A live band has come on. 5S loser sings with the band. Jack loses, his song choice? Jerusalem . It doesn't go down well. Especially as we have been told all night that we can't, under any circumstances use the microphones set up for the band. He heads back over, triumphant. We drink a bit more, and at about 3:30, Jack has clearly had enough, and passes out for the 3rd time in the evening. The bar shuts at 4, and the bouncer comes over, tries to wake Jack up but can't. I know what will get him-a cigarette burn on the earlobe. Sure enough, he jumps up. We leave, having spent circa £80 each.
On the way home, Jack passes out 3 more times, it gets to the point that Wayne and I ditch him and head home. What a sight was waiting for us when we got back. Was Danny still tucked up in bed in his onesy? No. Picture the scene-a bare mattress on the floor of a hotel corridor, the sheets in one corner of the corrider, a rabbit onesy in another, vomit everywhere and Danny, passed out in his boxers lying half on the mattress. It's almost as if he dreamt that he was being attacked by a giant bunny and fought it off. He definitely looked defeated. Wayne and I bring him into our room. Jack is yet to arrive home, so I am about to go out looking for him. What a great mate I am. We hear noise in the corridor, and Jack bursts into our room. He's been to the casino, bought some soup, and then passed out in it. Classic Pula.
Satisfied, we all put on our onesys and head to bed.
Wayne and I make it to breakfast, whilst sheepishly walking past the hotel cleaner cleaning up Danny's vomit. We manage to get through security without a glitch, and onto the plane. A brief stop in duty free to buy some egg liquor to go with my new ink.
On the plane, we see the girls we shot gunned the night before, and ask if they're still keen. They're not. We have a couple beers, and arrive safely in England. Wayne and I head for the train station and back to Manchester.
What a ridiculous 2 day trip it's been. One which will long go down in history as one of my favourite holidays ever.
Update: The reason I went for ink over a mohawk, you may recall is because I am seeing someone, and I valued having sex with her the following few weeks over permanently marking myself. Within 6 days of our return, I have ended things with her. I am reassessing if I went for the right option. I've just looked at my inside right ankle, and, do you know what? I think I did.
Happy hunting
Peter.
Tuesday 12 April 2011
Monday 11 April 2011
Classic Pula, Day 2. Part 1
Evening gents
52100
Pula
Croatia
Phone: +385 52 538 739
1 April 2011
Mr Hunter,
Since arrival your yesterday at Pula we have tracked you due to suspicious historic movement on your Passport. Recent visits with France and United States America raise suspicions ours at Passport control.
We had security team follow yesterday you to check you legitimate tourist. I can confirm we happy with this now, and my sincere apologies if this caused you inconvenience.
However, my security team were less than impressed with your behaviour and believe you ridiculed and ashamed our local history and culture. Your behaviour has been unacceptable and you have contravened Regulation 200151 of Zakon o Krivičnom Postupku 2001 (Criminal Procedure Act) on at least 3 occasions. I would like discuss this in person with you to prevent further misdemeanours or criminal proceedings taking place.
Please could you attend the Police Station at the address above at 11.30am this morning, I will ensure your accommodation makes sure this letter reaches you.
Failure to attend will result in serious consequences and your details will be passed onto Passport and Immigration control.
I hope to see you on Friday
Hvala vam
4 hours sleep down, and we're up. Wayne and I head down for breakfast. Sit the seats, only to be told we've missed it by 45 minutes as are clocks are still on English time. Good work. Getting back up stairs, I hear some groans coming from Jack and Danny's room. What the hell is going in there? Upon walking in, I am politely informed by Jack that the hotel receptionist was looking for me, and she sounded urgent. I head back into my room and see a sealed envelope on the floor with the words Mr. Hunter written on the front. I start to open it. What can it be? I wasn't expecting any post!
The letter read like this:
Pula Poljski Statičan
Trščanska52100
Pula
Croatia
Phone: +385 52 538 739
1 April 2011
Mr Hunter,
Since arrival your yesterday at Pula we have tracked you due to suspicious historic movement on your Passport. Recent visits with France and United States America raise suspicions ours at Passport control.
We had security team follow yesterday you to check you legitimate tourist. I can confirm we happy with this now, and my sincere apologies if this caused you inconvenience.
However, my security team were less than impressed with your behaviour and believe you ridiculed and ashamed our local history and culture. Your behaviour has been unacceptable and you have contravened Regulation 200151 of Zakon o Krivičnom Postupku 2001 (Criminal Procedure Act) on at least 3 occasions. I would like discuss this in person with you to prevent further misdemeanours or criminal proceedings taking place.
Please could you attend the Police Station at the address above at 11.30am this morning, I will ensure your accommodation makes sure this letter reaches you.
Failure to attend will result in serious consequences and your details will be passed onto Passport and Immigration control.
I hope to see you on Friday
Hvala vam
Danijel Ferić
Poljski Direktor, Pula
Poljski Direktor, Pula
FUCK!!!!!!!! What the hell had I done the night before? My mind goes into overdrive. How am I going to get out of this one? I've over done it. We won't be able to wear our all in ones. How much will I have to pay out? Do Croatian police accept bribes?
I get the boys up to have a look. No one is pissing themselves laughing, so it must be genuine. My friends aren't that organised, we couldn't organise a hotel for ourselves, let alone an elaborate prank. I ask the hotel receptionist where this place is, and points me in the direction but reccomends a taxi if I need to be there by 11:30. Fuck. It's 11:20. We run to the taxi stand and jump in. He takes us to the address. This doesn't look like a police station, but there is a big gate, maybe it's through there. I'm really panicing as it's 11:30. The boys can't control it any longer and burst out laughing. I re read the date on the letter. 1st of April. I should have know. Jack has got me good. He has been planning this for weeks and got input from the other boys like Jeff, Kelly and Smokey. #goodeggs.
Utter relief was how I'd describe the wave of emotion that came over me. Thank God. For a while I honestly fell for it. I bet any money that as you read that, you thought “what a prick, who'd fall for that?” A hungover Peter Hunter without a clue what he did the night before. That's who.
We make our way back towards the town, and pop into the Colosseum. It's the 6th largest from the Roman empire and is a sight to behold. Do we buy the audio guide? No. We play 5s. Two losers wrestle. Wayne and I lose, and Jack and Danny head for the stands. Jack calls out the challenger-Wayne. Wayne nonchallently walks into the centre. Jack the calls for the peoples champion. Peter Hunter. I run out, pointing at my flexed bicep. Wayne picks me up and slams me into a rock. Ouch. Not great for my herniated disc. Not to be out down, I start performing to the crowd, and tried out some footwork. I dance around, the people's champ. A crowd of school children has gathered to watch the showdown. I clap my hands above my head to encourage their support. About 30 Coratian school children are clapping along with me as Wayne picks me up again and slams me to the floor. We have a winner, and it's not me.
Enough fucking about. It's mid day, time to get a drink. We head down the street via a bakery who gives us free food, charming. Head into a bar, a honey for a waitress. We start the day off with 4 jaegers on ice, with lemon. If you've never tried this, try it. You won't be disappointed. A couple beers each, and Jack is getting going. He's winking at the honey waitress, and wonders over to pay the bill. He pays, gets the bill, flips it over and writes his number on it. He asks her where she is heading tonight, and gets the details. Thinking he was the big man, Jack has failed to see that she was actually snogging her boyfriend 10 minutes before, and she has literally taken his number and thrown it in the bin. She knows where we are going now, so she will definitely avoid it. Classic Jack.
We head on. Jack and Wayne still have Mohawks to get. This is where the new ink on my leg is going to pay off. When I am texting all our mates telling them what ridiculous haircuts they are getting. And ridiculous they are. Wayne is particularly annoyed by this, since he values his hair fairly highly. Jack on the other hand, already has a shit lid, so it doesn't matter so much. Until she gets it wrong and shaves all of the back of his hair, leaving just a tuft on top. My point to him was this: your lid is now so shit, you may aswell just go for the Lomu approach. He toyed with the idea, but resinged himself to a shit tuft on top. Absolutely ridiculous.
We get to a lovely little square in the centre of town. This is going to be the setting for the afternoon, soaked in sunshine, it is actually very nice. We do our best to ruin the scene. We chose a seat to maximise sunshine. We've picked a bar where a wedding reception is taking place, and have got some beers in. The bride steps out looking glamorous. Only one thing to do really: someone has to make a speech. 5s. Jack loses. Clinks his glass, nods at the bride, and opens with: “I haven't known the bride and groom long, but just looking at them, I can tell they will be happy”. He winks at the bride as she walks off.
Not wanting to be outdone, Danny steps up to the plate and makes a speech, involving as many of the local characters as possible, waving and winking at each one as he tells of their tirals and tribulations, giving them all nicknames. They all look at him funny, but none say anything. Our waiter, Andreas, is loving us. Probably because we have already racked up a £100 tab and it's 2:30. Time for shots? Yes. Some rank honey shots, cheers Andreas. A few mores beers and we're steaming. Jack reckons he can do 100 push ups in a row. He gets down, to start off, and we soon realise he doesn't actually know how to do a push up. Pathetic. As a punishment, we force him to strip to his boxers, they are pink and black striped. He is about to do a dash from one end of the square to the town hall at the other and back again. He's off. Jack, running through the town square at 3pm in his boxers is one of the best things I've seen this weekend, people are pointing and laughing as he parades himself about as camp as this guy.
The fun doesn't stop there. We look at the pack of cigarettes that I've just bought, and only one thing comes to mind: a smoke off. How fast can one actually smoke a cigarette? Given none of smoke, what will be the reaction to the nicotine hit? Will this be fun? Well, reader, all three questions answered below. My idea, so I get to set the pace. A respectable 1 minute 49 seconds. I'm high off the nicotine, but I feel fine, I'm giggling. Up steps Jack. Now the fun starts for me. Firstly, he takes 20seconds to get started. First drag:poor. 1 minute passes, he's coughing and spluttering everywhere. He can't smoke. Let alone smoke quickly. He decides to take the no hand approach, and puffs on it. He's speeding up, but my time has already passed. All of a sudden, the cigarette falls from his mouth and down his shirt, he jumps up in agony from the cigarette burn. He clearly doesn't want to finish it, but he isn't getting off that lightly. We make him finish it, and to his credit, he does, in a time approaching 3 minutes. Poor technique. Danny's go, and he's put in a respectable effort, just shy of breaking the two minute barrier. I'm winning, one to go, and he can't smoke for shit, I can taste victory behind the smokey flavour. Up steps Wayne. Lighting time: good. Probably on a par with me. What happens next is amazing. He ploughs through it, taking in huge drag after huge drag. Some quality smoking. He's finished, it's over, Wayne has won in a time of 1:15. Incredible (although to be surpased by Danny back in London). Wayne, clearly proud of himself has hit the deck. His 6'5 giant body can't take all that nicotine. He's withering on the floor in pain, whilst the 3 of us wet ourselves laughing at his pain. He doesn't get up for a good 5 minutes, whilst the cold sweats pass. Classic smoking.
A game of 5s is next of the itinery of things to do in Pula. The two losers have to hold hands for an hour. Wayne and I lose and sit there in the sun holding hands, Croatians find this behaviour weird, but we get on with 3 more beers and 2 more shots. We actually have a very senisble conversation about our jobs, our thoughts about our future and philosophy. Meanwhile, Danny has turned to me and said: “mate, I'm so pissed. I have no idea where I am” Classic Danny Fingers! An hour's up and it's 5 pm. I like, very much, to do something called floor swimming. This is where you lie on the floor and pretend to swim. This obviously means you have to get down there initially. How do you do these? A good swan dive. Only in Pula, we do this from a chair, onto concrete. Jack decides to give it a go first. He's landed on his feet! This isn't how you swim! I'm so angry at him, I thought he was better than that. I get onto a chair. Andreas is shouting at me telling me not to do it. A semi crowd has gathered. I need to nail this swan dive. I dive up, and crash to the floor, mainly on my body and hands. My thumb has swollen up, I think it's broken. Oh well, I showed Jack, I win.
An English lad has just sat down behind us to enjoy a quiet drink before he heads out on a date. We get him over, to give him a few “tips”. These mainly revolve around the word r.a.p.e, as we figure this is the best way for him to get laid. Jack and I sit and chat shit to him for another half an hour, whilst Wayne and Danny have crossed the square to get dinner. Jack and I head over.
What happens next in this story, is epic. I understand I have gone on for a while here, so you will have to wait for the next installment of the Croatia story. It's good. Trust me.
Happy hunting
Peter.
Friday 8 April 2011
Classic Pula
Evening gents,
Turning up at Stansted airport, still absolutely wasted from the Wednesday night at 6:30am on 45 minutes sleep should have really, in hindsight, been an indication that the next two days in Pula (a small town on the coast of Croatia) were going to be out of control. The touring party consisted of myself, Jack, Wayne (mate of mine from Manchester) and Danny.
Having somehow got through customs in pink cowboy hats, Wayne and I turn around to see Jack having his bag searched. The security man starts looking through his stuff. First thing he pulls out: a tiger print all in one. A slight smirk comes across his face. Next: a fluffy pink wig. He bursts out laughing, "these lads are out for some harmless fun" he thinks to himself, and lets Jack through, wishing him all the best for his boozy weekend. He has no idea.
Wayne and I have been suckered into some baileys tasting at quarter to 7. The next thing I know, we have bought two bottles, and are chinning shots between the three of us. Hazlenut? Sure. Only the best for the boys. Is this the right thing to be doing? Probably.
On the plane, we have finished our first bottle and are cracking into our second. Things are going down hill. We are all shattered, but no one dares sleep for fear of what the others will do.
Clearly, we have not booked anywhere to stay, so after landing, the sensible thing to do, is clearly to walk through the centre of Pula in pink cowboy hats and fluffy pink wigs, looking for a bar. We sit at the first one we see, it's 11:30am, but it's a scorching day. So scorching, Jack kindly purchases every tourist a pair of flair sunglasses, something we are all more than happy to wear. Sitting there in our love heart shaped sunglasses, chinning beers, waving at local honeys and talking nonsense really gets me going. I'm excited, a little too excited for the next few hours. Looking around, all the locals are smoking. So as not to disrespect their culture, we all decide we chain smoke in Croatia. Danny gets the first round of cigs in. A 20 pack, gone within 30 minutes, some pretty epic smoking.
Turning up at Stansted airport, still absolutely wasted from the Wednesday night at 6:30am on 45 minutes sleep should have really, in hindsight, been an indication that the next two days in Pula (a small town on the coast of Croatia) were going to be out of control. The touring party consisted of myself, Jack, Wayne (mate of mine from Manchester) and Danny.
Having somehow got through customs in pink cowboy hats, Wayne and I turn around to see Jack having his bag searched. The security man starts looking through his stuff. First thing he pulls out: a tiger print all in one. A slight smirk comes across his face. Next: a fluffy pink wig. He bursts out laughing, "these lads are out for some harmless fun" he thinks to himself, and lets Jack through, wishing him all the best for his boozy weekend. He has no idea.
Wayne and I have been suckered into some baileys tasting at quarter to 7. The next thing I know, we have bought two bottles, and are chinning shots between the three of us. Hazlenut? Sure. Only the best for the boys. Is this the right thing to be doing? Probably.
On the plane, we have finished our first bottle and are cracking into our second. Things are going down hill. We are all shattered, but no one dares sleep for fear of what the others will do.
Clearly, we have not booked anywhere to stay, so after landing, the sensible thing to do, is clearly to walk through the centre of Pula in pink cowboy hats and fluffy pink wigs, looking for a bar. We sit at the first one we see, it's 11:30am, but it's a scorching day. So scorching, Jack kindly purchases every tourist a pair of flair sunglasses, something we are all more than happy to wear. Sitting there in our love heart shaped sunglasses, chinning beers, waving at local honeys and talking nonsense really gets me going. I'm excited, a little too excited for the next few hours. Looking around, all the locals are smoking. So as not to disrespect their culture, we all decide we chain smoke in Croatia. Danny gets the first round of cigs in. A 20 pack, gone within 30 minutes, some pretty epic smoking.
All of a sudden, the only sensible decision of the holiday gets made-we should probably eat something as we don't want to be so pissed we can't talk by 4pm. We spot a lovely little place up on top of a building where we can sit in the sun, eat, chin beers and stare at the local clunge. Our waitor, Igor, was a lovely chap. Recommending us meals, bringing us beers on demand. Having stayed for 2 more hours, we are all comfortably full, boozed and ready to go find a hotel. We realise we have no way to stay, so we ask Igor and he points us in one direction. We trust him, it's Igor for Christs sake! Bad move. He's pointed us straight at a casino. Cheers Igor. No one had to be told what would happen, we all knew. We don't even look at each other, not even an affirming nod.
We start playing 5s for bets. This is clearly not the first game of 5s we've played, but I honestly can't remember too much about the holiday. Wayne looses and places £50 on red. A loss. We all casually lose about £100 each, but no one thinks anything of it. It's monopoly money! A few beers in the casino and we are ready to find a room.
Further up the street is a delightful little hotel, thankfully they take our passports as we walk in-my ticket home safe, we head up to the rooms. To celebrate our passports being safe, Wayne and I decide to have a little wrestle. He's 6'5' and built like a brick shit house. I'm not small by any means, but within 20 seconds of walking into that room, I had been slam dunked into the cupboard. Wanting revenge, I dip my head and charge at him. 6'5 of timber falls onto the bed, which instantly snaps in one corner. Classic move. Satisfied we've broken enough in the room, we head out, not to find dinner, but to get ink.
Earlier in the day, we had made a pact of ridiculous proportions. We were all going to get either ink or a mohawk. The sensible men (Jack and Wayne, well, Jack only went for the mohawk as he already has ink from the last time he lost a bet read about it here) choose the mohawk-granted you look like a cock for a day or two, but after shaving your head, hair grows back and in a month, no one will know. The not so sensible men (Danny and myself) viewed this pact a little differently. See, we both like sex. We are both having regular sex, and although we a both very much unattached, having the regularity is something not to be sniffed at. This for me was the difference between sex the following week, and no sex the following week. So I took the short term view, and went for ink.
We had seen an ink parlour earlier in the day, and head there. It's shut. A sign? No. We jump in a taxi and head 20 minutes to the next town over, to a run down resort where everything was shut. Apart from one ink parlour. A sign? Yes. We should go through with this. A woman was lying in there, naked getting her back done. He asks us to come back half an hour later, so we do head out to find more beer. After chinning a pint, we head back. Danny's up first. He chooses to get the nuber 76 inked on him inside a black circle, on his inside ankle. A testament to the house he lived at whilst at university. “All the lads will get one!” he proclaimed. (Upon returning to the UK, none of the lads are getting one). Whilst Danny is getting inked, Wayne has clearly had enough. He has passed out. Granted, we are 26 hours into what will turn out to be a 36 hour bender, just taking a breather. I take the opportunity to stick my cock in his ear. It's funny isn't it? Why was that so fun? Why did everyone get so much enjoyment out of watching me put my penis into another man's auditory canal? Either way, I got one over on him.
Danny's done. I'm up. What do I get? Esteemed readers, now is the time you cross my mind. I want to get #goodegg inked on my ankle, for you lot. I spend 10 minutes deliberating over the font, and get it done. Although it looks a little like #goode 99, I'm pretty pleased with it, I must confess.
We jump in a taxi back to Pula, inked up, and search in vein for a restaurant. Nothing. This town is tiny! We all know where we are going. We head back to Igor. He's happy to see us. He brings us out four meat dishes, and shit loads of wine. Now this is where we start to hit it hard. Really hard. We nail a bottle of wine, very quickly, each. On top of the 27 hours previous, this tips us over the edge. Igor has brought us some B52s. We are sucking fumes through a straw. We are chinning pints. We are having a good time. Danny and I head out for yet another cigarette. When we get back in, Wayne and Jack are chatting to Igor.
Wayne: “where's good to go tonight?”
Igor: “what you want? You want to fuck Croatian girls?”
He says this very aggressively. Emphasising the fuck. Then he does something strange. He spits in his hand and slaps it against his other one.
YES IGOR! This is what we want to do! We want to FUCK and SPIT! YES!
Igor: “Go to Ulyesis, I see you in there later, we fuck Croatian girls”
He spits in his hands again, classic Igor.
The time has come, we are all wasted. We tip Igor probably more than a week's wage, and leave. We have vague directions to Uleysis and start following the noise.
Uleysis turns out to be in a disused factory. It's 1am and it's empty. We start talking to the limited amount of clunge in there. Nothing. We need a new tactic. We play 5s, losers had to befriend the skin head lads in the corner, and get them to introduce us to some of the honeys. Wayne loses and off he trots, only to return having had death stares. We are going to have to do it the only way we know how. A dance off. Danny and I go for it. We are pulling out all the moves. Danny has decided he's done enough to score. The best way to approach a Croatian girl: lick there face. Foolproof. Only if they don't have boyfriends. Danny gets slapped! Slapped by a man. Shame on both of them really.
We see Igor, and he introduces us to some clunge. I nosh one, Jack and Danny get one each. Wayne is no where to be seen though. They are all hideous. Do we care? Of course not! It's 2am, and they open up the doors to what turns out to be a giant rave. It's packed. The rest of the night is a blur.
On leaving at 6am, we can't find Wayne. We look everywhere. No one has seen him for 3 hours. We head back to the hotel, but that bugger the Casino catches our gaze and we head in. Upon walking in, Wayne chants his own name. We run over. He got kicked out the club after he pissed in the sink.
Bouncer: “would you do this in your own country?”
Wayne: “actually, yes”
He was out and had been half gambling, half sleeping since. We head back to get some much needed sleep, tomorrow will be a big day.....
Happy hunting
Peter
Saturday 19 March 2011
How to win over your colleagues-a guide by Peter Hunter
Evening gents,
Last night got out of hand. Let's be honest here, I shouldn't have done it. Here's a simple guide on how to win over your female work colleagues...
It's Friday afternoon in the office on comic relief day. I work for an organisation that takes CSR to new limits. This year for comic relief, we have decided to do our very own version of "Britain's Got Talent". Having been told by out HR lady that I will be forming 1/2 of Geordie comedy duo "Ant and Dec" with Jaron (read about him here). Coming from the south of the country, and being notoriously terrible at accents, this present me with somewhat of a challenge. My solution-get someone else to drive me in in the morning and get steaming before hand. I took it upon myself to tell as many puns/shit jokes as I could, to really get them in the mood for comedy. "What doooo yooo call a chick'n in a shell suit?" I asked my compatriot. "I dooon't know" With a smile on my face, I turn to 140 of my work colleagues who don't get me at the best of times, and proudly exclaim: "an egg". One person laughed. A few smiled. Mainly as I am laughing so hard at my own joke, and how badly it's gone down, I forget to call on the next act and have to walk off stage nearly crying with laughter. Comic relief at its glorious best.
One of the girls in the office is heading out to the USA on secondment for 3 months, just like I did. (I bet I had more fun: read about my time here) So after the show we head back to her place.
It must be said, before I continue telling this story, that 6 weeks ago I herniated a disc whilst playing rugby and have had severe referred neuropathic pain. It feels like the kind of pain you get after your legs have gone to sleep when you lean on them with your elbows when you're taking a shit. But constant. I have been taking some serious pain killers and diazepam (vallium) to control the pain.
Lesson 1: Don't mix vallium with alcohol. Especially when girls from work are about.
Back at hers, it's 9pm and I've sunk a bottle of wine. I move onto Henry Weston's 8.2% proof cider. This is when the effects of the vallium start to hit me. All of a sudden I'm smashed. I feel a wave of drunkness come over me and develop a glaze in my eyes. At this point, the girls are getting ready so it's just Jaron and I in her living room.
Me: "Jaron mate, can you do me a favour?"
Jaron: "What?"
Me: "Can you keep a look out, let me know the second her door opens"
Jaron: "What the fuck are you about to do. I don't even want to know, it's going to be weird, just like normal"
Me: "Watch this..."
Lesson 2: Don't take your trousers off and rub your penis in everything you can find in your colleague's kitchen.
Everything. I even got the cheese grater. The delight I was getting was so overwhelming I almost didn't hear Jaron's cry of: "mate she's coming". I quickly pull my trousers half way up and dive onto the couch. All she sees is me lying there with my belt undone. This is weird at the best of times, but she doesn't bat an eyelid when she says "typical Peter". This is the reputation I have for myself at work. I'm the guy who goes to other people's houses, lies on their couches and undoes his trousers. It was a close call, but safe.
Taxi's are here. We jump in. The girl we are with is mixed race. She looks very white, but she definitely has a black side when she's out. She also has a massive arse, in a good way. We head to a club which would have been Jeff's dream. Hip hop and R&B all night. Being your everyday white guy, this means I'm not into it.
Lesson 3: don't tell your work colleagues how easy you find it to pull.
My first move? Strut to the bar and order 3 shots of black sambuca. Emphasising the black when I place my order. I do it, turn around and wink and a girl from across the room who is shacking her bum. She beacons me over. Black girls are easy! I tap Jaron on the shoulder and get him to watch me in action. I want to show the guy how it's done. He gets all of my female colleagues to watch as I waltz over to her. I am the king of picking up girls. Yeah this will show my workmates what a good bloke I am. I suddenly panic. I am clearly going to say something inappropriate. "Show me how to dance like a black person" She doesn't like this and walks off. I turn around to see them all laughing at me. I strut back and tell everyone how we just weren't meant to be, and how I wasn't interested.
Lesson 4: 5s isn't fun with work colleagues
To liven the mood after my latest setback, I decide to introduce 5s to the group. I force everyone to play. The girls just don't get it! It ends up just being me and Jaron and the girls watching. We are playing to go over to the chinese girl in the corner and ask her how she feels being the only asian in the club. Jaron loses, sweet! Someone else can make a tit of themselves. He just doesn't do it, so in a display of manliness, and out of utter principal, I do it for him. I put my arm around her, and deliver the line. I think it comes across as racist to her, so when I tell her it's ok, as I am fluent in mandarin (incidently readers, I am) she thinks I'm joking and kicks up a storm. She starts yelling at me, calling me racist. Wow, girls in this place are feisty.
Lesson 5: Taking your top off is not ok with work colleagues
The club has performers, they are men dressed up as firemen. They come out, topless. My colleagues run over to them and want to get there photo taken with these chiselled stallions, and I don't blame them. These blokes are clearly going to get laid tonight and I want a piece of their action. I strut over and take my top off, asking if I can tag on behind. Girls are swanning over to me and want their photo taken with the ridiculously toned fireman, and his probably a little too chubby friend. It's a dream. I am loving it, girls are all over me! I look over and see my colleagues looking at me with their mouths open. Clearly drooling at me, and probably dripping wet. No. I'm on a works do and am topless with my arm around a semi naked fireman. I get spotted by a bouncer and begrudgingly put my top back on.
Lesson 6: Don't get your balls out in front of your colleagues.
Having thoroughly enjoyed the attention being topless provided me with, and am very angry the bouncer told me to put my clothes on, I decide to take it at step further. I climb onto the couch (coincidently next to my new asian friend) and drop my jeans. I rip my top off. Oh shit. I'm wearing old pants tonight, the type you wear as an indicator of when you need to do some washing. There are plenty of holes in them, and my balls are hanging out the bottom. To steal a phrase from Jack's blog, in for a penny, in for a pound. I whip my underwear down. I wish I'd trimmed. Only because having done this, I realise where I am. It's a well known fact that trimming gives you at least an extra inch, visually. I can't help but feel the population of black guys are laughing at me, with every fibre of their beings. 4 bouncers are running over to me. Jeans go up, shirt goes on, and I'm out of there! I text my apologies to the girls and jump in a taxi. I look at the time: 12:30. There I was thinking I'd be in bed before midnight.
I get home, and give the irish girl I'm seeing on Wednesdays and Sundays a ring, she obviously wants to hear from me. I wake her up and proceed to tell her I want to do every rude word to her in the English language. Classic flirting. I walk into the living room and find Paddy. When I say walk, I've actually fallen, hit the deck, and momentum has taken me most the way in. He laughs at me, and I take myself to bed. A solid nights work.
Happy hunting
Peter
Last night got out of hand. Let's be honest here, I shouldn't have done it. Here's a simple guide on how to win over your female work colleagues...
It's Friday afternoon in the office on comic relief day. I work for an organisation that takes CSR to new limits. This year for comic relief, we have decided to do our very own version of "Britain's Got Talent". Having been told by out HR lady that I will be forming 1/2 of Geordie comedy duo "Ant and Dec" with Jaron (read about him here). Coming from the south of the country, and being notoriously terrible at accents, this present me with somewhat of a challenge. My solution-get someone else to drive me in in the morning and get steaming before hand. I took it upon myself to tell as many puns/shit jokes as I could, to really get them in the mood for comedy. "What doooo yooo call a chick'n in a shell suit?" I asked my compatriot. "I dooon't know" With a smile on my face, I turn to 140 of my work colleagues who don't get me at the best of times, and proudly exclaim: "an egg". One person laughed. A few smiled. Mainly as I am laughing so hard at my own joke, and how badly it's gone down, I forget to call on the next act and have to walk off stage nearly crying with laughter. Comic relief at its glorious best.
One of the girls in the office is heading out to the USA on secondment for 3 months, just like I did. (I bet I had more fun: read about my time here) So after the show we head back to her place.
It must be said, before I continue telling this story, that 6 weeks ago I herniated a disc whilst playing rugby and have had severe referred neuropathic pain. It feels like the kind of pain you get after your legs have gone to sleep when you lean on them with your elbows when you're taking a shit. But constant. I have been taking some serious pain killers and diazepam (vallium) to control the pain.
Lesson 1: Don't mix vallium with alcohol. Especially when girls from work are about.
Back at hers, it's 9pm and I've sunk a bottle of wine. I move onto Henry Weston's 8.2% proof cider. This is when the effects of the vallium start to hit me. All of a sudden I'm smashed. I feel a wave of drunkness come over me and develop a glaze in my eyes. At this point, the girls are getting ready so it's just Jaron and I in her living room.
Me: "Jaron mate, can you do me a favour?"
Jaron: "What?"
Me: "Can you keep a look out, let me know the second her door opens"
Jaron: "What the fuck are you about to do. I don't even want to know, it's going to be weird, just like normal"
Me: "Watch this..."
Lesson 2: Don't take your trousers off and rub your penis in everything you can find in your colleague's kitchen.
Everything. I even got the cheese grater. The delight I was getting was so overwhelming I almost didn't hear Jaron's cry of: "mate she's coming". I quickly pull my trousers half way up and dive onto the couch. All she sees is me lying there with my belt undone. This is weird at the best of times, but she doesn't bat an eyelid when she says "typical Peter". This is the reputation I have for myself at work. I'm the guy who goes to other people's houses, lies on their couches and undoes his trousers. It was a close call, but safe.
Taxi's are here. We jump in. The girl we are with is mixed race. She looks very white, but she definitely has a black side when she's out. She also has a massive arse, in a good way. We head to a club which would have been Jeff's dream. Hip hop and R&B all night. Being your everyday white guy, this means I'm not into it.
Lesson 3: don't tell your work colleagues how easy you find it to pull.
My first move? Strut to the bar and order 3 shots of black sambuca. Emphasising the black when I place my order. I do it, turn around and wink and a girl from across the room who is shacking her bum. She beacons me over. Black girls are easy! I tap Jaron on the shoulder and get him to watch me in action. I want to show the guy how it's done. He gets all of my female colleagues to watch as I waltz over to her. I am the king of picking up girls. Yeah this will show my workmates what a good bloke I am. I suddenly panic. I am clearly going to say something inappropriate. "Show me how to dance like a black person" She doesn't like this and walks off. I turn around to see them all laughing at me. I strut back and tell everyone how we just weren't meant to be, and how I wasn't interested.
Lesson 4: 5s isn't fun with work colleagues
To liven the mood after my latest setback, I decide to introduce 5s to the group. I force everyone to play. The girls just don't get it! It ends up just being me and Jaron and the girls watching. We are playing to go over to the chinese girl in the corner and ask her how she feels being the only asian in the club. Jaron loses, sweet! Someone else can make a tit of themselves. He just doesn't do it, so in a display of manliness, and out of utter principal, I do it for him. I put my arm around her, and deliver the line. I think it comes across as racist to her, so when I tell her it's ok, as I am fluent in mandarin (incidently readers, I am) she thinks I'm joking and kicks up a storm. She starts yelling at me, calling me racist. Wow, girls in this place are feisty.
Lesson 5: Taking your top off is not ok with work colleagues
The club has performers, they are men dressed up as firemen. They come out, topless. My colleagues run over to them and want to get there photo taken with these chiselled stallions, and I don't blame them. These blokes are clearly going to get laid tonight and I want a piece of their action. I strut over and take my top off, asking if I can tag on behind. Girls are swanning over to me and want their photo taken with the ridiculously toned fireman, and his probably a little too chubby friend. It's a dream. I am loving it, girls are all over me! I look over and see my colleagues looking at me with their mouths open. Clearly drooling at me, and probably dripping wet. No. I'm on a works do and am topless with my arm around a semi naked fireman. I get spotted by a bouncer and begrudgingly put my top back on.
Lesson 6: Don't get your balls out in front of your colleagues.
Having thoroughly enjoyed the attention being topless provided me with, and am very angry the bouncer told me to put my clothes on, I decide to take it at step further. I climb onto the couch (coincidently next to my new asian friend) and drop my jeans. I rip my top off. Oh shit. I'm wearing old pants tonight, the type you wear as an indicator of when you need to do some washing. There are plenty of holes in them, and my balls are hanging out the bottom. To steal a phrase from Jack's blog, in for a penny, in for a pound. I whip my underwear down. I wish I'd trimmed. Only because having done this, I realise where I am. It's a well known fact that trimming gives you at least an extra inch, visually. I can't help but feel the population of black guys are laughing at me, with every fibre of their beings. 4 bouncers are running over to me. Jeans go up, shirt goes on, and I'm out of there! I text my apologies to the girls and jump in a taxi. I look at the time: 12:30. There I was thinking I'd be in bed before midnight.
I get home, and give the irish girl I'm seeing on Wednesdays and Sundays a ring, she obviously wants to hear from me. I wake her up and proceed to tell her I want to do every rude word to her in the English language. Classic flirting. I walk into the living room and find Paddy. When I say walk, I've actually fallen, hit the deck, and momentum has taken me most the way in. He laughs at me, and I take myself to bed. A solid nights work.
Happy hunting
Peter
Monday 14 March 2011
Back to the blog
Evening Gents.
It's been a while since I finished writing America Bosh, and a lot has happened in the intervening 6 months. Some personal highlights: a Mexican themed evening with Jack and Dave (a friend from school) involving shoe polish moustaches, a Brazilian girl, and a music student with wing tatoos; a university ski trip where the Dover police created a new law due to Kelly and my antics on the ferry over to France, a threesome with my Irish house mate Paddy, an awkward works do involving 3 different girls from work, Kelly stripping for a stripper in Birmingham, getting naked in front of 150 England fans watching the England France 6 nations game, Class A drugs and a herniated disc.
My decision to revisit the world of blog writing has been inspired by some classic blogging by my compatriot, Jack, of "High Level Review" fame.
I've been 'seeing someone'. This is that awkward phrase that 20 somethings use when you don't want a girlfriend at all, but like the regular sex and someone to go for drinks with. This particular girl is Irish, Sinead, and we have an agreement in which we see each other only on Sunday and Wednesday evenings. This works well for me as it means I get my Friday and Saturday evenings free for beer drinking, 5s and shagging anything I can find. This particular Friday, however, was a little bit different. The original plan was for Jack to come up and visit and we were to go out with Sinead and her friend. Unfortunately, Jack blew all this months wages on getting inked up, so had to cancel. This left me in the unfortunate position of having to see Sinead on a Friday night, something I am completely against. I get home from work, frustrated by the fact that this looked increasingly like the case.
Paddy walks in the door, gold. I didn't think he was around this weekend, and now I have someone to go out with. I sack off Sinead and we head to the shop to buy a couple bottles of wine and some condoms. Yes, I was backing myself. Game of 5s in the shop. I lost, and when buying the condoms, winked at the honey serving me and said: "that's right, I have sex" No giggling as I was expecting, and definitely no instant removal of the top and asking me to visit the store room. How has it not worked? I'm baffled.
Paddy and I get home, and play drinking darts as we normally do on a Friday night. A bottle and a half each later, we are ready to go out. We walk the 40 yards down the road to the bar we are starting off in. Walk in and head to the bar. 2 cougars standing there, one of which is pointing at me, and saying "this one?" I turn to her and ask her if she knows it's rude to point. She smiles and giggles at me. Can I be in this early doors? Her mate has taken a shine to Paddy. These two are just about 1s, are both 36, and both have a child. 1 drink down and things are going well. Very well. Paddy's is all over him and mine has just told me how much she wants to have 'no strings sex'. I am very good at no strings sex, so she has found the right man for the job.
Within 20 minutes of walking in the bar, Paddy and I are walking out, 2 cougars in tow. Upon our return to the house, they eagerly jump into bed with us. Paddy has been fucking his upstairs whilst I've been growling mine for 20 minutes. For the readers of America Bosh, you will know how much I love to growl. Cougar lady starts giving me head, which feels like my penis is being sucked off by a crocodile. It's terrible, so I make her stop and throw her onto my bed and take out a condom. I've taken it out its wrapper and all of a sudden she says: "stop, I'm engaged". No way. What? Hang on, you're engaged and yet you are lying naked in my bed within 45 minutes of meeting me? And now you morally have a problem? Sometimes women make no sense. I laugh and continue to put the condom on, telling her I can't see a ring, so she's lying. She insists and pushes me away. I now face a challenging decision. How far do I go to get the notch? Is she worth the 7 year prison sentence that is attached to rape? I am stronger than her so it's on the cards, and I do like simulated rape in porn. Could this be the same? It seems easy enough when they do it, and surely she'll get into after a couple thrusts? My heart sinks. I can't do it. If she had been the oldest couger I'd ever shagged, then maybe it would have been a little more acceptable, but I got a 42 year old on my last night in the states, so decide to back out given she has been saying no aggressively for a few minutes whilst I've contemplated the above.
"Ok that's fine. Get up, get dressed and get out". Harsh, but having just had your cock borderline bitten off and been denied sex in possibly the worst way, I feel I have a point. She does, and Paddy walks in. He's finished with his, and she is waiting behind him ready to go. We kick them out and wait 2 minutes for them to walk away before heading back out. After all it is only 23:30, and I'm very frustrated. We leave the house and walk up the road, back up to the bars. We see the two cougars standing on the corner waiting for their cab. I turn to Paddy, and say: "no matter what, pretend they don't exist". We walk by them and basically brush shoulders. They try to stop us and talk, but we stay strong and don't flinch. Looking back on it, it's not the nicest thing to have done in the world, blanking 2 girls you've just had naked, but it was fairly funny when they started screaming "you cunts" at us as we walked down the road.
We get into one bar where I tend to go on my dates now a days. I've taken Sinead there a few times, and have got to know the Russian barman fairly well. Snatch everywhere and I need it. I feel the desperation and the frustration come over me, I want to break someone's hip tonight. Stood at the bar getting free shots off my Russian friend for any girl that dares talk to me- a risk when they see the anger in my eyes. I meet a 29 year old teacher at the bar, and hand her free shots. I am in no mood to piss about trying to chat her up, so I try the direct approach. "Kate, are we going to go back to yours and fuck or what?" So yet again, 20 minutes after walking into a bar, I am walking back out again. Either I'm on dynamite form, or these girls are hideous, I'm pissed and they think I'm the best they'll ever get. Not being arrogant here, these girls could honestly be THAT ugly. We head back to hers and I finally take my frustrations out on her, unfortunately no broken bones.
Half way through, I take a phone call from Sinead. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but alas, I'm thinking about the possibility of growling 3 different clunges in one evening. Some sort of record? I'm telling Kate to be quiet so I can hear. She is already home, and I am no where near finished, so I sack her off and finish up and pass out.
Upon waking in the morning, she doesn't turn out to be that bad! Yes! My form might be that good! I've spent £30 in total-£15 a clunge. Not a bad return. I walk home (taking a huge detour) and arrive back 2 hours later to find Paddy has a ridiculously fit piece back and has done the double. My joy in my achievements has been sunk. Well played Paddy, and we are meeting up with her and her friends this coming Friday. Guaranteed nosh.
Am I proud of what I've done? Yes. After heading round to Sineads on Saturday afternoon, I have growled 3 birds in 14 hours.
Upcoming on my social agenda is a trip to Croatia with Jack, Danny and my friend from Manchester, Wayne. It's going to be insane, we all get needlessly excited, needless drunk, and needlessly reckless.
Till next time.
Happy hunting.
Peter
It's been a while since I finished writing America Bosh, and a lot has happened in the intervening 6 months. Some personal highlights: a Mexican themed evening with Jack and Dave (a friend from school) involving shoe polish moustaches, a Brazilian girl, and a music student with wing tatoos; a university ski trip where the Dover police created a new law due to Kelly and my antics on the ferry over to France, a threesome with my Irish house mate Paddy, an awkward works do involving 3 different girls from work, Kelly stripping for a stripper in Birmingham, getting naked in front of 150 England fans watching the England France 6 nations game, Class A drugs and a herniated disc.
My decision to revisit the world of blog writing has been inspired by some classic blogging by my compatriot, Jack, of "High Level Review" fame.
I've been 'seeing someone'. This is that awkward phrase that 20 somethings use when you don't want a girlfriend at all, but like the regular sex and someone to go for drinks with. This particular girl is Irish, Sinead, and we have an agreement in which we see each other only on Sunday and Wednesday evenings. This works well for me as it means I get my Friday and Saturday evenings free for beer drinking, 5s and shagging anything I can find. This particular Friday, however, was a little bit different. The original plan was for Jack to come up and visit and we were to go out with Sinead and her friend. Unfortunately, Jack blew all this months wages on getting inked up, so had to cancel. This left me in the unfortunate position of having to see Sinead on a Friday night, something I am completely against. I get home from work, frustrated by the fact that this looked increasingly like the case.
Paddy walks in the door, gold. I didn't think he was around this weekend, and now I have someone to go out with. I sack off Sinead and we head to the shop to buy a couple bottles of wine and some condoms. Yes, I was backing myself. Game of 5s in the shop. I lost, and when buying the condoms, winked at the honey serving me and said: "that's right, I have sex" No giggling as I was expecting, and definitely no instant removal of the top and asking me to visit the store room. How has it not worked? I'm baffled.
Paddy and I get home, and play drinking darts as we normally do on a Friday night. A bottle and a half each later, we are ready to go out. We walk the 40 yards down the road to the bar we are starting off in. Walk in and head to the bar. 2 cougars standing there, one of which is pointing at me, and saying "this one?" I turn to her and ask her if she knows it's rude to point. She smiles and giggles at me. Can I be in this early doors? Her mate has taken a shine to Paddy. These two are just about 1s, are both 36, and both have a child. 1 drink down and things are going well. Very well. Paddy's is all over him and mine has just told me how much she wants to have 'no strings sex'. I am very good at no strings sex, so she has found the right man for the job.
Within 20 minutes of walking in the bar, Paddy and I are walking out, 2 cougars in tow. Upon our return to the house, they eagerly jump into bed with us. Paddy has been fucking his upstairs whilst I've been growling mine for 20 minutes. For the readers of America Bosh, you will know how much I love to growl. Cougar lady starts giving me head, which feels like my penis is being sucked off by a crocodile. It's terrible, so I make her stop and throw her onto my bed and take out a condom. I've taken it out its wrapper and all of a sudden she says: "stop, I'm engaged". No way. What? Hang on, you're engaged and yet you are lying naked in my bed within 45 minutes of meeting me? And now you morally have a problem? Sometimes women make no sense. I laugh and continue to put the condom on, telling her I can't see a ring, so she's lying. She insists and pushes me away. I now face a challenging decision. How far do I go to get the notch? Is she worth the 7 year prison sentence that is attached to rape? I am stronger than her so it's on the cards, and I do like simulated rape in porn. Could this be the same? It seems easy enough when they do it, and surely she'll get into after a couple thrusts? My heart sinks. I can't do it. If she had been the oldest couger I'd ever shagged, then maybe it would have been a little more acceptable, but I got a 42 year old on my last night in the states, so decide to back out given she has been saying no aggressively for a few minutes whilst I've contemplated the above.
"Ok that's fine. Get up, get dressed and get out". Harsh, but having just had your cock borderline bitten off and been denied sex in possibly the worst way, I feel I have a point. She does, and Paddy walks in. He's finished with his, and she is waiting behind him ready to go. We kick them out and wait 2 minutes for them to walk away before heading back out. After all it is only 23:30, and I'm very frustrated. We leave the house and walk up the road, back up to the bars. We see the two cougars standing on the corner waiting for their cab. I turn to Paddy, and say: "no matter what, pretend they don't exist". We walk by them and basically brush shoulders. They try to stop us and talk, but we stay strong and don't flinch. Looking back on it, it's not the nicest thing to have done in the world, blanking 2 girls you've just had naked, but it was fairly funny when they started screaming "you cunts" at us as we walked down the road.
We get into one bar where I tend to go on my dates now a days. I've taken Sinead there a few times, and have got to know the Russian barman fairly well. Snatch everywhere and I need it. I feel the desperation and the frustration come over me, I want to break someone's hip tonight. Stood at the bar getting free shots off my Russian friend for any girl that dares talk to me- a risk when they see the anger in my eyes. I meet a 29 year old teacher at the bar, and hand her free shots. I am in no mood to piss about trying to chat her up, so I try the direct approach. "Kate, are we going to go back to yours and fuck or what?" So yet again, 20 minutes after walking into a bar, I am walking back out again. Either I'm on dynamite form, or these girls are hideous, I'm pissed and they think I'm the best they'll ever get. Not being arrogant here, these girls could honestly be THAT ugly. We head back to hers and I finally take my frustrations out on her, unfortunately no broken bones.
Half way through, I take a phone call from Sinead. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but alas, I'm thinking about the possibility of growling 3 different clunges in one evening. Some sort of record? I'm telling Kate to be quiet so I can hear. She is already home, and I am no where near finished, so I sack her off and finish up and pass out.
Upon waking in the morning, she doesn't turn out to be that bad! Yes! My form might be that good! I've spent £30 in total-£15 a clunge. Not a bad return. I walk home (taking a huge detour) and arrive back 2 hours later to find Paddy has a ridiculously fit piece back and has done the double. My joy in my achievements has been sunk. Well played Paddy, and we are meeting up with her and her friends this coming Friday. Guaranteed nosh.
Am I proud of what I've done? Yes. After heading round to Sineads on Saturday afternoon, I have growled 3 birds in 14 hours.
Upcoming on my social agenda is a trip to Croatia with Jack, Danny and my friend from Manchester, Wayne. It's going to be insane, we all get needlessly excited, needless drunk, and needlessly reckless.
Till next time.
Happy hunting.
Peter
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