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.

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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.

 

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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.

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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.

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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.

 

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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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Le Strip Club – My Worst Holiday Part 2

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 🙂



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How I Got My Heart Broken 
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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 http://rupertsresolutions.tumblr.com