Billys Website

Lou Reed Expulsion

// December 13th, 2007 // No Comments » // Stories

One week after the Great White Shaft episode in London, I had tickets to go and see Lou Reed at the Edinburgh Playhouse.

When I went to pick up my pals up and I told them about the GWS at the Comedy Store and they thought I’d seriously lost my marbles. They started making jokes about the fact that I better not get thrown out of the Lou Reed gig. I, of course, laughed also, the very idea seemed absurd. I think you can tell what’s coming, can’t you?

So we went to the gig at the Edinburgh Playhouse where I am old enough to remember when everyone used to leave their seats and stand down at the front during a gig and get a good atmosphere going, but not these fucking ‘bureaucracy gone mad ‘days. Because of all the population control, eh sorry, Health and Safety Regulations you’re not allowed to do that anymore.

So I was prepared for that, so I said to the steward that I was just going to stand at the very back of the hall so I could dance by myself. I mean, what harm could that do?

"No, No – get to your seat, get to your seat. It’s more than my jobs worth to let anyone enjoy themselves" she said. So I had to squeeze into row double KK and wait for Lou to come on so I could tap my foot and nod my head approvingly.

But I was going through a phase where I was finding out about authoritarian control of the population by the government and I thought it was all part of a big conspiracy, plus and mainly I just wanted to dance, to express my soul through body movement, anyone remember that?

So at the start of the 4th song, I said to myself ‘Fuck this! nobody tells Billy Watson to sit down at a concert.’ Especially Lou Reed for fucks sake. Different if it was Phantom of the Opera or something but Lou was in the Velvet Fucking Underground!!! Maybe the rest of the audience have lost their souls but I’m going to fight to keep mine alive.

So I got up, walked right down the front of the stage and stood all by myself, staring at Lou Reed. I felt a bit of a prick to tell you the truth. There was like 3000 pairs of eyes boring into the back of my head, going, "What’s he doing? Who the fuck does he think he is? Get back into your seat. I paid £34 to tap my foot to Lou Reed, how dare you enjoy yourself" were the mutterings.

Of course, within 30 seconds 2 bouncers were across "Get back in your seat"
"I just want to stand here" I replied.
"You’re not allowed. Get back in your seat"
So reluctantly I went to the back of the hall where originally I just wanted to dance. There was no steward there now. But that wasn’t good enough for me now. This was a stand off. Me against the fascist dictatorship.

So as the 4th song really kicked into gear, I skipped from the back of the hall, all the way down the front and started jumping up and down like crazy. "Go on, Lou. Go for it" I turned round to the audience. They were wondering what drugs I had been taking by this point. I started to try and get all them going. Like in days of old, excitement at seeing a Legend.

A few of them stood up, a few were caught in no man’s land. Their souls were screaming, ‘Yeah, go for it’ but their conditioned mind was saying ‘Oh no. I can’t express emotion outside of my robot like normality’.

I was urging them to join me for some good old fashioned Rock and Roll before it was too late, lets claim back our music for fucks sake. They were too slow though, because the bouncers were soon across. "Let me see your ticket, get back to your seat."
"No"
"No? What do you mean No?"
"I mean I’m not going back to my seat"
"Well, we’re going to have to throw you out then."
"Well, I guess that’s what you’re going to have to do, because I’m not fucking moving"

Arm up the back and escorted out the building. One of the sheep didn’t take to kindly to my antics, "Yeah, fuck off" she yelled. I thought, "Oh well, everyone’s entitled to their opinion, fucking stupid cow."

On the way out, I was saying to the bouncers, "It’s ok guys, I understand you’ve got a job to do. A mortgage and wife and kids to keep. It’s the system man. I just wanted to enjoy myself."

I think they were quite sympathetic as they didn’t through me out of the building with full force, more like a little nudge. It had happened again, deja vu. I started pissing myself laughing. Then I thought "MMMmm £34 for 4 songs. Whose the fucking mug ? "

I was told by my friends later that, when I got up to go to the front they thought I’d gone to the toilet. They were rather surprised when one said to the other "Is that Billy down there being ejected by those bouncers?"

They knew it was me as I was led past row KK and out the building. I was having a drink in the pub next door, expecting to wait about 2 hours until the gig finished and my friends left. But next thing you know they appeared in the pub looking for me. "What are you lot doing here?" "Oh we left the gig to come and get you ya daft bastard" They couldn’t be arsed with the sitting like sardines policy either.

I didn’t want them to leave the gig and felt really bad especially as one of the lads was actually a workmate of one of my friends; it was the first time he’s been let out the house by himself since his wife had a baby about 4 years ago. He’d been dying to see Lou Reed for about 15 years. I could tell by his face he wasn’t too pleased with me.

I actually got a mention in the review of the gig in the Edinburgh Evening News. It went like this, ‘The song Turning the Tide started innocuously enough, slowly building into a crescendo, sending one punter into paroxysms at the front of the stage. Security staff try to remonstrate with the man but he is oblivious and is eventually led away by them.’

I had to look up paroxysms in a dictionary to find out what they were. Seeing as how I was in them, apparently.

Going into a fit or rage, is the definition. I mean, can you imagine me going into a fit or rage. I mean, really, come on. It was just a celebration of life or at least that’s how I perceived it through my very stoned mind.

Of course, now you’re not even allowed to smoke a cigarette at a gig, far less a joint (Ok, so technically we’ve neverbeen allowed to do that but at least you could get away with it). Now what’s the fucking point of going? All the enjoyment has been taken out of life. I hate the fucking sheeple.

Chatlines

// November 13th, 2007 // No Comments » // Stories

Because I can’t have a normal wank these days after my mind has been warped by that fucking internet porn, I phoned the Chatlines for a new wank thrill when my computer broke down.

By the way, women get on these phone lines for free and men have to pay 60p a fucking minute. My wife’s out at work earning the minimum wage, £3.70 an hour and I’m at home wanking to strangers paying 60p a fucking minute!!!!

Something’s not right about that scenario. I thought these were enlightened times when men and women were equal, eh, how about some equality please, it should be 30p a minute for each sex surely.

Let me give you an insight into the chatline world for those of you who are inexperienced in such matters.

First of all I drop my trousers round my ankles and hop onto the bed. Then I have to get my balls loose, because, I don’t know if the ladies know this or not, but sometimes your ball sack gets so tight that your testicles start shooting up the inside of your groin.

You have to kind of push them back down using two fingers doing a walking technique. Then you squeeze your ball bag to get your balls nice and loose. Use it a bit like a stress ball and you get the idea. You don’t want to start wanking with a tight ball bag because your hand bounces of your balls and they shout up to you something like ‘Hey, sort it out big man, we’re not a pair of fucking spacehoppers, you know.’

Then what happens is, all the men phone up and leave their name and introduction and all the ladies get to hear them and if they like the sound of the guy they send him a message. Fair enough.

And all the men get to hear the ladies name and introduction and then proceed to send a message to every single one of them, hoping to find at least one horny bitch to have phone sex with. And you usually do. Well I usually do anyway.

But that’s only because I have thought of the ultimate name and introduction to get the all girls gagging for it straight away, would you like to hear it? Yes? Ok.

Well first of all you have to ask yourself, what do women like in a man? Well they like intelligent men… so your advert should be clever, it should show some thought behind it.

What else do women like? Well, they like men with a good sense of humour, don’t you girls, that’s very important. So your advert should be funny, it should give them a giggle.

What else do they like? Oh yeah, they like a good hard cock rammed up their tight little pussies until they’re screaming the fucking walls down, while being told they’re a dirty dirty girl. Right? So you need to get their pussies quivering in anticipation of your reply.

But before I tell you what I use for a name and introduction, let me give you an example of some of the other introductions the girls would hear that try to compete with me for their phone sex attention.

The first one could be something like this…
"Hello, I’m John from Belfast and I like pubbing and clubbing." Well, that’s not very exciting is it? But as about 90% of all the girls messages are the same,
"Hello I’m Debbie from Manchester and I like pubbing and clubbing"
"Hello Lisa from Liverpool here and I like pubbing and clubbing"
"Aright, Mary from Glasgae here, I like goin’ tae the boozer, sinking as many Bicardi Breezers as is humanly possible before goin’ on tae a club tae pull a man wi’ a big cock"
So, you never know, John might have some success with that advert. All you pubbers and clubbers can get together…. you’re fucking welcome to each other as far as I’m concerned.

Then the next advert could be something like this, "Hello, I’m Edward, any of you girls want to talk about football" Well he’s not going to get any replies is he? Mr Bore you to death in 2 minutes flat.

Then you could get this guy "Hello, I’m Tam and I like smelling sweaty girls fannies". Well, that’s a bit too rude to start with isn’t it, I mean you just don’t go diving straight in there, but you never know, you never know, he might get points for honesty.

Then you come to my advert, the ultimate name and introduction to get all the girls soaking their knickers straight away, here it is…remember it’s got to be clever, funny and sexy, here it is…
"Who’s the private Dick that’s a sex machine to all the chicks? Shaft! Damn Straight!!"
I tell you the messages come fucking flying in,
"Ha, Ha, Ha your advert made me laugh, please get back and tell me more"
Or, "Hey, I liked your advert. I’d like to suck that private Dick of yours,"
Or "If you’re a sex machine why don’t you prove it"
No problem darling, you just tell me what clothes you are wearing and I’ll tell you in which order you should start to remove them.

There is only one problem with having such a great advert and that is when you do find a really horny Lady to talk dirty to, it takes about half an hour to speak to her again, because there is a queue of about 14 other girls all dying to talk to you, even if it is just to tell you that you are not a very wise person and that you should vacate the service immediately. Or words to that effect anyway.

But don’t let those narrow minded nasty ones put you off, because in between all the abusive ones, sometimes, you can have up to 6 or 7 horny girls all on the go at the one time. Your cock’s going up and down more times than a whores knickers.

This is where it gets a bit tricky, because you have to remember at what stage of hornieness you last left each particular girl.

I mean, for instance, you don’t want to be sucking her tits and biting her ear, when in the message before you were inserting a large cucumber up her crack. It takes skill, determination and passion for the job to do it properly and I do like making you sexy girls happy.

But occasionally you get a sexy lady who is brave enough to ask the Shaft man for a 1-2-1. Poor, poor misguided child that she is.

Like Sandra, for instance, the horny Welsh Tart. Now, Sandra was already in a state of some excitement after the messages I had sent her so I knew it would be worthwhile forsaking all the other not quite so horny chicks, to focus my attention on Sandra, so to speak

So the operator connects us "Hello is that Sandra, the horny Welsh tart who likes licking big purple headed lollipops?" Sandra says, "Yes".

They never speak much, by the way, the girls on these chatlines, fucking one word answers is all you get, they want you to do all the hard work, so what you have to do is, you have to step up the level of dirty talk to another plateau altogether, just to give yourself something to cum over, apart from the fact there is a girl masturbating herself silly down the other end of the phone, so you start by saying…

"If I was with you right now Sandra, you know what you could do, you could take my one eyed trouser snake in your hand and try to suffocate it in the valley of your fleshy mountains. You would like that wouldn’t you?"
"Oh Yes"
"Then you could take it into your mouth and taste its pre-venom, don’t worry it’s not poisonous. Then I could go down to the garden to smell that sweet flower of yours. You would enjoy that wouldn’t you Sandra?"
"Yes"
"Right Sandra, do you know what I’m going to do now, I’m going to nibble on your vertical Bacon Sandwich, until the grease is thoroughly dripping out, you like that don’t you Sandra?"
"Oh Yes"
"Do you know what I’m doing right now, Sandra,"
"What?"
"I’ve got my trousers round my ankles and I’m positioning my love rocket, thinking about you, lying there, with your finger on your love button, you are playing with yourself aren’t you Sandra?"
"Oh Yes"
"Right Sandra, I’m going to start my piston action, I want you to give the signal for my train to enter your tunnel, and this one, won’t be de-railed, Baby"
"Oh yes, enter my cave", she screams.
"My rifle is ready to unload, the bombs are about to drop, so you better start squeezing your hooters if you want to set your alarm bell off"
At this point she starts getting a bit more vocal "Oh yes, yes, I love it, harder, harder, more, more"
"That’s it babe, you take it, I’m giving it to you from behind now"
"Oh yes harder, harder, give it to me, Oh that’s amazing, fuckin’ hell, I love it, I love it"
I thought ‘Fucking Hell, I’ve never been this good when they’ve been in the same fucking room as me!!! Never mind another country’.

Then there was Diana, another girl who was brave enough to ask me for a 1-2-1, or should I say I was brave enough to say yes to her request for a 1-2-1, because I’m not joking, what a fuckin’ Dirty Diana she was!!

She told me a story of how her boyfriend tied her hands together, blindfolded her and made her bend over naked for 90 minutes as he and all his mates watched Man Utd play in Europe.

Then when the game was over she was given a fair old rodgering, and to this day she still doesn’t know exactly who the men were. I tell you, I nearly lost an eye when she told me that little story!

She also told me that she can also deep throat a guy to the base of his cock and control when he cums by using her gulp! And then of course she swallows it all down, lovingly. Well it’s probably too late by that time anyway.

If there is any girl out there who thinks her boyfriend may be starting to eye up other birds, I suggest you learn that little technique…even if it means getting your tonsils removed. You’ll get another 4 or 5 years out of him at least.

Diana actually scared me a little, I have to tell you. I started off doing my usual dirty talk, but that wasn’t good enough for her, so she then she took over, before I knew it I was down on my hands and knees with a dog collar round my neck, eating her shite. I thought WHOA, this has went too far, but what the hell, I thought, you only live once.

Then one day I received a monthly phone bill from Telewest communications that read £259. I wanted to kill myself. Somebody should have just shot me, right there and then. For the rest of the week, I could barely raise a smile, never mind a hard on.

I kept phoning up Telewest to put a bar on the line but they never answered the fucking phone. You would think a phone company would know how to answer the phone wouldn’t you? But no, 25 minutes waiting time. So I kept hanging up without getting a call bar on the premium rate numbers.

So next time I needed a wank, I was back on the Chatlines. So their evil plan worked and I had to pay £314 for the next months phone bill. Fucking bastards. They won’t take that as an excuse though will they? They would say I should have waited up to 6 hours for a fucking operator.

Sometimes I think you really need to hit the bottom of the barrel before you realize what a complete tosser you are being and say ‘Ok it’s time to get a fucking grip here’. Or maybe loosen my grip and put my one-eyed trouser snake away, at least until the wife comes home. You know, show her some respect.

Also, I’m sick of getting up every day at 8.30am just so I can get to the morning post before she does. She’s not seen a phone bill or a bank statement in fucking years. She thinks it’s all done online now.

I think she would forgive me for talking dirty to other girls but she’d probably divorce me for a £259 phone bill, let alone one that was followed by a £314 one. And quite right so. I wanted to divorce myself for being that stupid and selfish.

My lovely wife’s counting the pennies when she goes shopping, getting all the bargains, ladies love to do that anyway, but she’s not even been to a hairdresser in years. She cuts and dies her own hair. I caught her once just as she was about to try and tattoo herself!! That’s dedication to the family cause that is.

So I want to try and be more like that. I’ve only got my CD addiction to overcome now and we might finally get the black for once, cause everytime I think of phoning a chatline, a big voice in my head shouts "£314 You fucking arsehole!" And that puts me off, in fact I feel physically sick.

I guess it’s true what they say about addictions. It’s a bit like your Dad making you smoke 10 packets of fags when you were younger, after he caught you smoking one, cause believe me a £314 monthly phone bill is the equivalent of smoking 10 million packets of fags and that really does make you want to give up forever.

So what’s the moral of the story. If you know you have any addictions, or you’re about to do something you know you shouldn’t then either do it or don’t do it, but know that you WILL end up facing the consequences of your actions and know that the day will come when you WILL see sense, eventually, so why not see it before that fucking £314 phone bill arrives.

BUT, I guess I needed one more lesson before I learned my lesson once and for all. After getting my £314 phone bill, I phoned up Telewest and after reading War and Peace while waiting on an operator I eventually got through to put a bar on all premium rate calls. Well done Billy.

But then I went down to London for a weekend for a course without my loving wife. I was staying in a posh hotel near Kings Cross Station.

Without my computer or my wife I didn’t know how I was going to get myself off. Ordinary wanking just doesn’t do anything for me anymore. I think I’ve stunted my imagination.

So I walked round the Kings Cross area, trying to get the balls to go into a sex shop or a newsagents to buy a porn mag to wank over. But I was too embarrassed as it’s been years since I’ve done that. So I ended up going back to the hotel where I found Time Out (What’s On in London) magazine in the hotel foyer to read.

I gave my wife a quick phone call to let her know I was fine but we cut it short because we were trying to watch the cash situation, what with me being unemployed. Just before I was about to nod off I had a quick look through Time Out magazine.

Unfortunately, there were adverts for the chatlines in this magazine and me being in a predicament with no internet or wife or porn mag, reverted back to my worst habit of all. I phoned up the chatline to try and catch a horny girl, which of course I did. As soon as I’d cum though and put the phone down, I hated myself and felt really guilty. That didn’t stop me doing it again the next night though.

Now going by the rate of 60p a minute I reckoned my bill would have been about £30, which I could have told my wife was just for meals at the hotel. So after convincing myself that I wasn’t a complete waste of space, I went to sleep.

I woke up on Sunday morning, with my bill having been pushed under the door. I opened it up and this is the Gods honest truth, it read, wait for it….. £845!!!!! "AAAAAaaaaarrrrrggghhhhhhhh!!!! Holy Shit. Please God, NO. What the fuck? It cannae be. Of fuck, I am so fucking dead." I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. My mind was reeling. I could just see my wife cutting my balls off next time I slept beside her.

I went down to the reception to beg for my life. "Look, there must be some mistake, I only done about £30 worth of wanking. I should know, I’m an expert on this subject"

The hotel manager was very considerate, he cut the bill in half to take off all the Hotels profit but apparently the exchange they were using charged a different rate from the promised 60p a minute in the advert.

I had to go home and immediately confess to my wife about my £420 phone bill. I’ve still not confessed to the original total. I’ll leave her reaction to your imagination. It’s safe to say though that I’ll never, ever, ever, ever, EVER dial any of the 0906 numbers ever, ever, ever, EVER again. Well, not unless I acquire a sudden death wish.

Driving

// October 13th, 2007 // No Comments » // Stories

I recently decided to give up drink driving as it was starting to become a hobby. I was getting pretty good at it and the drink started creeping into other areas of my life. Before I knew it I was drink scuba diving. Drink mountain climbing. Drink parachute jumping!!! It was starting to get dangerous.

One time I was hurtling towards the ground at about 500mph thinking "Hey, I’m sure there is something I’m supposed to do here…Oh Aye, I need tae pull the cord"

Then I thought "Shit, where’s ma parachute? I was so pissed I’d forgot to put my parachute on. Luckily I landed on a Bouncy Castle and bounced straight back into the plane. The pilot said to me "I thought you’d gone"
I just played it cool and said "Aye I had, I’ve just come back for my parachute"

My drink driving wasn’t doing anybody any good. Least of all the passengers in my car. They lost about 3 stone in weight every journey, cause I liked to fuck with their minds when I was drunk behind the wheel of an automobile. Mind you, that didn’t stop them getting in the car next time I decided I was ‘a’right’ to drive home from the pub. Anything tae save money on a taxi.

The last time I done it was the time that made me stop. I had been drinking and smoking dope at a friend’s house at New Year until 6 in the morning and even I knew I was too drunk to drive, so my wife volunteered. Unfortunately I was also too drunk to realise she was drunker than I was.
She thought she’d be cool and try and show off and do what I normally do when I’m drunk, that is, swerve all about the road for a laugh. Of course I didn’t find it so funny. Especially as the roads were covered in Black Ice.

I screamed "Stop it, will you please stop, you’re going to crash the car." She just laughed and swerved even more and started pissing herself laughing,
"Ha, ha, now you know how it feels, not so funny now is it?"
"No it’s not, now will you stop and let me drive, you are going to crash the car, for christsakes"
I had to take control of the situation, so at the next set of lights I jumped out and made her get in the passenger seat and I took over….and then I crashed the car.
Not because of the black ice, but because I started playing my stupid swerving game again, "Whahhy. Hilarious innit?" Wallup!!! Straight into a lampost.

I tell you, there’s nothing like a car crash to make you sober up. Somehow I managed to get the car home and hid it in the garage. The next afternoon, well maybe tea-time when I woke up. I found a speeding fine letter awaiting me at the bottom of the stairs from a week previous. I thought,
"Maybe somebody’s trying to tell me something here, I’m starting to see a pattern" I had to get a grip before I killed somebody and spent the rest of my life in jail avoiding the shower.

Ibiza Uncovered

I am thinking about giving up drink altogether because one night recently I was ill and so spent Friday night in the house for a change and Ibiza uncovered came on the TV. I was looking at these idiots staggering about everywhere and being sick in the middle of the street, thinking they were so cool and then I realised… it was fucking ME!!!!!
I can’t even remember going to Ibiza. I went and got my passport and sure enough there was a stamp. Ibiza Jun 91, Ibiza Jun 92, Ibiza Jun 93. I opened the drawer and discovered I had bought fucking Timeshare there!!!

Personal Revolution

But I’ve not worn a seatbelt for the past 5 months. It’s my personal way of starting a revolution. At first it’s great when a police car goes past and you don’t get caught, but after a while it gets boring. It’s like a drug, you need more and more to get high.
The next biggest thrill is sitting in front of them at traffic lights and still not put your seatbelt on. If you can do that and remain calm you’re well on your way to Buddahood.
Actually the ultimate test for Buddahood is sitting beside the wife when she’s driving and not constantly going for imaginary brake. In fact I think the Dali Lama would have trouble with that one. He would need to sit on his cushion 24 hours a day to be that calm.

Another thing I’ve starting doing just for the hell of it, is to drive away at lights after people have crossed but the lights are still at red. You can see people in their cars screaming "You can’t do that, it’s against the law!!"
"Fuck the law, there’s no-one crossing for miles." Let’s keep it real, eh?

Or an even better one is when you drive out of petrol stations using the wrong exit. I done that the other day and the lady was going mental.
I was like "Look there is people starving in Africa and all you are bothered about is whether or not I come out a garage the right way. Get a fucking life."

Bob Dylan Fiasco

Because of a football injury I got my wife had to drive to Newcastle for a Bob Dylan concert. And I always get a bit nervous when she’s driving because basically she drives like I do. I don’t know if it’s a control issue of mine but I want to tell her every single move to make. Slow down, indicate, speed up etc
But she does some things that get me very nervous. Like when we come to the end of the road or if there are red traffic lights ahead, she starts to accelerate. Or she gets right behind, and I mean right behind, like 2 metres, a very big truck or van, doing 90 mph and refuses to overtake it. I can’t see a thing ahead of me. It’s at times like that you find God.

Anyway, going to Newcastle, I was braking and fidgeting a lot but trying to conceal it as best I could, until she indicated to overtake (eventually) when there was a very large truck coming the other way. I panicked and hit the indicator off, grabbed the wheel and pulled us back in. I then told her how silly she was being although I didn’t use those exact words.

Well, she pulled over to the side of the road and started screaming at me for making her nervous. Me making her nervous, she fucking started it. So we had this big screaming match, and I got a red rage and started punching fuck out of the seat. At this point we’re heading for the divorce courts, which suited me fine at the time.

So we get to Newcastle town centre, me with my crutches and she’s still upset with me cause she said I hit her arm. I didn’t, I brushed it lightly, she just bruises easily. So by this time I’d had enough and just said ‘Ok, cheerio then.’ But she took me seriously and fucked off and left me to wander around Newcastle for the rest of the day all by myself on my crutches.

I met up with her at the gig, and she still wasn’t talking to me. After the gig she stormed away to the car, and I was playing catch up. I was left in the car park calling her all kinds of names because I didn’t know where she’d parked the fucking car. Eventually I found the car and I drove home in agony. Every time I pressed the clutch I had tears in my eyes but I wouldn’t tell her that.
Eventually I realised what an arsehole I was and apologised. After all she wasn’t going to admit she was wrong was she? And it had been 4 and a half months without a ride since that incident.

Partners Fathers

// September 19th, 2007 // No Comments » // Stories

My first girlfriend’s dad didn’t like me very much. He thought I was just using her to experiment with sex with and as it turns out he was right.

I treated her very badly not during the relationship, just the way I ended it. I went out with her for 2 years, discovering all about sex but as soon as I got through the whole repertoire, I threw her away like an old smelly sock. As soon as she swallowed my cum, that was it, it was over.

I didn’t realize in those days that anal sex was an option or it might have lasted a little bit longer. And then I would have discarded her like an old smelly sock.

I thought I would go on to shag lots of other girls and indeed women and that my life would become one big shagfest. How wrong I was. I spent the next 4 years phoning her up every night I was drunk, which was basically every night, pleading for her to take me back. But she just played that Beautiful South song down the phone line to me ‘I’ve had a little time to think it over, I’ve has a little time to work it out’ and then she laughed hysterically before hanging up.

I started going out with her when I was 17 and she was 15. See as soon as the clock struck midnight on her 16th birthday, which was 2 weeks after I met her, I stuck my Willy in her. I do have some morals. Or at least, I did then.

It was actually a bit of a disaster my first shagging experience. The whole thing wasn’t very pleasurable.

First off, I must have bought some extra large condoms or something. Either that or my willy was extra small cause this thing just wasn’t a good fit at all. It was like putting a football sock on your little finger.

The actual sex lasted about 30 seconds if I’m lucky. It didn’t actually feel as though I’d lost my virginity at all. It felt more like I’d just misplaced it.

The second time wasn’t much better, in fact it was worse cause my cock broke about 2 minutes into it. We were in my friend’s parents bed at a party, you know, as you do, and I felt a kind of ping in my helmet area.

I took my willy out and the condom had blood pouring out of it. I was like "Oh fuck’s sake here we fucking go." That was the end of the passion for the night. The rest of the night was spent washing the sheets about 40 times to try and get all the blood stains out of them. Do you ever ask yourself, "Why me God. Why me’"

But I gave my first girlfriends’ dad plenty of other reasons not to like me.

For instance, one night after I’d been out drinking with my pals and trying to chat up every other girl in sight and failing miserably (so much for my morals), I thought I’d turn up at my girlfriends house at 3 in the morning to try and get the leg over her. After all, I’d just managed to convince her to go on the pill at 16 so I might as well try and make the most of it.

But when I turned up at her house I felt sick from all the cocktails I’d been drinking and was sick everywhere and I mean, everywhere.

Her mum gave me a basin and tried to clean most of it up while the family dog started eating my sick!! When her dad appeared to see what was happening. I was lying on the living room floor with my head in a basin. I looked up, "Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just the guy who’s shagging your daughter, and spewing on your carpet at 3 in the morning. I’ll be alright"

I am one of these people who seem to keep fucking up regardless of how hard I try to make things run smoothly. One of the most embarrassing things that’s ever happened to me in this aspect was regarding my father-in-law.

My wife is Turkish you see, and apparently I gave him the all time biggest insult when I never went to Turkey to ask him for permission to marry his daughter. How was I supposed to know these antiquated ways of thinking were still alive and well in some other parts of the world? So he never came to the wedding on point of principle. Fair enough.

So I was a bit nervous when I went to stay in his house for the first time when I visited with my wife. I didn’t want to upset him in any way. Obviously father’s are protective of their daughters and don’t want to see them being taken advantage of in any way.

And it’s always a bit weird when you’re shagging a girl and her father’s in the next room. You have to keep the noise down and pretend like nothings going on.

So when we got up in the mornings instead of me just wrapping the condom in toilet paper and putting it in the bucket that they keep beside the toilet in Turkey, you know for arse wiped paper. I thought I’d wrap it in toilet paper and put it down the toilet, that way there would be absolutely no chance of it ever being seen again.

So all was fine for the first week, until one day, early in the second week when I went for a shit. I tried to flush the toilet and the thing overflowed and shit and water started going all over the bathroom floor. There seemed to be a blockage in the pipes.

Only then did I realise the practical reason for the bucket beside the loo. I thought it was another old antiquated tradition, oh no, it’s because their water pipes are much smaller than hours and they get blocked very easily.

Of course my father in law had to call a plumber out to find out what the problem was. And of course, me and my wife knew exactly what the problem was. It was at this point I wanted to buy a plane ticket and flee the country.

The plumber arrived and had to tear up all the concrete paving stones outside the house and follow the pipe until he found out what the problem was. Yep, a nice little collection of used rubber johnnies with toilet paper wrapped round them. Not only had he found evidence of me shagging his daughter right under his nose but he also had a £120 bill and a bathroom full of my shit for his troubles.

Of course, I paid for the bill, but it only seemed to heighten the sense embarrassment I felt. I couldn’t wait to get on that fucking plane. I don’t think I managed to shag the wife for about a month after that. I was emotionally scared. Allah knows how he felt.

It’s a wonder that both fathers never ripped my balls off on the spot. I think they showed amazing restraint, don’t you? I often wonder how the hell I get out of some of the situations I get myself into. It’s a mystery to me. I must have a team of guardian angels looking after me, all working overtime and all complaining about how they got the job. I guess I’ll get some stick from them when I die. Until then, party on!!

Dublin Stag Weekend

// September 13th, 2007 // No Comments » // Stories

I was the first one of the boys to get married and since then I’d gradually lost contact with them, as you do, in no small part thanks to the wife.

But in fact the reason I got married was to get away from the serious amounts of drinking we all used to do together, so I was really quite worried about drinking solidly for 3 days at my friend Malcolm’s stag weekend in Dublin. Cause if truth be told I can’t handle my bevvy as well as I used to.

As I worked at the same place as them, they were sending me emails like ‘Hey Billy, I hope you’re practicing your drinking or you will die’ and ‘Hey Billy, have you ordered your coffin yet?’ Which really made me look forward to the trip.

So when we met up at the airport on Friday morning and had 3 pints in 20 minutes before we even got on the plane, believe me I was worried. I thought ‘Fucking hell, I’m in deep trouble here.’

There were 13 of us all in. And of them there was about 4 or 5 of them who I didn’t really know that well as they were friends of Malcolms from Stirling and I hadn’t been out there to drink that often with the boys.

Now as you probably know I like to dress a bit differently from the crowd and so when I turned up with my Safari jacket on, all the boys started giving me pelters. "Hey Billy, there’s no Elephants in Dublin etc". You can’t really argue with the herd mentality so I just laughed it off.

So anyway we get to Dublin and the really serious drinking commenced. Guinness was the order of the day and lots of it. At about 8 o’clock I got changed into my velvet leopard skin shirt just to really confuse the boys. They were saying "What the fuck is this Billy cunt all about?"

By the time 10 o’clock came I was really starting to feel a bit worse for wear to say the least, so when one of my friends turned up with 3 bags of amphetamines, well, what else could I do except try to inhale as much as I could up my nose. Purely for medicinal purposes only you understand, just to make sure I could keep on drinking for another 6 hours, which is what I really needed to do at that point.

And then into a nightclub, and it’s amazing when you’re fucked you’ll dance to anything won’t you? Cause the music was pure shite but I was up on the dance floor for ages. Actually I think I was just trying to avoid the bar.

The funniest part of the night though was watching my mate Ronald, fall down the stairs. The nightclub had two stairs coming down the side of the dance floor and I was watching as Ronald cooly tries to saunter on down before tumbling head first.

You know those cartoons with the ball of smoke and the arms and legs popping out. That’s what he was like. When he gets to the bottom, he jumps up and walks away, just in case any bouncers seen him and thought he was drunk. Perish the thought.

Anyway that’s about as much as I can remember until the Saturday morning, when another mate of mine called Jim, woke me up by complaining about how bad he felt. He’s got a really squeaky voice. "Oh I feel so bad, I’m so rough, I want to die"

Meanwhile, I really was fucking dying and after about an hour of his whining I managed to get the energy to say "Jim if you are as bad as you say you are, you’d shut the fuck up"

Then the rest of the boys in the dorm got up and took their showers while I’m trying to hide under my pillow. They were getting ready to go to the pub and they started giving me grief to get ready. I tried to go and get a shower, to see if that would help but I had to sit down in it and hold my head in my hands for about 20 minutes. I came out looking about a hundred a fifty years older.

I went back to bed and the boys said "Come on Billy, if you don’t come out we’ll slag you off" to which I replied "I don’t care, slag me off all you want, goddamit, I can’t bloody move."

So I caught up with the boys at about 1 o’clock in the pub to watch the Man United v Man City game. With no breakfast and 4 pints of Guinness later, the old subject of politics raised it’s ugly head. I was one of these mad conspiracy theorist type guys at the time. Or at least that’s how they perceived me.

There was a program on TV with Jon Ronson where he talked about a shadowy elite that rules the world through controlling the banking system and politicans and the media, well I believed all that, so when I started talking all my mates just told me to "Fuck off".

So it was back to talking about football again.

Lunch was my fourth Burger King in 2 days. If I see another Chicken Royal with chips and onion rings before I die, it will be too soon.

Then we went to another pub to watch the horse racing. One of the lads had £6 on a horse at 20-1 so you can imagine the carnage that broke out as we watched it storm home.

At 6 o’clock I had planned to go back to the dorm for a couple of hours kip, before getting ready for the evening’s swallae. But one of the boys suggested a trip to a lap dancing bar. Well the thought of a naked women rubbing herself against me, was just too hard to resist. So a couple of lads went to the dorm, ‘fucking poofs,’ and the rest of us jumped in a taxi and headed a little bit out of town to the fantasy bar. When we got there though, it was fucking shut. It didn’t open for another 3 hours.

So of course we went to a pub nearby, to wait for it opening.

Now the story of the Groom, Malcolm, comes into play. For he was being handed Baileys and Tia Maria chasers all day in between all the Guinness and he was starting to get a bit ‘miraculous’ to say the least. He only had two forms of communication…. singing or abuse.

When Malcolm’s drunk his eyes go all over the shop and he sings the song ‘Lucille’ by Kenny Rogers. The barman kept shouting be quiet or your out "Fucking bastard, who the fuck does he think he is?" was his response. It’s impossible to communicate with a really drunk person isn’t it?
"Malcolm, don’t sing, we’re going to get thrown out"
"Ok, Billy, I understand" 2 seconds later, "..in a bar in Talledo, across from the depot…"
After 4 attempts I said "Oh fuck, it" and joined in. The barman threw us out soon after.

It was obvious that Malcolm needed to be returned safely to the dorm when he started throwing up outside the pub. Two huge puddles of spew on the pavement while I’m trying to flag a taxi down.
The driver was like "He’s not getting in"
"Oh come on he’ll be alright"
"No he won’t, his eyes are pointing in 6 different directions"
"Oh please" we begged. So we agreed if he was going to be sick the driver would stop and we would get Malcolm out the taxi.

So we warned Malcolm if he was going to be sick to make sure he let us know to which he wholeheartedly agreed. Malcolm let us know he was going to be sick by holding his hand to his mouth and letting the spew form a waterfall as it landed on his jumper.

The taxi stops, he gets out and finishes being sick as cars pass either side of him. He takes off his jumper and the rest of us do it as well to show solidarity or something like that.

When Malcolm gets back to the dorm he thinks it’s great fun to piss all over the en suite bathroom toilet, walls, floor and shower before passing out.

So the rest of us leave Malcolm and the two drunkest other guys and hit the town. I was wearing trousers which were aptly described as pajama bottoms. All the guys were "Billy go home and get changed, in fact no, just go home".

They really didn’t understand me at all. In fact one of my oldest dearest friends, gave me a kind of put down, he said "Billy, you know you’re problem, you just want to be an individual" I was like "Yeah, haven’t you noticed there’s only fucking one of me!"

Malcolm’s wee brother got the nickname, The Fish, for snogging the drunkest girl in the pub for 3 hours solid without coming up for air. I chatted to her pal, who was an absolute stunner. That really confused the Stirling posse. "How is she talking to him when he’s wearing that ridiculous outfit?"

Then we all danced to that Proclaimer’s song ’500 miles’. What is it about that song that when you’re on holiday, it makes you lose your fucking mind.

I noticed that two of the young lads of the posse spent the whole night in the pub texting on their mobiles. What kind of a night out is that? The younger generation, I fucking despair. I’m sure they were just texting each other "It’s my round, what do you want?"

Jim’s younger brother Dave then appeared after spending 4 hours searching for class A drugs, so when he never got them he was thoroughly depressed and couldn’t manage to enjoy himself without drugs, which I thought was quite sad. Mind you, if I’d have wasted 4 hours searching for drugs and not found any I’d have been pissed off also.

I then said Cheerio to the gorgeous girl at closing time, seeing as how I’m a married man and all that…. well actually she gave me a knock back but don’t tell anyone.

Then it was off to Burger King (where else?) for a bite to eat. As we were leaving Burger King, quite a funny thing happened. A girl came in and looked at me and said "Nice shoes, nice trousers, nice shirt, nice jacket". Ok fair enough, this girl had purple hair but it cheered me no end and completely stunned the other guys I was with.

Meanwhile, unknown to all of us, one of the really drunk guys back at the dorm wakes up and decides to take Malcolm and the other drunk back out on the town and to the Fantasy Bar. When they got there this time it was open but they weren’t allowed in because they were still far too drunk.

Eventually after about 20 attempts to get into other drinking establishments they eventually got let in to one, only for Malcolm to knock over about 6 drinks. One of the lads was chatting to 2 girls when Malcolm went up to them to make up a foursome, or so he thought, before spewing in his own pint glass.

He then runs for what he thinks is a toilet but it is actually the pub kitchen. The chef had just finished cleaning up. But Malcolm had to spew some more, so he goes for the bin and starts barfing like crazy. The chef starts going absolutely mental, and Malocolm gets a fright and drops his Pint of spew on the ground and all over the chefs trousers. Luckily just as the chef was reaching for his filleting knife, one of the boys hears the bedlam and comes in to rescue him.

So the next day was quite quiet in comparison, just the 8 pints of Guinness before the flight. My favourite bit of the holiday though was at the very end. When we were waiting for the luggage I went for a crap. Now there were at least 10 cubicles to chose from but the one I went in to had hanging on the other side of the door the absolute perfect hat to match my Safari jacket!!!

I walked back out with it on. One Stirling guy looked at me in disgust and said "Billy, that’s it I’m finished with you".

I was first to get dropped off by the bus, I tipped my hat to the lads and said, "Gentlemen it’s been a pleasure and no coffin was required."

I then went cold turkey for 3 days which wasn’t so great.