The Embarrassing Bedroom Story

I once had a very unfortunate incident during a night out, of which I have turned into a rhyme. Please sing the following out loud in a high key. Failing that ask Stormzy to rap it.


Once upon a tipsy night,

I was looking rather modest

Along came a lady,

Who seemed quite the goddess.


I danced like Patrick Swayze,

Showing off my groove.

Sadly my talent was actually

My dad dancing moves.


She then sleeked over,

Wading through the club.

She said she liked the way I dressed,

So I felt  a little smug.


Grabbing me by my tie

She pulled me away.

Covering me in  lots of kisses

I was very easily swayed.



She said she worked in I.T,

And made a lot of money.

Those were words to my ears,

Now come close now honey.


We kissed a little more,

But I began to overthink.

We didn’t have much chemistry,

Was it just down to drink?


We then made out,

And became more inebriated.

We got lost in the club,

Ending up separated.


One hour then passed,

I caught her once more.

She was with someone else,

They were aiming for the door.


Going out the bar

With an arm around a guy.

It seemed our liaison,

Was now a bit awry.



A few months later

I was trying my best to dance.

She appeared with a beaming smile,

Sending me a furtive glance.




I remember you, she said,

You’re the handsome guy from before.

Pulling me seductively by the tie,

She made me feel adored.


Yet I wasn’t really feeling it,

When our bodies began to grind,

I was looking rather awkward now,

When we were dancing out of time.


Suddenly, I got pulled over,

A blonde grabbed me aside.

What are you doing man!? Blonde said.

Have you gone out your mind?


That girl is really digging you dude, 

Just dance with her properly!

Um yeah I think she does,

I replied rather sloppily.


Now go back and dance with her,

She’s really rather fit.

Pushing me back to the dancefloor,

Now go for it!


I’m a sucker for a bit of peer pressure,

I put myself in danger.

But I thought what the hell,

Thankyou, random stranger!


Me and my brunette leave, then

stumble down the road.

I think you’ll guess what happened next,

When we got to my abode.


Yeah… we cuddled


After the deed was done,

We settled for some sleep.

Our clothes scattered across the floor.

A cheeky liaison complete.


I awoke and felt moisture,

So I sat up in my bed.

I felt a bit confused and shrugged,

And fell back asleep instead.


I woke again at 5 o’clock.

I then began to fret,

The duvet, sheets and extra cover,

Everything was wet.


It couldn’t be, surely not?

I felt a sense of dread.

It suddenly struck me hard,

I can’t have wet the bed?


I had a quick check on the sheet,

The wee had soaked right through!

I swear my bladder control

Had improved

Since Key Stage 2.


I remembered I wasn’t alone,

And saw the dancer under cover.

The only possible offender,

Could be my new drunken lover.


It felt tingly and warm,

There’s no way I could cope.

I jumped with haste into the shower,

And lathered myself in soap.


I reached for the nearest body wash,

I think it was Head and Shoulders.

I cleaned so hard  at the highest temp,

That my skin began to smoulder.



What was my next move?

I dried myself whilst thinking.

This was one of those situations,

Down to over drinking!


I wished I could magic her away from here,

Though I’m normally the perfect host.

I usually offer breakfast in the morning,

With some orange juice and toast.


I thought I’d checked Facebook,

Would anyone still be awake?

My friend was online with some advice,

Just give her a little shake.


I wanted to wake her, I really did,

But I felt far too afraid.

I knew if this was me,

I’d be feeling very ashamed.


I settled on my bedroom floor,

Creating a poor makeshift bed.

I didn’t have any pillows left,

Using a jumper for my head.


Suddenly the human hydrant,

Was awake with a groan.

Why you sleeping on the floor? She asked,

I just replied with a moan.


I didn’t have to heart to tell her,

As she abruptly arose.

I feel so cold! She said,

And just where are my clothes?


I motioned to the bedroom floor,

Everywhere, I shyly said.

Yet I was more surprised she hadn’t noticed,

That she’d wet the double bed.


She put herself together again,

looked dazed as she dressed.

I couldn’t quite work out,

If she knew of her liquid mess.

Di she realise what happened.

And couldn’t quite confess?


I began to worry,

Did she not feel her pee?

Or was she actually thinking

That it could have been down to me?

She said she wanted to go home,

Which made me feel relieved.


I called up the taxi company,

They asked for her name.

I didn’t even know it,

My head hung low in shame.


My bedding went in the washing machine,

I was on a mad cleaning spree.

I smothered my mattress totally,

With a bottle of  Fabreeze.


I saw her months later,

She didn’t remember my name.

She asked what happened that night,

But I couldn’t quite explain.



This embarrassing moment,

That you’ve now heard in all its glory.

You might begin to wonder,

What is the moral of this story?


Accidents happen to all of us,

Every once in a while.

Now much time has passed,

I don’t cry – I start to smile.


If I meet a new lady,

I’ll try my best to behave.

One thing I’ll make sure of,

Is that she’s toilet trained.




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Nan and Cancer : The Toughest Blog I’ve Ever Written

This is the one of the hardest things I have ever typed. The first draft set me off into tears and each edit since destroys me slightly.


Nan lay in the bed.
She was a degenerated vessel of what she used to be. She looked glazed due to being high on morphine, of which eased the pain of the cancer that had ravaged her. Drifting into consciousness, she seemed unaware of me even being there.

I cried – I felt so hopeless. It was the worst moment of my life. Even with the streams of tears oozing down my face, like an overactive water feature, Nan did not realize I was there.  It felt like there was a heavy weight in my chest, whilst my tearful face had become raw and exasperated. I sank back into a miserable hospital chair. Numb to the core, the energy was draining from my body .

I knew she was going to die.

 2 years earlier – June 7th 2010.

“I don’t know how to tell you this… she has cancer,”  Mum said from the bottom of the stairs.

I didn’t know how to act. Or what to do.

It felt like the punch in the gut I had received by a bully in Year 7 in French class. I dared to share the same oxygen as him. Le teacher, Mademoiselle Allinson was oblivious.

I never contemplated Nan getting cancer.  Despite smoking like a chimney, keeping Malboro in business since the 1950s, and eating far too many Cadbury’s Chocolate Fingers, she seemed vaguely healthy.
She barely touched alcohol, and had once taken a few sips of red wine at an outside wedding. She then suddenly fell backwards with a “Woah.” I later had to carry her back to the car as she was too intoxicated to walk.

After the news, I bought cigarettes from a One Stop store. Richard, the long haired, yet gentle cashier, marketed to me that Haribo was half price. I declined, later lighting up a cigarette. I felt lightheaded as the dizzy buzz of nicotine fucked with my body. I didn’t normally smoke. I felt like an overzealous 13 year old attempting to look cool but not.
I should have just got the Starmix.

Nan’s house always smelt of smoke. She lived in Brynmawr, Wales. Her and her son smoked indoors, with no windows open, and the consequence was that the house was hot-boxed in festering disharmony.

How it probably looked 

My suitcased clothes, despite being zipped up,  would somehow reek of smoke. Mum treated my returns from Nan’s like a contamination risk in case I spread the aroma back home. She forced all my clothes into the washing machine.
This tobacco smoke wafted in the air, even turning Nan’s grey fringe a horrible pale yellow. The confused child in me asked her why she dyed it that colour. Maybe I should have bought Nan a lifetime supply of Airwick with a side dish of actual hair dye.

After my cigarette, I saw some friends. They were a welcome distraction. We took advantage of beer and a microwaved roast deal at Weatherspoons – a place that has been described by The Guardian as the  ‘McDonalds of the pub world’. I was egged on to down some gravy.

It took me ages to work up the courage to call Nan and talk to her about the cancer. All I knew was that it was in her breast and lung.  I didn’t know what to say. Our family never talk about personal things. Either by sheer awkwardness or due to dancing about on the spectrum, no one dares be emotional or open to not ruin the status quo.

I couldn’t say the C word, I just used the term unwell. Before I said goodbye, I ended with a ‘Love you.’ Every single phone call afterwards ended with this affection.

Two years passed, and she didn’t seem any different. She hadn’t planned on telling us in the first place, as she felt it didn’t matter. She was slimmer.
She continued her lifelong duties – feeding the dog, cat and her overgrown son in his mid-50s, with the relentless dedication of a hypnotized housewife. The dog was diabetic as she fed it choc ices.

I’m not proud of my Uncle, whose spent his life on Jobseekers’ allowance and growing suspicious herbs. His airing cupboard once held a giant plant, of which I stumbled into by accident during my adolescence.  Nan’s had an eternal maternal instinct of feeding him, whilst he sat on the sofa and ranted how society was ‘poxy,’ or how the world was an arsehole. This unwanted commentary was non-stop whilst we watched The Weakest Link. No television programme was complete without his stoned monologue. It was like Gogglebox but with a psychotic. Sadly, my lowest ebb was buying some herbs off him whilst her back was turned. We had a sofa-based deal.
He wasn’t always bad. He took me to my first and only illegal rave in 2003, tucked away in the Welsh mountains. People offered me acid to buy or asked if I had any. I was confused at what science had to do with forbidden mountain trance.

My uncle would also leave his false teeth in a mug in the kitchen.  Don’t ask me why.

One of the many reasons my uncle has been single for years

Despite being a jobless overgrown child,  he was proud to be a vegetarian.  Whilst eating a bacon sandwich, he loudly proclaimed to me it smelt like a tramp’s armpit. It put me off.


Anyway, it was now late 2012. I had returned from Camp America in the summer, and my mum let me know Nan had taken a turn for a worse and was hospitalized.
The journey to see her involved spending 8 hours in the car with my mother, the equivalent to a life prison sentence with Louis Walsh and the Crazy Frog as cell mates.
The night prior, I went to an event called Birthday Lashings. Dressed as a Blues Brother (tie and shades was a cost-free costume) people thought I was Mr Bean or The Men in Black. My ex spent the night rolling around on the floor covered in party streamers because I spoke to different women. Most women there were middle aged, wearing Asda sparkly party dresses and making innuendos about cocktail sausages.

We hopped into 2 booked taxis to go to the nightclub nadir that is Walkabout. I was promised a good time but didn’t have one. The dancefloor was a sticky vortex of hopelessness, and despite my best dance moves, I failed to attract a female.

It was 3am. The taxis turned up, some people had gone home prior. The remaining people piled into one and I was left with the other taxi by myself – paying the whole £35 trip home alone. I called the ex, hopefully she had picked herself off the floor, maybe she was in town and we could split a taxi fare back.  No answer. Luckily another person who was hovering around shared the taxi home and gave me some money towards it.

It was now the morning  of the 25th of November 2012, the last time I saw my Nan alive.  I was grouchy, hungover and hating the world.
Mother was brimming with cold and road rage.  I had avoided being in a car with her for years.  It was mobile claustrophobia.

As expected, it was a a horrid experience. Instead of taking the Seven tunnel, she refused to pay the toll fare, so our 4 hour journey was now 7 hours. The nausea from last nights Birthday Lashings was not appealing as Mum swerved through country lanes. The dodgy Satnav, an unloved Christmas present from a man named Derek, was thrown out the car window.

I was ecstatic when we stopped at a Tesco where I stuffed myself full with sweet Chili Sunbites and brownies, whilst guzzling down some Travel Sickness tablets.
We sat in the carpark, miserable and tired, then Mum imploded. She swore about her childhood issues and how no matter what she did, her brother was always preferred by her Mum. He got away with murder practically. Decades of unexploded rage detonated, I did feel sympathetic. I loved her but I think she had been enveloped by stress after what was happening to Nan.

We arrived at YItsbyty Aneurin Bevan by night. No, I haven’t fallen asleep on my keyboard. It was the name of the hospital.


My mum stayed in the car, not wanting to spread her cold. Little did I know, this would give me the chance to say what I wanted to Nan.  I felt this could be our last goodbye.

I asked for directions to find Nan’s room, it was a labyrinth of white corridors to find her.As I entered her room, my heart sank.

I was usually greeted by an exasperated noise as she’d try and get off the arm chair to greet me. Or she’d be waiting at the station, with a confused look on her face as she had forgotten how tall I was.

This was horribly different. She had withered away. Just 5 months ago, she was alive with life. It had now been drained out of her. Her complexion a ghostly white, the colour in her cheeks had faded away.
Her arms had become twigs.  I couldn’t see her legs under the duvet; I  thought at first that they had been amputated.  I swallowed hard; it was devastating to see her like this.

The nurse awoke her and went to get her a vase for the present of flowers and blueberry juice that Mum had gotten her.
My Nan always had juice and biscuits ready for me at my beck and call, I felt very spoilt, yet I felt loved and that I was a little Lord of her Welsh Manor.
Instead now I was pouring the juice, and ended up accidentally covering the counter in blueberry nectar. Luckily Nan didn’t notice, but she was unintentionally ignoring me anyway.

I mentioned there was an interesting looking TV attached to the ceiling, just to break the silence. Nan asked the nurse to bring it down.

NO NO NO – I screamed in my head. We can’t watch the television, I’ve come all this way to see her!  Now is the opportunity to talk about emotional things – I didn’t want my voice to be an Uncle-like commentary. Maybe I could pour some more blueberry juice over it and start an electrical fire.
The television was unfriendly. It was a ghastly contraption that was probably concocted by a 1970s interpretation of the future, yet built by a baboon. It came down from the ceiling, and you had to tap it to change channels, yet it was almost impossible to reach by hand.


Children were choir singing on TV, and Nan asked if Camp America kids were anything like this. There were far from angelic I retorted. Nan did not respond.

I felt that I was fighting for her attention, was I just an annoying noise? She was content looking at the television. I felt invisible to someone who always made me feel wanted.
I turned it off.  The atmosphere was silent and bleak, I felt tearful that this was not the loving, smiley Nan I was used to. When I looked across during the EastEnders Sunday Omnibus,  she would always give an affectionate wink with a slight head twist.


I began to cry, the tears flowing down my cheeks until my eyelids were sore. My throat was dry. I felt my world had caved in slightly. I wanted to communicate how I felt like I was the only person in the room but I was so utterly numb, my emotions raw. I couldn’t say anything or express myself, I just didn’t know how.

She suddenly noticed I was sniffing. I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and let it out.I told her I was upset, and I loved her so much and that I didn’t like seeing her so unwell.

Suddenly, she held out a boney wrist from the side of the bed and we held each other. I wanted to hold it tight but I didn’t want to hurt her.  It felt like she was using all the strength that she could muster. It was poignant moment, a shred of emotion from a family who didn’t show it. I felt relieved as it felt like she knew who I was now.

We talked about various memories. Gregg’s sausage rolls she’d bring back for me and my hatred for a soul destroying department store called Haven.  I told Nan how she looked after dogs far better than her friend. (Nan hated any conversation of unloved pets being put down, and at one point had a house full of them. Her owner friends would speak of it putting their pets down, and Nan would adopt. There was Monty Dog, Bell, Andy, Arrow and Lady to name a few.  Andy once bit my hand, the bugger. I was traumatized about dogs for years.)

We reminisced how Nan ended up hating Derek, who once planned to stay for a weekend yet stayed for 9 days. He had turned the arm chair into his personal throne and left a line of empty beer bottles by her bin.  Beforehand, she’d sung his praises, but now simply expressed a cruel cold lip when I mentioned the name Derek. We also touched upon that wardrobe incident, where we had collaboratively almost got her crushed by a huge inanimate object.
More truths tumbled out. I told her how I used to throw tantrums in the car rides home back from Wales. I want to stay in Waaaalleeeeessss, I had wailed. I revealed it was her I came to see, her love and smile would make me so happy.

I asked what Nan wanted to do when she was well again, she said we could walk down the beach together. I asked if she wanted to go in the sea, she said she couldn’t swim and that she’d have to stand on my shoulders.


Nan’s dinner arrived. After she had eaten, the memories ended, and she didn’t notice I was there again.

I took some time out and collapsed against the wall outside her room. I balled my eyes out, I started to slide down in despair. The nurses outside looked confused and perplexed why I was crying, one of them said they could talk to me. I asked how long she had left, they said they didn’t or couldn’t know.

Mum then appeared wearing a face-mask, and my Nan told her that my grandson was here, but then  later referred to me as her nephew.  She never had any nephews. Mum left again and I got to stay with Nan a bit longer

Nan took more medication, and admitted she was even more out of it. She said it was a shame I didn’t stick to a media carer. She wanted to say that’s my nephew’s when the TV credits rolled. She said she thought of me a lot, and what I’m doing.

She kept longingly checking her phone which was on her bed table. She was mystified by things such as text messages, and asked me if I remember me changing the background to a little yellow man, which she thought was brilliant.

Out of it again, awkwardness prevailed. I told her how much I loved her once more, my heart tugged as  I wiped my tear stained face. We both agreed we were people’s people. Uncle never told her he even liked her, let alone loved her. We both agreed we’d love each other… forever. I couldn’t believe we were saying these words to each other, it didn’t seem real.

I took in a sharp intake of breath as the tears fell. We held hands again, despite her having a manky tissue in her hand. She promised she’d get better for me, and that I should ring her. I kissed her forehead twice.

I somehow slipped on the floor on the way out but my feet managed to catch myself.

Her last words to me were be “careful”.

I looked at her on the way out, and she looked at me longingly, and I think she was happy.

I needed to speak to someone rational. I called someone, who I’d recently been in touch with about a prospective meet, I knew she was one of the few people I could have a telephone cry with. Awkwardly, she was with a guy, so I instead stumbled around the hospital until I found the exit, and we drove home.

It was a tense drive home. Things regressed to an unwanted parent-child dynamic. I got told of for munching Sunbites too loudly and that they smell. Then my phone screen was too bright.  I dived out to go to the loo, and possibly some salvation, and she told me to wear a coat, and not to close the car door loudly.

I think she wanted me to snap and have an apocalyptic car showdown along the M4. I bit my tongue for hours, despite being tempted to open the car door and jump out down the dual carriageway.

A few weeks later, Nan died.

Grief was new. It didn’t have the  constant emotional absorption of getting your heart broken. At first I felt nothing.  I kept on thinking I was in a movie, thinking of the stereotypical grieving process of what I should do. This is what happens when the TV has been your third parent.
I was more relieved of her passing and I felt really selfish for feeling that way. It felt like confusing burden had been lifted. I ordered 2 doubles at the pub – bad idea, for a steep £10. I didn’t care if the barperson thought I was a breakfast time alcoholic. A flurry of memories hit me that I then realised I only shared now.

These included Nan putting up with my repertoire of, “what do you get if you cross?” jokes for hours on end whilst I recorded them on one of these below 90s contraptions

In my head, I was the world’s best DJ in 1995

More memories came to mind. Nan making an Xmas Lunch with mint sauce. Each following meal still involved the same eternal pot of mint sauce.  Fish and Chips and Mint Sauce. Pie and Potatoes and Mint Sauce.  Or Stuffing. She knew I had a soft spot for stuffing, by New Years Day there would be stuffing on the side of each meal simply because she knew I loved it.

I remembered Nan offering me a stack of bread and butter and various cups of cold water in case I couldn’t handle my first Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle. I found it hilarious Nan also could not understand the idea of Naan bread. Maybe it was jealousy.

On the way to a shopping trip to Somerfield and Kwiksave, I’d turn to talk to her and she’d always be gone.  I would look behind, only to see her miles away at the top of the hill.  Her tiny legs were no match for my manly strides, yet she would never say anything.


On the way back, I would be her hench strongman as I’d carry the shopping bags back up again.

We once bumped into a boy who randomly offered us a chocolate dog bone for Nan’s neurotic Labrador, Andy. We were perplexed why it had a bite mark in it. The hungry boy thought he’d gotten a novelty chocolate deal at the Pet Shop and eaten some.

My favourite memory of her is when I used to say goodbye as I’d head into the car/bus/train and head off back to England. She’d wave as long as possible, until she could no longer see me. I would turn around, and her face would always be smiling at me, hoping that I would come and visit again soon.


On the day of her funeral, there were little bags of tissue next to each seat. We sung All Creatures Great and Small, an ode for her love of animals.

We watched a slideshow that my Mum had prepared of her life, including her on a motorbike. I burst into a fit of giggles when a photo of Nan and me appeared, with my bed-hair affected Lego Man haircut.  My uncle was his normal self, proudly smoking in front of the No-Smoking sign at the crematorium.

I placed a white rose and a note on her coffin, and then she was gone forever.
I couldn’t believe it. We had a post meal at a Harvester, but it felt like there was someone amazing missing

Her birthday is on Halloween. Once I bewildered her with a surprise visit by putting on a  frightful Halloween mask and knocking on her front door.
“You’re a bit early,” she said as I trick or treated her in the late afternoon. I took off the mask and revealed  it was actually me!

Now on her birthday, I’m not cheeky at all. Instead of improving my appearance with a novelty mask,  I buy a helium balloon and attach a little note, then let it go up into the sky.
It hope it doesn’t end up up entangled on a satellite dish, but it’s nice to give her a message every year to remind her she’s still very much missed.

Next Halloween, look up into the clouds, around about sunset.
Cast your eyes wide into the sky.

You might just see it.


Have you shared a similar experience? Please comment below:

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Le Strip Club – My Worst Holiday Part 2


Continued from part 1:

I gulped.

“Uh oh,” fell out my lips.

My adventures in Paris hadn’t gone to plan – and now we found ourselves opposite several stern-looking riot police, who were glaring directly at us. Like a row of armour-plated goths on a hot August day.

I turned behind us, and this collective amount of French badassery were actually glaring at a protest! An ensemble of delirious looking French people, complete with a conga line, were making a very loud ruckus.
Apparently the French government were paying these workers the same money, but making them do a lot more work for it. The French weren’t to keen on these employment changes – some protests were getting violent about the prospect about having to work more than a 35 hour work week
I scoffed. Having worked 37.5 hours a week for the past year,  I felt like a superhero.

The protest seemed fun, with with so many colourful characters dancing around and making a cacophony of noise. However, my friend was striding off to go to the vegan cafe, not at all interested in the bubbling action that was going on.

After dinner, we into a mini Carre-Forre (Paris’s version of Tesco Metro, without the forthright Self-Service voice, tirade of gormless workers in blue shirts and horse meat (this is France though.)) I popped into McDonalds and my friend, a vegan, glared at me with menace. Things weren’t going well between us.

We thought maybe we could have some fun courtesy of the more wild avenues of Paris. We were staying a mere 5 minutes away from the Moulin Rouge, which encompassed their very own Red Light District.

We had a curious nose around some shops, advertised as being ‘naughty’. When I think of the word ‘naughty,’ I think of taking 3 Jaffa Cakes when offered, instead of the moral amount of 1.
Frenchy ‘naughty’ was something else. Imagine Ann Summers without the cute teasey marketing and sometimes awkward customer service. The things I saw on sale in thi shop will be forever ingrained in my memory.  Grannies in latex.  Dildos the size of bowling pins. Spiked chastity devices,
I also discovered what a bukkake is. It turns out it’s not a foreign cuisine.

There were several doors which led to enclosed dark, tiny rooms with TV units, headphones and seats.  Whatever videos were played in these mysterious booths, it couldn’t be any worse than enduring The One Show. 

My friend was trying on 9 inch killer heels in the window, their colour an offensively bright pink, a staggering €90. She was to busy galloping around the shop to notice a sinister looking sales assistant.


His eyes lit up like a cop spotting a donut. He remarked how beautiful she looked. He gawped lovingly, looking like he was about to drool a little.  He helped her wiggle a foot into a ghastly tartan coloured high heel.
I had a peruse at the till. There was a free ball gag available with every €50 spent. I backed away and almost tripped over a lengthy gimp suit.

I heard a jangle of a belt. The sales assistant appeared and was fastening up his trousers!
“Toilet,” he explained.
I wanted out. This was getting to creepy. And I’ve been to Boscombe.
Upon my joyous exit, we turned a corner to find ourselves down a  catacomb of strip joints. We spotted the aptly named Le String Club. Despite us both appreciating the female form, I still do not know why this was a good decision.


As we walked through the doors,  a woman, attempting to look seductive, said to us,

You come in for ze dance? Just €10 each? 
Which drink do you want – whisky or beer?” 

We didn’t really fancy a drink. I’m an eat-out and drink tap water guy – how I survive our tough economic climate. We were ushered inside a room behind a dusty maroon curtain. Inhabited by about 20 chairs, we were the only ones there.
We were again asked ,’Whisky or Beer?’ We figured that the beverage offered came with her incoming dance, so we said Whisky. She returned, and plonked the two of the most watered down whiskies onto the table. I feel there was less alcohol in it than a can of shandy.

The dancer then slowly began to remove her clothes, to reveal a tangerine coloured bikini that didn’t leave much to the imagination. She prowled across the room like an excitable kitten. She then began to wither her body in an attempt to entice and enchant us, but it looked like she was awkwardly making out with the wall. I couldn’t get over the sheer amount of orange she was almost wearing.
The music suddenly stopped and then she sleeked away back to the entrance. Was I meant to clap? Or hit a golden buzzer?
We looked at each other, unsure what was going on. We drank the watered whiskies. Mr Jack Daniels would be disgusted.
Abruptly, an obese stripper appeared from the front and started to dance. I wasn’t sure what to look at, but I began to question my heterosexuality. I’d never seen so much silicone in my life. She spoke to us, her eyes hungry for Euro’s.

“€350 to come downstairs. You girlfriend and boyfriend?

You look maybe you can touch? We have bottle of champagne to share.

You come downstairs yeah and you get ze private dance?”

We declined, yet she continued to ask. The novelty of seeing a Strip Club had long since simmered. As we were about to leave, a burly man – that resembled an angry animal -appeared in the doorway. “You buy drinks now.”
I said, “We’re okay, we’ve had one already.”
Perplexed where he had come from, I we had not seen him before in the World’s tiniest Strip Club. He then opened a menu and shone a torch on the drinks page. “You got whisky.”

Glancing innocently at the menu illuminated by torchlight, it said €50. Each!
“100 Euro!” The bouncer demanded. He blocked the entrance door.

I had no money on me. We both were completely confused.  It turned out that the non-whiskies weren’t part of the entry fee.
“€100 for the two whisky,” he said, with the regimented look of a badly paid Algebra teacher who hates his class. He flicking the torch over the menu again, like he’d uncovered buried treasure.

“Uhh…. Do you take card?”
“No,  cash,” he said, menacingly.

My friend had the Euros’s in her purse to pay for both of our escapes. They let us leave with our bones intact. She asked me to buy her the awful pink shoes for my share of the rescue money.
I was really annoyed. My friend simply retorted that they have to make a living somehow! My pride had received a walloping over losing money on the most expensive drink ever. I felt like I needed more of it drown my sorrows, perhaps I should’ve gone back in and spent my life savings on a full round of water whisky.

I found reviews on Trip Advisor which said that customers had been threatened with weapons and violence.  Dancers would grab champagne from the bar, and start drinking whilst working. Later on the customer finds out he/she is to be charged for this, and a €400+ bill is produced. They’d end up being frogmarched to the cash point to pay up and be possibly hit with a baseball bat.
Turns out the whole area is a bit of a tourist trap, and links to the Mafia and police corruption were rife. So we were remarkably lucky compared to other tourists who made it home penniless and passportless. They are a few horror stories in the one star section here.

I managed to claw an hours sleep after this ordeal, which was all I was allowed due to an early morning flight. We stumbled into the opening hours of pre-sunrise France. It was quite nice to see the various different shops preparing for a busy day, with the smell of patisseries wafting into the crisp 5am air.

At the airport, the French didn’t like the fact I had a tiny tube of Toothpaste and some Lynx Delta spray in my bag. It was quite awkward to have my bag ransacked and probed, luckily I didn’t purchase the ball gag from the shop we went to yesterday.

I kissed my friend goodbye. I never saw her again. I ended up with the pink stiletto platform heels. They weren’t my size, so I sold them on eBay for £3.50.

I rejoiced at the National Express coach journey home. I had only received about 10 hours sleep over the previous 3 nights. I fell into a much-needed slumber and dreamt about all my bloody awful adventures in Paris.  Vote below 🙂

Read more:

The Craziest Valentines Ever
How I Got Catfished By My Best Friend
How I Got Evicted
How I Got My Heart Broken 
How To Save Money
How To Tackle Depression
Who Wet My Bed?

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The Worst Holiday Ever!

“100 Euro! YOU PAY NOW!”

Woofed the obtuse bouncer. Blocking the entrance his appearance resembled an intolerant, but smartly-suited rhino.  He looked like he ate people for breakfast. This was all I needed, considering mere hours ago I was being chased underneath the Eiffel tower.

Suddenly, an obese version of Beyonce teetered away in her bright stilettos and slipped out behind him.

100 Euro! The bouncer barked once more, lowering his gaze at me with venomous menace.


‘Fuckity Fuck,’ I thought. I had no money to escape!

How did I get into this situation? I shall explain….

My friend was a model, and had caught the attention of a rich photographer in Nice, who had invited her over for a photoshoot. All expenses paid, plane tickets, hotel – the works.

He was happy for her to bring a friend. Until he found it was a guy – me – your brunette hero.  He went berserk.
Oddly, he let her keep the money and the flights he’d paid for. She described it as having a free holiday using a Perv’s money. With such a romantic title, our trip was doomed from the start.

I made the awful decision to drink copious amount of Southern Belle the night before. (my bar – Sound Circus – can’t afford Southern Comfort.) Slightly wiser than attempting a handstand whilst smothered in butter, but still not a wise move.

After salvaging 2 hours asleep, I shuffled Walking Dead style into the ghastly early hours of metropolitan Dorset of 5am! This is the milkman’s time. Not mine!


Suitcase in tow, I saw Bournemouth’s dirty side. Neanderthals were prowling outside WHSmith, picking up cigarette butts and muttering to themselves. These angels of the night were putting inch-long butts to their lips, desperate for a nicotine hit. They looked at me, like startled deer about to collide with a incoming Ford Transit Van. Luckily my baggage could make a potential weapon if required.

I arrived at the bus station. The nearby speakers were blurting out bagpipe music to annoy Bournemouth’s extensive homeless population. Bournemouth Council really are sweethearts aren’t they?

It was pleasant at first hearing Scotland’s finest musical ensemble, but after about 15 minutes, I wanted to stuff a bagpipe into someone’s larynx.

I met up with my friend. She snuggled into me on the epic coach journey to Gatwick. My 6″2 frame isn’t meant for travelling, so I was absolutely entangled and squashed in the coach seats.
We arrived at the airport, I heard my limbs let out a sigh of relief. As we showed our plane tickets to the attendant, she furrowed her brow. Instead of saying anything, she continued furrowing.

Ummm? I sputtered
There’s a technical difficulty with the plane you were travelling on.

What was wrong with it… the left falange? As the plane was immobilised – It meant our only option was to go to Paris. Our very short holiday had been castrated.
As we arrived at the security lounge, there was a bubbling mass of people and beeps. My pocket was bulging with my passport, tickets, phone, hope, keys and loose change. I strode through the scanner, hoping not to beep.


I had to take my belt off and raise my hands in the air, doing the motion of Y in the YMCA song. My unbelted trousers were slipping, and my surrendering hands couldn’t hold them up.
As I got scanned, a bead of sweat dripped down my forehead. Not because they would find anything, but in case my jeans crashed to my shoes and Gatwick Airport would get a glorious look at my tiger print underwear. Although I was wearing such an illustrious number, my jeans stuck to my hips and nothing was revealed.
Everything was okay beep-wise. No latex glove required.

We then tucked into some Yo! Sushi in the terminal.
Different coloured dishes were revolving around us, with each colour having it’s own individual price. I settled on cold beef, chicken, shredded cabbage and dumplings. A little girl opposite us made cute biting motions every time a bowl came past.
Whilst capturing my food, I came up with an excellent idea. Instead of bowls of cold vegetables, why not have bowls of cakes and high-calorie desserts? It would be incredible. The name would be ‘Yo! Fatti.’ I think it could really catch on – watch out Dragon’s Den.

As we boarded, our last-minute flight change meant we were sitting separately down opposite ends of the plane. I was sat next to a woman who was also in a complicated friends non-relationship with benefits.
Last nights drinks threatened to come back. She was probably concerned by my coloured face as we rumbled into take off. I felt nauseous and I gripped on tight to the chair rest.

I put on a 1990’s megamix to help me through the journey. The velvety tones of Peter Andre’s Mysterious Girl made the touch down a lot smoother, and actually, far sexier.


‘You’re welcome, Rupert.’ – Peter

We landed in France –  Charles De Gaulle Airport, then off to the town of Opera.
I had purchased shoes in Topman to walk in, I wish I hadn’t. They had been perfectly comfortable whilst catwalking around TopMan, but were now slowly destroying my feet. The toe referred to by my mother as ‘this little piggy went to market’ was in pain. I was able to purchase some €4 Transformer plasters. Megatron, however, couldn’t save me.

I became frustrated, confused and probably still hungover. I wanted to relax, eat frog’s legs and wear an onion necklace, but we had no idea how to get to the elusive hotel.  I was tempted to offer my unloved TopMan shoes as a reward for directions.

We discovered the Paris Metro.  I was not prepared for the mere 10 seconds you have to jump on before the train doors close.
I leapt on, my body almost in, then the doors closed onto me and smashed my arm. I tried to pull the doors apart but they began to close in on me again. I managed to jump back onto the platform to escape its clutches. The French passengers did not even look at me. They probably thought I was a typical English merde.
I should have read the bunny stickers that were placed everywhere in each train.


Rubbing my injured arm, I was confused and worn out.  Exhausted after hours of walking, I wanted to cry. My friend was unsympathetic to our plights. I started to believe I had picked up my Mother’s curse of going on holiday with someone then realizing it was a bad idea!

After finally arriving at  Hôtel de Paris Montmartre, we went out for an Indian to feed our empty stomachs. Neither of us fancied snails, horse and fromage.
I was relieved I wouldn’t have to decipher the French language – I knew what tikka, bhuna and dopiaza was. My masala was accompanied with a cheesy naan bread (French cheese is one gooey stringy monster) and aubergine pakoras.

A salesman burst into the restaurant approaching people with roses, asking if they wanted one for their special madame in their life, mobbing each table.
I felt a little awkward, should I get one for my bene-friend? I had noticed she had a love bite on the back of her neck, so I wasn’t sure what was going on between us anymore. Or possibly with someone else.
The salesman disappeared, not a single rose sold. I figured it was another weird French thing. What’s next? Mobbing patrons with Daffodils in Nandos?

The waiter provided us with a mix of coloured sweet seeds, which tasted of candy.
Puts our British cool, hard mints to shame.


We walked back to the hotel, narrowly avoiding colliding with rude French traffic. French drivers were absolute mentalists, speed limits were fictional to them.  Motorbikes had free reign of the road and pavement. I’d be gallivanting down the sidewalk and suddenly there would be a huge bike vibrating into the back of me.

I messaged a friend on things to do in France and she said kiss an extremely attractive person (the women were exceedingly pretty) and buy a lot of baguettes. I think option B is the more likely as I didn’t want to get arrested.
The ladies here did have a certain Je Ne Sais Quoi. 

Next was the Eiffel Tower. Despite it being massive and pointy, quite similar to something else (snigger, snigger), we managed to lose it in the catacomb of Parisian streets. It took us twenty minutes to find it again, and with me whining about my destroyed feet, it was probably not entertaining for anyone involved.
Someone was entertained – a fat man was stumbling around the Paris River with a bottle of wine, singing to himself.
I then noticed the Paris Attacks of 2015 had really left their mark.


There was several SWAT team vans full of armoured cops. Despite this, they were mostly asleep, eating or looking at Facebook. Cops with handguns were on patrol, and army folks came equipped with AK-47s.
Whenever I see such plentiful weaponry, I do wonder why the world has not invented a powerful tranquilizer dart that has the same speed as a bullet.

As we approached the Eiffel, a random guy approached us with an expression of glee and menace

He wouldn’t leave us alone until we shook his hand. I swallowed my pride and awkwardly offered a flighty fist pump. As we waddled off, he followed on after us.


I turned back and he was walking after us. We managed to merge into the crowds to escape.
It turned out the people of France are even more weird than the people of Boscombe. There were menacing looking sellers holding selfie sticks and miniature Eiffel towers, who genuinely looked like they wanted to kill people.
Other strangers swooped and demand donations to mysterious things. It got to the point I spoke in a made-up language (using words such as Noisk) to avoid anybody trying to communicate with me.

Unfortunately, as we left, Mr ALLOOOOO appeared near us and I could hear him beckoning us again with his scary greeting.  We walked quickly. By the time I dared look behind me, he had disappeared once more.

I calmed myself with an authentic croque-monseuir , which curbed my hungry soul. Magnifique 🙂 My friend wanted to go to Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde’s graves at the Père Lachaise Cemetery. She claimed it would give her inner peace. Maybe she should try Yoga.
Sadly, our clocks hadn’t adjusted to French time, and we got there an hour to late. This turned out to be a blessing knowing the real time, or we’d have missed tomorrow’s flights. Big iron doors prevented us from entry, so my friend never found the inner peace she was looking for.

We decided to go to a Vegan restaurant near Republique (not my choosing, just my sissy friend’s dietary wishes :p) which was a few Metro stops away. As we arrived into the town we were blocked by a swarm of French Police…


Click here for part 2

Read more:

The Craziest Valentines Ever
How I Got Catfished By My Best Friend
How I Got Evicted
How I Got My Heart Broken 
How To Save Money
How To Tackle Depression
Who Wet My Bed?

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I’m now on Youtube !

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The most terrifying day of my life

All I could see was carnage. Time stood still.

Somewhere deep down the bottom of the stairs, somewhere within a 1950’s antique kids wardrobe, was my dear old Nan- Millie.

Was she alive? Was she dead?
What had I done?


Do you remember the year 2002?
Will Young wanted to make everything bloody Evergreen. Remember Nelly, the rapper who has since faded in obscurity? As it was getting so hot in here, he wanted us to take off all our clothes. No wonder my generation has turned out so well with these role models.


You may have been lucky enough to have your own mobile phone. The trouble was, it was so large, it would be almost impossible to remove from your pocket. To avoid paying more than 10p, you’d communicate in the dreaded style of txt spk.
Y? 2 communic8 wif ppl ofc.

You could even get Nelly’s hot in here as a polyphonic ringtone. £3.99 well spent.

Elsewhere in 2002, Josh Harnett was having a very tough 40 Days and 40 Nights, there were rumours Dirty Den was returning from his watery canal in EastEnders, and the less said about Las Ketchup the better.

Meanwhile, one spring day in the surprisingly sheep-less Welsh town of Brynmawr (the town where I met my first girlfriend), there was a turbulent incident involving both my grandmother and my younger self.

Affectionately known as Nan, her house reeked of pets and cigarettes. The swirl of cigarette smoke had tinged the white walls with a sad shade of yellow.  Young Rupert didn’t mind – I was so appeased by the continuous supply of Somerfield tropical fruit juice and endless biscuits, that I failed to notice the bad living conditions.  I felt like the little prince on my visits, despite being an oblivious passive smoker.

Nan was having a spring clean. Included in this clean was a 1950’s children’s wardrobe, decorated bizarrely with a horse sticker.  It was a cumbersome, horrid difficult piece of badly designed vintage furniture designed during The Cold War.
Less Ikea, more no idea.
This wooden beast was white, with brown ridged décor and a slide door that didn’t even open. Even King Kong would need to use his entire body weight to push the door across.

Strength wasn’t my strong point, as you will later discover. I had arms that resembled pork twigs at this point, with my stepfather saying that there  ‘was more fat on a chip.’
Other comparisons of my appearance included a stretched Mike Teevee from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.



Nan wanted this wardrobe taken downstairs,  in case some children wanted it. Nan. It was 2002. They wanted Bob the Builder or GTA: Vice City.  The wardrobe would probably be better used as firewood or maybe as a shield whilst trekking across the nearby council estate.
Instead of taking the wardrobe into different pieces, she wanted the whole thing taken down the stairs. Nothing can go wrong. Right?

Nan explained she’d go at the front and I’d grip and hold onto it from the back.
We’d go down one step at a time.
It made the ‘To Me, To You’ plans devised by the Chuckle Brothers seem almost ingenious.

After sliding the wardrobe from the bedroom, we got into our respective positions at the top of the stairs. I heard her muffle from the other side of the wardrobe.

“Okay Rupert. Nice and slow, one step at a time”.

Nan moved a step down as we held onto it.
The wardrobe, as if developing sentience, leaned sharply forward down the stairs, menacingly aiming for the living room. The huge, vintage wooden mass was suddenly descending dramatically downward.
I tried to grip on to it, desperately. I was too weak. The wardrobe now had a devilish mind of it’s own. I fumbled with my hands to try and grab on to some part of it.
I desperately aimed to grab an edge, but all I caught was thin air.
I watched with sheer horror as the wardrobe flew down the stairs, with my Nan going down with it.





An almighty crash followed.

The wardrobe had chased her down the stairs and pinned her against the wall at the bottom of the living room. The edge had pierced her chest. Blood had started coming out of her mouth, splattering against her fetching charity shop cardigan. Her eyes were closed, her skin had gone a ghostly pale.

I genuinely thought she was dead.

The wardrobe blocked the end of the stairs. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I had developed the agility to do a parkour move. My boy body flew over the bannister.

I didn’t know what to do. They don’t train you how to do deal with wardrobe collisions at Scouts. (Not that I ever went.)

I wanted to move it, but I was worried more damage would be caused to an already fragile situation- being crushed after flying down 13 steps.
My brain was numb with erratic, scared thoughts..  My heart thumped in my chest.

Using some initiative, I rushed to the back door, opened my lungs and shouted TERRRRYYY to the next door neighbour. I couldn’t tell if he had even heard me.

I then phoned up my Uncle. Grabbing the bricky Nokia off the table,  I spoke with an exasperated, rapid tone, my voice lost in panic.


He thought it was a prank call. I wasn’t winning.

I then dialed 999 for the first time in my life. The operator they tried to calm me down and make sense of things. As I was pacing the living room, I  heard a sputter wheeze out from the stairs.
Nan had came back to life with a stir.
I felt a shot of relief. Her eyes half closed, she began to mutter something under her breath but it was incomprehensible. She looked delirious, drifting in and out of consciousness.

I then heard the door handle open. Terry the neighbour, a man who resembled a bear, appeared in the doorway, looking at us in horror. He rushed over and managed to move the remains of the wardrobe off of her. He took her in his arms and rested her on the sofa. She was more shocked than anything, and miraculously, seemed to be relatively unscathed despite facing an malevolent wardrobe.

The ambulance soon followed, the nee-naws and blue lights overwhelming the small town with the most excitement its seen in decades. My Nan refused to go with them at first as it wasn’t important, despite her flying down the stairs and getting punctured by a 5 foot tall and heavy piece of furniture.
She was more concerned about the bacon on the grill she had left to cook on a low heat. What about the bacon? She exclaimed.

Eventually we managed to persuade her to get checked herself out at the hospital. It turned out she was fine. I imagine she was warned that a 74 year old and a boy were not the best candidates for taking furniture down steep steps.

I can’t remember what happened to the wardrobe, I don’t think it left the house in one piece.  I never feel comfortable taking awkward and cumbersome objects up the stairs anymore, I’m probably slightly mentally scarred by this crazy incident.

The years passed. Whenever I brought up the story of the wardrobe incident around Nan, she’d quickly change the subject. Drifting back to her monthly copy of Puzzler magazine, she would ingest some Jaffa Cakes and pretend the whole thing never happened. Vote below on an alternative method you could have suggested to Millie.


Read more:

The Craziest Valentines Ever
How I Got Catfished By My Best Friend
How I Got Evicted
How I Got My Heart Broken 
How To Save Money
How To Tackle Depression
Who Wet My Bed?

Currently breaking the Internet at Facebook | Instagram | Twitter |

I’m now on Youtube !

I’m raising money for charity and achieving goals at

I’m raising money for charity and achieving goals at

Rupert The Teenager: Surviving Brock College

My hormones stepped up into overdrive. The pale, gingery goddess with crystal blue eyes stared back at me.

My heart pumped in my chest. My body tingled all over with that warm fuzzy feeling. My mind was aghast in a cringey teenage tornado. I even got goosebumps.

The following blog entry is from the perspective of my virginial, awkward teenage self. People who read my blogs often ask ‘why did you do that’ etc, but I am older, wiser, and far more cynical these days.


This teenage moment happened back in the 2000’s. Our phones weren’t smart and neither was I.

As you have read before, I had decided to become a gothical emo alternative schmuck. A year later from this decision, disappointing facial hair had now grown, and I adamantly refused to shave the fluff. My theory was that if I shaved, it would grow back into a scary full-on man beard I would never be able to get rid of. Hipster was a mere trend-foetus at this stage.

My new life ambition was to become a charismatic and popular rockstar – despite not knowing how to play any instruments and only drinking Watermelon Barcardi Breezers. I was studying at Brockenhurst college – and my goth, I was having a social renaissance.
I could wear what I want!
Well, what I wanted back then was a t-shirt advertising Iron Maiden. Complete with TK Maxx leather jacket and various bandanas. Said jacket was worn so much, I was known as The Fonz around the Hard Brock Cafe. Yep, it was actually called that.
This fashion had replaced the Matalan red fleeces and T-shirts with pressable sound effects (the only clothing I’ve ever worn that came with it’s own battery pack.)
On went the tight drainpipe trousers (with great difficulty), black shag bands and dangling chain then went around my jeans pocket for no reason whatsoever. This infographic pretty much sums me up:

Each day seemed more amazing than the next. I wouldn’t get told off for not turning up to college! However, GTA: San Andreas ruined my education and I didn’t get the A-Level grades I probably should have got.
Everyone at colleague was friendly. I could even call teachers by their first name!
I had gone from shy wallflower to someone who would just sit next to someone on the college bus and strike up a conversation. I was giddy and no doubts could stop me.  My confidence was growing at a great rate, but my decisions, like my unbeard, were ridiculous.

I aimed to be part of the Goth clique at college. Not by talking to them, but by dressing like them and listening to their music. My logic was that my alternative aura would naturally pull me into their black-cladded, growling ensemble that looked like an economy Lost Boys mixed with the Addams Family. Their leader had nostrils that looked like the arches of a viaduct.

To further my transformation, I decided not to have my hair cut for about 14 months. It grew into an unkept mane with the colour of mocha, of which was wrapped up in a burgundy bandana. My Dad said I looked like Jim Morrison. Looking back I resembled  like a poor man’s Tarzan.

Everyone was banging on about Natasha Bedingfield and Britney, but my dream girl back then was Amy Lee.


Bring me to life :p

At the time girls were confusing and elusive (this is still true!), yet I yearned for a girlfriend. I would see prancing couples at college, and goopy long haired barons doing handstands on the field, lapping up the attention. I’d think, ‘what is the boyfriend saying that is so magical? What is he doing?’
I lived in a town (New Milton) where the average age was 70 and fun was outlawed. Any women my age were mostly likely pregnant or were aiming towards their first ASBO.

There was Michaela, a girl from Winchester. She was very lovely and talkative, we could have a potential future, but there was one stipulation.
We never actually met.

So in summary, my love life was pretty much dead. Maybe my destiny was a microwaveable Meal for One – or like my once stepfather, order a Thai Bride off the internet.

I went to visit my Nan in Wales, over Easter and we’d just popped to see Auntie Vi. She wasn’t even an Auntie, it was just one of those affectionate terms, like Nan. Vi’s accent was so thick with Welshness her voice sounded like she swallowed a cheese grater.  She always gave me money so I could buy sweets, as would many of my Nan’s friends. I instead saved all these coins enough over the years to buy my own Playstation. My inner businessman started to salivate when any of them got their purses out around me.

On the way back from Vi’s, my pocket now full of well-earned coins, I passed by something that usually escaped me.  I was wearing a grungy black T-shirt with a mud design, the fashionista that I was, with my mocha mullet flowing and my Will-from-Inbetweeners spectacles on.  I saw a ginger girl. She had a slightly pale complexion with ocean blue eyes. She was very pretty, and I think she smiled at me.

Hang on. Oh my god.

I loitered around the town centre, contemplating this rare phenomenon. I later saw her with three African girls perched up near some steps.

“Hi” they said in chorus.

I almost did a double take. Were they speaking to someone behind me? Were they drunk?








My Muddy Valentines (Day)

We were stuck in the wilderness. I looked across to my friend in worry. 

There was no escape.

This was not how I expected my Valentine’s Day to pan out…

Let’s rewind to the  year 2014 – a year of self indulgent fame and vanity.

This was represented by  the talent vacuum that is her majesty Kim Kardashian, who was balancing a champagne glass on her photoshopped and suspiciously engineered behind.

When the most famous picture of the year is an ex-pornstar using her bum as a beer mat, you know our culture is about to flat line.


This image, not the trailer for the new Star Wars that year, allegedly ‘broke’ the internet.

I did the same once, by accidentally dropping some boiling chicken jalfrezi on my dial-up modem.

Anyway…It was Clinton Card’s Day Valentine’s Day.

I was treated and spoilt rotten…

To people’s Valentines Facebook statuses

I was saturated to a nauseous news feed on full of romantic surprises, teddy bears and chocolate hearts. Couples don’t really care how it makes the singletons feel.

I mean, I can’t help that I’ve alienated the female race because I say what I feel and I am rubbish at giving compliments. I was single. Tonight’s meal would likely be in a box with a plastic film.

I was almost ready to go on Take Me Out.

Instead of spending the night wallowing with a sad bottle of Blossom Hill red from Lidl’s alcohol aisle, whilst tucking into a microwaveable lasagna, my friend invited me to see Frank Turner. Frank was performing live in his home town of Winchester.

Who is this Frank Turner I heard you ask?

Frank Turner is a folk singer with some really punchy songs, with a rugged manly look that makes you question your heterosexuality.  A soulful voice combined with the crescendo of acoustic guitars, violins and banjos,  his music makes you want to jump up and dance and spill you cider everywhere.  He is also the only songwriter to unwittingly write a song about me and my big-kid syndrome:

I won’t sit down,
And I won’t shut up,
And most of all I will not grow up

He also has best goatee since Craig David. How can you not like this guy?

We aimed to travel there via South West Trains, despite having to remortgage the house to afford a rail ticket.

However, this was February 2014. Storm Nigel was battering the South, causing some aggressive flooding. It wasn’t quite Kevin Costner’s Waterworld, but it packed some weatherly carnage that caused animals and humans alike to hibernate.

Various beach huts had been destroyed, but it’s OK, they were mostly owned by the rich. Diners at the Marine Restaurant in the town of Milford-on-sea (aka the Black hole of the South) had to be rescued by the army after the  windows were destroyed. Water waded under the tables and shards of glass fell onto their canapés

I would love to read the reviews on Trip Advisor for that night.


Meanwhile, my friend Tom and I arrived at the train station. Everything was delayed but there was no indication when or if the trains would be running.  It was packed full of people wandering aimlessly around the platform. They carried sad-looking wilted red roses, waiting in vain for a train that would never arrive, to meet up with partners they would never see.

We could wait with them, but we’d get to the gig around Easter time. I didn’t want to miss our date with Frank and his banjo.

We jumped in Tom’s car, the mood was precarious. There was nothing to worry about right, driving in the wild weather? It was like the humorous prospect of Donald Trump eyeing up politics. It seemed like a sinister thought, but nothing would ever come about with it surely?

However, Hurricane Nigel, had other thoughts, and pulled us from side to side across the motorway. It felt like we were the marble in a pinball machine. I was a little worried Mother Nature might scoop us off the A31.

Luckily, we arrived at Winchester’s Guildhall, still vertical.  We enjoyed the support act, Will Varley, who sung ‘The Self Checkout Shuffle‘ which included the lyric ‘there is an unexpected item in my bagging area,‘ no joke.


I spotted a cute girl to my right, but I was a little bit too apprehensive to strike up a conversation, without alcohol or a waistcoat. She looked at me with a smile, I assumed it was directed at the person behind me.

A little later, I silenced the negative voice inside my head, plucked up my courage and spoke to her. Turned out she was a Mancunian!

At first I couldn’t understand her accent, so I smiled and nodded for a while. She was actually really lovely, we spoke about her love for pasties and how her favorite insult was calling someone a bungalow.

(As they didn’t have much going on upstairs.)

“Can you two be quiet!”

We both turned around like naughty schoolchildren to come face to face with an annoyed old lady , who had actually told us off. We’d be chattering away so much we were louder than the gig itself.  I’ve never been told off for talking at a live gig before, I was quite amused.

I casually asked if she would be my Valentine. (not the old lady, I don’t do well with the fiesty type)

She said yes. I felt quite elated, then felt preposterous for actually asking someone this the first time I’d met them, in the middle of a Frank Turner gig.

We met up a few times after where I learnt more Manchestery idioms such as their national cuisine of pudding – a savory dish. I also learn their odd twist on the tooth fairy (you get vegetables put under you pillow instead of coins.) Also, if your brother looked very different from you, he was quite likely the milkmans .


Pudding from up North. Yeah I don’t know either. 

I hadn’t noticed I’d spent one of our dates with chocolate ice cream splashed on my face, luckily she saw the funny side.  Sadly we weren’t meant to be, but it was probably be some of the funniest dates I’ve ever been on and it was a funny education about the world ‘up-north’.

Anyway, back to the gig. Without upsetting any more pensioners, Tom and I left and began the journey home. We were navigating the road labyrinth that is Winchester town centre, a place that has more castles than people.

We should have made it home in under an hour. Sadly, the weather had other ideas.

Broken tree branches streatched across the road, which were casually lazing around after being ripped off trees by the storms. Tyres would screech in terror as cars avoided dislodged bits of the countryside. We were really in the back of beyond on the way home as we passed through places with names like Tidpit, Appleshaw and Frogham. I felt like there were no signs of life.

One particular road looked like it was completely flooded.  With no canoe, my friend Tom used his initiative. He drove up the embankment to the left, of which looked like innocent wet grass.  We were gaining momentum across it, but then the wheels stopped. Tom pushed down on the acceleration, where we moved a a few inches, but then the car completely ground to a halt.

We were stuck in the mud, and alone in the middle of nowhere. We were officially trapped in countryside captivity. I swear I heard an owl hoot into the night and a tumbleweed float past.


Tom tried to floor it as I pushed the car, but it was no use. I pushed with all my might, my hands pressing against the car with hope, confidence and determination. However, my empty promises to join the gym had bitten me in the ass.  All I got was disillusion and achey forearms.

A car approached us from behind, but then abruptly disappeared away again, choosing not to be road Samaritans today.

We called a taxi to come rescue us, but they didn’t seem very helpful about sending a car out to the middle of nowhere in a stormy season, so they told us to wait. Being the countryside, the Internet did not yet exist and we knew no numbers for the AA or RAC, not that either of us was a member. Instead we sat huddled in the car, hiding from the gusty winds and animal howls in Emmerdale- county.

We hopped out to see any signs of life. We traipsed across the mud and I saw an abandoned barn. It seemed like a nice place to wait diligently for the possible taxi to arrive. My friend proceeded to get his suitcase out the car, worried some nefarious flood bandits might try to break into the car overnight. To me it looked like he was contemplating this barn as a new holiday hotspot!

Two lights suddenly blazed through the country night. We turned around to see a car appear behind us and two lads offer to help us out. With Tom attempting to get some movement in reverse, the three of us pushed the car, though the stubborn automobile wasn’t going anywhere quickly. The lads came up with the idea that putting car mats underneath the tyres would gather some much-needed friction and traction.

We put them underneath, and we gave it another go. We pushed and pushed and pushed some more (this sounds like a pregnancy)  and I suddenly felt cold, wet mud spatter across my face. Flecks of mud were going everywhere, hair,  my clothes, my mouth… but I was so jubilant I couldn’t help but wear a smile on my face. I’d never been so happy to feel mushy car earth decorating my face – as I knew this must mean the car was moving.  We pushed it all the way back to the road.

Thanking the guys, Tom drove through the flood, of which turned out to be barely deep at all. In fact, it may have given the car a nice little wash after it’s muddy excursion.  As we drove home, we saw the Taxi coming the other way. We had completely forgot about them!

We stumbled across another flood, but thankfully we managed to avoid it by Tom doing a crafty 3 point turn. I was slightly apprehensive though as behind us was a massive ditch, so I leapt out the car and directed him away from it to avoid spending the evening in the ground.

We eventually arrived in Bransgore and shared beer and reflected over our misadventures.


It took me a while to clean off all the mud…

Next Valentine’s Day I will stay indoors and safe, I decided.

If I can wade through all the cards I’ll receive.


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Urban Exploring – Rescued By the Coastguard

I scrambled through deep, thorny undergrowth, desperately trying in vain to find an escape. Like an overpriced raincoat brand, my thirsty throat felt Superdry. Nature had cruelly robbed me of my Evian bottle.

Looking for an escape, my hand sliced against the spiked brambles. The moonlight revealed to me a trickle of blood oozing down my fingers. As I heard my friend stagger over rocks and swear loudly into the darkness, I acted like I knew I had a plan. I didn’t.

My heart ferociously beat in my chest as I staggered across more rocks. I struggled to breathe in the humidity, I felt so lightheaded as my thirst declared war on my throat.

I stepped on a rock, it was more nefarious than it seemed, it slide away and I fell over, aiming right over a stick poking out the rocks below.

Two Hours Earlier

It was 2016.

The United Kingdom and the England Football team were now both out of Europe. Margaret Thatcher had been reanimated as Theresa May, albeit with Lego librarian haircut. Socially vulnerable youngsters were being led astray down side streets in order to interact with strange looking creatures and capturing them with their special balls. They called it Pokemon Go.

We had driven to Portland, on a late summers day. Portland is a tiny little isle hanging off the end of Dorset. We were urban exploring, or urbexing. After being cautioned off by thistles, metal fences and possible security cameras, we had given up hope of finding an abandoned underground hospital.


I argued with my friend, Rusty, as to why she didn’t bring a charged up phone whilst exploring such dangerous places. What followed was practically an extended informercial about why I was right.

We drove to  a nearby derelict rifle range on the island using a softly spoken Sat Nav. We parked up next to a Young Offenders Institute. I was concerned the car radio would be stolen whilst we were exploring, and betraded in exchange for juvenile contraband like cigarettes or marbles.

We spotted the rifle range down a deep rocky valley. Tomb-like in structure, it looked like a huge stone pyramid coming out the ground, it was a fascinating sight for an Urban Explorer like me. It was 65 foot in length, roughly about the size of my ego.

We needed to traverse across an undergrowth of rocks. I ventured toward the bay and spotted this innocent looking outhouse overlooking the shore, but  after climbing up the steps, it led nowhere.

My friend suggested we try traversing across the rocks, it looked like they were a flat surface- so technically the following is her fault. Even thought I was thinking the same idea, I must reiterate it was her fault 😉

We did so, dressed in Sports Direct green wellys. They provided enough grip but I didn’t feel secure. The rocks I was stumbling on gave way and I tumbled down. I realised the ground below was incredibly uneven, filled with sinful looking thorns and prickle bushes. I would either end up stepping on the grass, or knee deep into spiky foliage.

The rocks began to separate, I felt like I was jumping across them like little platforms on Crash Bandicoot, my long legs struggling to leap from rock to rock. Rusty, shorter that me, was concerned about a bramble infested hole, so I offered my knee as a bridge.

The sun was setting, of which she warned me, but being a man, I didn’t take any notice to what she was saying. The moon, however, was huge, producing a huge orange swirl, pretending to be the sun.

We stumbled through the inside of a broken tree. It was the perfect relationship for me: stability, a solid foundation and plenty of things I could hold onto. Sadly it hit the rocks, literally, and we were back to jumping across rocky platforms.

10 minutes of stumbling later, we made it to the side of the tomb.  The sun had almost disappeared. I struggled to find an opening into the rifle range. We climbed up the hillside awkwardly but to no sign of any entrance.

Something was sloping around in the distance on all fours. At first I thought it was a drunk flailing around after last orders at the pub. Upon closer inspection, it was a goat.


I know nothing about goats, sadly the Really Wild Show was no longer transmitting on CBBC at 4:35pm and so there was no a weekly after-school animal education. My current animal knowledge was  from replaying  Tomb Raider levels in my head – reminding me what kind of animals want to kill or eat Lara Croft.

Which is usually all of them.

Our track record with animals had not been good so far.  Last week, we climbed a fence  (to be fair, it did say Enter at your Own Risk on it) and encountered a horse that charged at us. Instinctively, we ran out the area, leapt over the fence, flipped and tumbled upside down to escape from it. It was mightily pissed off, this was no cute foal in the New Forest. I had to distract it to the right with chat-up lines (what’s a cute horse like you doing in a field like this?) whilst Rusty scooped up her dropped keys from where its hooves had been standing.

Google advised I stand up to horses, Alpha-Maleing it out, showing it whose boss – like a Chav demanding his dole money. Though when a huge beast decides to charge at you at full speed, you don’t want to square up to it in case you get flattened or kicked.

So with no Chris Packham or Animal: Friend or Foe? smartphone app on site to advise me on all things nature, I acted with caution in Portland. Looking around, I could see 5 other goats on the mountain top, with one coming in my direction in the invading night.  I heard a growling noise behind in the darkness, I became apprehensive. Luckily it turned out to be Rusty.

I decided that our  adventure was over. Survival came first. I heard crumbling in the distance… a couple of goats were teetering down the mountain side, stones flying down with them. There was  crunching and munching sounds which were definitely not human. This time it wasn’t Rusty. We had eaten all our sausage rolls before we got there. So it must be a goat.

I did not want to be gored to death in the dark by horns.

Later research showed these were 10 primitive goats that had been planted to eat island scrub. Portland should also plant Bear Grylls to help absent minded Urban Explorers like us survive.

IMG_20160720_215512523Sliding back down the hill, Rusty was effing and blinding. She was using nettle bushes to grip onto. I was feeling more worried than I did after the Brexit Referendum reveal.

Going back in the darkness, a half hour journey, wasn’t wise. We used phones as torches, but it meant we could no longer use two hands for stability.

I climbed over a nearby fence towards the shore, the torchlight on my phone guiding  me through the undergrowth. My hope was restored, there must be a way down, I thought.

I traversed to the left I was met by a cliff edge. I tried the other way  and I was surrounded by 10 foot high thorns and perpetual darkness. I felt frustrated that I was in this situation, and scared of being stuck here.

I didn’t know what to do. The only option was to go back the way we came, through dangerous rocks and thorns, with everything eclipsed in darkness. In daylight it was haphazard enough It would be like  a blindfolded drunken Paul ‘Gazza’ Gascoigne attempting BBC’s Total Wipeout.

My throat was dry in the humidity. It was 10pm, yet the heat was lingering in the air. Panic started to seep in, I couldn’t think clearly. I just wanted to be comfortably at home eating Rolo cookies and re-watching 90’s sitcoms.

We saw the outhouse again in the distance, the unexciting structure was now a beacon of hope. I fathomed somehow we could get up to it using the other side.  I tried three different ways, but instead ended up in a  20 foot high haze of brambles and thorns, I was almost knee deep in the undergrowth. Every direction I ended entangled up in nature, my heart dejected that there seemed no escape

Suddenly I stumbled across some evil foliage whilst trying to navigate across nefarious stones and plants. The rock suddenly gave way, my foot slid. I helplessly began to fall over, aiming right over a stick poking out the rocks below.

Swerving, I dodged the stick, and landed hands first against nettle, my phone bounced out my hand and smashed against a rock. Luckily I had a glass protector as I drop it daily.
I didn’t want to be out all night. Rusty was getting frustrated and angry. We had nothing to keep us warm, no water. No hope!

I rung 999, not for the first time, and tried to get out of there. I hadn’t before called the Coastguard.  I was apologetic, we went for a walk which went wrong. (no mention of Urban Exploring!)

I had no idea how he could find us,  I tried to printscreen a picture of where we were on the map. I tried, but my panic had activated, and I accidentally triggered Face Swap and Kandy Krush in the process. He gave me a ridiculously long email account and spelt it out whilst using the phonetic language. I had no Internet. There was no nearby Costa to steal the Wi-Fi.

Foxtrot. Uniform. Charlie. Kilo.

The subject line was a simple ‘help,’ but it wouldn’t send. I was so frustrated, wanting to bury my head in my cut hands. He asked us if we had warm clothes and phone battery. He spoke with such a casual composure, I genuinely thought he was going to suggest we camp out over night. We had no food, water, and a dying phone. Luckily, he said he knew where we were as my phone had a GPS signal.

He told us to wait and the helicopter would be with us shortly.  We awaited aerial salvation.

I gushed with joy as I heard the rotor blades over head in the nightime sky. We shook our phones in the air, we probably looked like a couple of middle-aged men at a rave dancing with glow sticks. The helicopter proceeded to fly past in the distance and then all we heard was silence. Had they given up on us already?

Come back… please? We were both silently worried, our hopes crushed once more. It was worst than that day I discovered Santa was a fictional character.

Ten minutes later, the rotor blades noise reappeared. We again flew our arms in the air, I even tried out a desperate yell into the dark abyss. I shone the torch against the tomb wall in the hope they would see it against the stone. The chopper slowly edged closer like a shy child  being introduced to the new house cat for the first time. A striking bold light from the chopper illuminated the area and we could finally see everything.

I got a muffled phone call from them. All I could make out it was stay where you are.  

For once, I did what i was told. It felt like an enormous relief to hear someone. I could feel my inner goddess jumping with joy!

Suddenly torches appeared in the distance, and then near the little outhouse. What was going on, I thought we were going to get airlifted out of here? It felt odd to see another human being after so long. More torches appeared from the other side of the tomb, people had worked out where we were. As they came over, they said they had found the patients. 

Luckily, it turned out to be International Rescue the Coastguard Team. They asked if we had any injuries. I saw only a few scratches, bites and cuts. But mostly a wounded ego.

First Date is it? They asked. Last Date! I joked. Maybe we should have gone to the Isle of Fernando’s.

As they walked us up back to safety, they asked what we were doing here, I made up that we were just going for a curious jaunt down Portland beach and our  curiosity was peaked by the random tomb, whilst I slyly hid my map with Urbexing locations on it.

They remarked that they were luckily in the area after a neighbour had earlier phoned them in regard to a mysteriously floating kayak with nobody in. They reassuringly said it was very sensible to call the Coastguard in this situation. They usually get a lot of calls from confused people with mental problems.

Well you found us, I retorted.

Apparently they could see our heat signatures, it looked like I had a big red head. I did have a red face funnily enough!

They told us about the history of the rifle range, but I was to relieved that the ordeal was over. My legs were so achey, I felt like I was being pulled into the ground, my cuts on my fingers were stinging. My hands, arms, legs and shoulders were covered in cut marks, I looked like I’d be dancing the Salsa with Edward Scissorhands.

We climbed the punishing cliff steps back to the car. It reminded me of the fatigue and acheyness I’d felt when I’d done eight rounds of the dreaded ‘beep test‘ at Secondary School PE lessons. Yet this time  there was no portly geriatric in a damp polo shirt organising it.

We were rewarded by water as we got back. It felt cool and refreshing as I knocked it down, ending my dryness. Three Coastguard trucks were parked up by the car, and the guys all seemed quite joyous than we had provided them with an adventure.

IMG_20160721_245920503My better urbex you can see on my Urbex Blogs, and this made an interesting story to tell! Galavanting across dangerous rocks in the dark was not the wisest of my ideas. Neither was shaving my chest hair the other week, but now its grown back a bit, it looks normal.

We went home via McDonalds for a 1am in the morning feast, the sights of teenagers in their pyjamas and Onesies wolfing down Big Macs was actually quite soothing. My scratches were stinging, but I was to busy guzzling  down saturated fats.

Despite the gentle waft of fattening animal grease and banter of social-media enthused acne-faced youngsters,  I’d never been so happier to be under the warm inviting glow of the Golden Arches and bad cholestrol.

Note: I once posted this on the 28 days  later urbexing forum. It wasn’t a pretty response

One such cyber panther said “Your a fat unfit w****r who needs to stay at home in front of the telly…”.

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6 Tricks How Trump Became President


Donald Trump became president of the USA on the 9th November 2016.

People  were worried we would backpedal into a 1950’s dystopia where sexism and racism were about as common as the cold.

Others would worry someone would upset Donald’s sharp ginger- vanilla wave of a haircut, that he would got sensitive, and he may launch a nuclear counter-attack. World War 3 could happen.

One day you may be reading this from an underground bunker, clinging on to loved ones for hope the air outside is breathable.

We complain about him on daily basis, yet people knew what he was like when they voted him in. People were surprised, yet it was pretty obvious how he became our glorious leader. Take a look at the evidence.

1. He’s deceptively intelligent for someone that acts like a buffoon.

See Boris Johnson, Jade Goody, Nigel Farage and George Bush. He says a lot of stupid things, but honestly, you don’t become a multi-billionaire if you have a single digit IQ. He’s spent years building up a global empire; he knows how to get people to invest him, whether that be their finances or (now) their dignity. He’s come bouncing back from bankruptcy many times.

2. Trump speaks using slow, simple English.

Which means the horrific complexity of politics doesn’t seem scary and bewildering. We feel part of it because he speaks likes a normal person (well apart from the sexist/racist elements) which likely gets the redneck/ hillbilly or uneducated vote. Most billionaires and politicians seem arrogant and pompous when they speak and we feel like we are beneath them, yet he communicates with humour and uses clever word choice e.g. ‘Let’s Make America Great Again.’

(is it not great now? If it was, when did it stop being great?)

He breaks stuff down. Living in England, I don’t have a bloody clue what’s going in with American Politics. Yet he explains it so simply, that it seems to make sense.

3. Publicity.

Every dumb thing he says is publicised, retweeted, rebroadcast and talked about. His name is lodged in the public conscious and the more we talk about, the more it won’t go away – see Katie Hopkins, Kardashians, Beiber, TOWIE, Cheryl Tweed Cole- Versini. Although it’s been mainly negative, Trump’s garnered all the attention and coverage of the election and you can’t escape his irritating orange face.  We love all things media and start foaming at the mouth when we hear gossip about famous people. He has been in the public eye for years, including spending 10 years firing people on the Apprentice, solidifying a persona of an admirable and calculated businessman and leader to millions of viewers. (Funnily enough Alan Sugar hasn’t decided to jump on the election bandwagon.) We trust people that we know and see on a frequent basis. I myself have been upstaged at job interviewers as other candidates are more well-known or are best buddies with the management.

His twitter is a painful trainwreck to watch. But we’ve all made mistakes on social media we regret. We won’t forget Trump, but we will forget his competition.



4. Patriotism.

Voters are a lot more patriotic than you realise, we bang on about how diverse and accepting of others, but when it all boils down to it, the pride of our country, is sometimes more important than common sense – see Brexit.

5. Emotions, Fear.

The Donald speaks directly to people’s fears e.g. terrorism, increasing taxes, losing jobs, which are massively scary things that we have to deal with on a daily basis with. He’s offering a solution. Despite these solutions being absolutely terrifying , there’s a lot of angry stupid people out there that hate people and these honest solutions makes sense to them.
He’s ballsy, and you get the impression he’s going to do what he says. He’s not going to hold back on what the thinks, so it gives the impression he’s going to act on it.

6. He’s passionate, enthusiastic and energetic.

The public like people who claim they are ‘men of the people’ who have energy and charisma, e.g. Hitler, Churchill.

Corbyn, May, Gordon Brown, Ed Milliband… they are so dull and unapproachable, they feel like crusty old teachers that are best locked in the stationary cupboard

Trump speaks in emotions, despite having no facts or political knowledge to back anything up. He makes stupid mistakes and social faux paux, like the average Joes do, so it’s a lot easier to relate to an idiot than a stuffy and snobby politician (see David Cameron, thanks for firing up the Brexit referendum to get you a second term, grrrr )

PS. I won £50 betting on Trump winning. I knew Americans would prevail.
Vote below on your opinion of the Donald.


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Worst Date

Just the word dating can make even the most confident human shudder in anguish.  Is anyone mentally ready for the the barrage of awkward icebreakers such as ‘what music do you like? ‘and the anti-climatic classic of ‘so um…. what do you do for a living?

From the pre-date guzzle of a triple vodka, also known as ‘liquid courage’, then to making sure my quirks and bad habits are safely tucked away, I have embraced this romantic ritual to its fullest.

Despite my enthusiasm to find the ‘one’  – dating has not gone according to plan. (In all honesty, I only do it so I don’t end up on Naked Attraction with my tackle out in front of the nation.)  Some dates have been horrendous – and not just the time my date said I facially resembled a terrorist.

FBI’s most wanted?

Read below to enjoy my surreal experience from 2012. It put me into a romantic hiatus for half a year. I was only brave enough to start dating after I realised I was scowling at loved up couples on Valentine’s Day.

I think I could have been taking a course on how to be assertive.
(Yes I was. Just practicing my learnt assertiveness)

I met a lady there. Perhaps she had been planted by the teacher to see if I had learnt anything assertive from the course. She was few years older, kinda cute, though she had a slightly distracting gap between her front teeth.  I tried not to look at it, but I was slightly transfixed.

She revealed she was a dancer, and I wanted to learn to dance myself, this got us talking. My moves at this point resembled that of a stiff, traumatised mannequin.

After some pleasant interactions, she wanted a date. We arranged to meet for a hot chocolate on a chilly autumn day down Bournemouth beach. I was hot and cold, to quote Katy Perry.


As we greeted each other, I was able to blame my nervous goosepimples on the cool November breeze. We were rewarded with a cheeky slither of heat despite the sharp weather. We sat in a nice spot in the sunshine.

Things were going smoothly. We rattled off the mandatory date questions. I kept all signs of my refusal to grow up and my only child syndrome hidden away. I decided not to reveal how I leave the toilet seat up frequently or how I repeatedly fail to make my own bed each morning.

10 minutes in, she brought up her personal life. She revealed her recent ex-boyfriend, was a mad, bad and very jealous stalker. This caveman (or future Jeremy Kyle guest) would regularly turn up in her flat, of which he for some reason had a key, and demand her love and affection back. Oh Romeo, where art thou?
He was regularly aggressive. Caveman once broke a wooden chair in frustration. He then picked it up from the floor, pushed her to the wall and then pinned her there using the broken carcass of the chair. How absolutely horrible and terrifying.


It turned out she had mentioned another man’s name in front of him.

Caveman would also turn up at the store where she worked, completely unannounced. He would rush to the busy desk, dive in, and give her a dribbly snog in front of everyone, staking his claim in front of customers. “She’s mine,” he would announce proudly in front of bemused gamblers. She didn’t seem overly concerned about his odd behaviour.

He recently broke her phone in a fit of violent rage, smashing the screen and transforming it into bitesize chunks. He got annoyed as she was checking the phone frequently, and he was livid she was teasing him about messaging someone. She revealed that special someone to be me!
(It wasn’t a Nokia. They are indestructible. They can literally survive anything. Tarmac, gravity, the apocalypse.)

I can sympathise with people in abusive relationships. I perched on the sand, slightly perplexed about what to say. I decided we should take a walk.  I had to focus on how to do this – Left foot, right foot, breathe, smile. In that order.

This wasn’t my usual first date. Usually they involve my sparkling wit and hoping we will split the bill. Please don’t order that expensive champagne darling. 

The sea air was quite therapeutic as we walked past the pier. She looked around, and told me another revelation in a hushed tone.
She had seen the infamous Caveman!  He was lurking near the Oceanarium. He wasn’t interested in buying a jellyfish keychain or taking a selfie with a charming penguin- instead he was was searching for someone. He looked disgruntled and slightly fuming.
(Like Phil Mitchell does if you take the mickey out of his long flowing hair)

Caveman was out looking for her and he’d gotten wind that she wasn’t at home. She’d mentioned she was meeting a guy for a date and he had gone absolutely livid at this. He was on the warpath. She hadn’t asked his permission to be out and about the house. Especially to hang out with a tall terrorist man like myself.

I looked around. I could see him in the crowd, scanning the promenade for her, like a budget Terminator. He was a big guy, and looked a few sandwiches short of a picnic.
My date put her hood over her head to disguise herself and clung closer to me.

We dived behind the Imax 3D Cinema. Even though it was voted the worst building in Britain, right now it was ugly and big enough for us to hide behind. We darted around the side to refuge to the right of Jumpin’ Jacks.


I asked what would happen if the Caveman Terminator caught up with us.

“He would hit me first….then he would hit you.”

My heart pounded in my chest. With unwanted adrenaline coursing through my veins, this was not the action I was hoping for.  I couldn’t believe how quickly this escalated from getting a simple hot chocolate. As we continued to walk away, I strode around the car park, almost colliding into a pensioner trying to reverse his Volvo badly.

She peeked around the corner of the Imax. Apparently Caveman was walking with clenched fists into Harry Ramsden’s Fish and Chips. Something was definitely getting battered, I thought. ( I try to crack jokes in tense action sequences like this.)

I began to to walk with a sense of brisk pace. We ended up in the town centre, grinding to a halt near a Weatherspoons. How I wish I was in there away from this, snuggled around a freshly microwaved Chocolate Fudge Brownie and a jug of Woo Woo.

I apologized. I wouldn’t wish a horrible brute like that on anyone. I suggested that maybe she should get the locks changed and call the police.
She seemed fairly indifferent and said ‘Yeah maybe I should.’

I bid her a quick goodbye, then quickly walked away home in case, pondering whether to join the local karate club on the way home.

A few months later, she has listened to me and decided to get the locks changed and called the police. Would you have gone on a second date. Vote below, and read what happens next!

Click for PART 2

The Craziest Valentines Ever
How I Got Catfished By My Best Friend
How I Got Evicted
How To Break Your Heart. 
How To Save Money
How To Tackle Depression
Who Wet My Bed?

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