This bank holiday weekend brought about another trip to the big smoke in order to gallivant around the streets of London rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous. Sadly, the weekend peaked around dinner time at a Wetherspoons and slid rapidly downhill from there. Having only been off the train thirty minutes I was already confronted with a leery bouncer at the door to the pub. He was a big chap, ugly looking and had one of the most horrible of East End accents you could ever imagine. Grabbing me round the collar of my retro E.T. shirt he spouted “er, you got any sharps lad?” No sir, I don’t carry such a tool around with me. Whilst copping a handful of my testicles he retorted with “well, dya wan’ any?” followed by a god awful belly laugh. I feigned laughter to appease him so that he’d let me into his fine establishment. That would only be cock number one of the London trip it would seem.
A few rounds later, having returned to my friends flat to consume more alcohol, cock number two presented himself. Rather predictably, it was me. A few of us decided to don some random wigs that we’d found in the flat (I’m assuming they were part of my friend’s ‘sexy dress up box’). I decided to sport a rather large curly piece that made me resemble something out of Led Zeppelin. We opted for a trip to the local off licence and so having walked around London dressed as a complete idiot, in my drunken state I thought it might then be a good idea to see if the local hairdressers would give my new barnet a snip. Thankfully, she didn’t call the police as I stumbled in fondling her client’s hair but rather entertained my foolish banter and suggested I use some L’Oreal Frizz Serum in future. That reminds me, I have an appointment on Thursday at 2pm – she even agreed to give me a thirty percent discount. Sweet.
The biggest cock of all over the weekend though, well that award fell deservedly to a friend whom ought to remain nameless as he’ll probably beal about it otherwise. He acted like a complete penis when we ventured out to the pubs at night and the way he stalked women made me think that he may as well have just gone for the chat up line “does this rag smell of chloroform to you?”. Not only did he act like Mr. Rapey all night with any girl he came across (not literally – I told him if he’s going to do that, just to do it on the back of their skirt as they walk away), but he decided to top his, and my night off with one last shining moment of glory when we returned to the flat. We all set up our inflatable beds (posh like) in the lounge before getting our heads down. About an hour later I woke up to the sound of someone retching. So whilst another mate of mine was necking some bird round at hers, I was sharing a lounge with an idiot, a pile of his sick and then someone who was more Pokémon than he was human. I didn’t sleep a wink thanks to that Snorlax. Although, the fact I couldn’t sleep did have a plus side – I got to witness the face of realisation as my friend woke. My cock end of a friend had not only managed to be sick by the side of his bed, but he’d also managed to then roll off his bed and continue sleeping in his own vomit. His arm looked like that evil black thing from Spiderman 3 had taken hold of him. In fact it almost looked like he’d butchered a pig using only his arm as a blunt instrument. Much to my enjoyment he tried to subtly clean it up before anyone noticed but couldn’t find any kitchen roll to help mop up the devastation. The lad was covered head to toe in his own sick. It was on his jeans, his shirts, his shoes… and better still, he’d failed to bring a change of clothes. Brilliant!
I laughed a lot. Then I laughed some more. I couldn’t stop laughing in fact but my laughter soon subsided when I remembered that my seat reservation was next to his on the train back up north. So there I was on the train home, sitting between my mate that smelt of sick and my other mate that smelt of sex. Lucky me.