My good mate Barry and I once found a couple of very accommodating young girls on the bank once, I wrote about it with some other stories a few years ago. This is that story:
Fast forward a few months to mid June, another trip down to; deepest, darkest, Kent. The weather couldn’t have been more different. The sun had been blazing down all morning and we had both caught a few decent fish for a change; "It doesn’t get much better than this," I thought to myself.
“Caught anything”? I turned and looked around. There standing behind me were two very pretty young girls, they were silhouetted against the light, their dresses rendered transparent by the backlight shining through them, in a similar way to that made famous by Princess Diana. “I’ve had a few love, what brings you two, down here?” I enquired. “My cousin and I were just taking a walk; I’m down here visiting her for a few days, have you got anything to drink? We’re gasping.” We fed and watered the girls and they hung around with us for the rest of the day. Very friendly these country girls, I must say. They invited us both down to see them the following day and delighted us with the good news that their parents would be away all day.
I felt ill, well, unwell enough to throw a sickie on Monday anyway. Baz was owed a day off work. So our only problem was that we were both totally skint. After a long weekend of; booze, fishing and football, we were both pot less. We decided to pool our resources, which unfortunately didn’t cover our return train tickets to see the girls. I put plan B into operation, but after delving down the back of the settee plan B only revealed three odd socks and a comb with some missing teeth. This I thought was a finite resource, similar to the vast herring shoals that once inhabited the north sea, it had been plundered too often and too thoroughly in the past to provide a worthwhile catch. Plan C was also doomed to failure, as going through the pockets of all the coats hanging in the hallway only provided two decidedly dodgy looking polo mints and a pile of pocket fluff. I must have also denuded this resource in the recent past without giving it a chance to replenish itself.
Baz phoned the station, while I took stock of what we had, which was; two of a packet that had once contained three and enough cash for two single tickets. “F#@k it”, said Baz, we can hitch hike back or something, getting there’s the main thing, we’re on a dead cert if we can just get there” Ah, the optimism of youth, eh.
The next morning saw me ring in sick and then we were on our way. We were like two elvers on a journey from the Sargasso Sea; not really knowing what lay ahead waiting for us, or how the f#@*ng hell we were going to get back.
“I know what we can try," said Baz, as we entered the empty train compartment. “Let’s pull up the seat cushions and see if there’s any change down there.” We found 50p first try. I suggested that when it stopped we could move up to the next carriage and try again. I pulled up the first cushion. ”Urgh, bloody hell!" I shouted. For there, glistening under the cushion was a stretched and exceedingly well used condom. I pulled up the next one, a regimental cap badge lay there. Next one up and jackpot, enough cash to get us home. “I bet it was a squaddie having a knee trembler and all his cash shook out of his pockets,” said Baz. “No sh1t Sherlock, and what’s more it serves the begger right, a gentleman would have at least taken his hat off first,” I replied.
As soon as the train stopped and buoyed by our initial success, we were straight into the next compartment. Baz lifted the first cushion and there it was; a corker, perfectly proportioned and uniform in every way. It looked for all the world like a Faberģe egg; that’s if they ever made Faberģe eggs from sh1t and sweetcorn. Disaster struck Immediately, Baz shocked by this gruesome discovery dropped the cushion, breaking the hard outer crust of the turd. Up to this point in the turd’s existence it had just sat there inertly, bothering no one, the freshness sealed in by it’s hard outer casing.
A dear friend of mine suffers from a condition called synaesthesia. Suffers of this condition have their senses heightened and muddled, they can see music and smell colours. I, except for this one moment, have fortunately never had to endure this condition. But purely for your information: The smell was a sort of; Bourneville brown, flecked with baby ***** yellow. It filled the entire compartment at the speed of smell. Ignoring all instructions to the contrary, we both pulled down the windows and hung limply outside, both of us heaving and gagging all the way to the next station. The depositor of this turd, not having any paper to hand had the ingenuity to use his sock to wipe with, it’s the one and only time that I have ever seen skid marks on a sock!
As we got out of the carriage an elderly couple entered the compartment that we had just vacated. The train pulled away and the old chap thinking we were the culprits and cause of the horrendous stink started waving his fist and shouting out that we were a pair of dirty barstards. We both howled with laughter as he and the train disappeared into the distance.
After getting directions from the ticket office we found our way to the girls address. I knocked on the door, the curtains twitched and the door was opened by a young guy in army uniform. Oh Bu**er! he didn’t fit into our plans at all. “You must be the guys the girls said were coming around, come in. They’ve just popped up the shops”. “You in the army then mate?” I asked stupidly. “Not any more chum, I’ve run away, I f@#king well hated it in there”. Just as he was saying this we heard the girls let themselves in, as soon as they had they had come into the living room there was a loud hammering on the front door. The soldier jumped up and quickly and hid himself behind a curtain. Two MP’s brushed past the girls and entered the living room. “You called here looking for my brother last night.” The girl protested. Yeah, but we’ve just seen him at the door and we know he’s in here.” The MP replied.
“Private Watts! Private Watts 348994467”! The MP shouted. It bodes well for King and Country laddie that you’re in a bloody Infantry Regiment and not the Intelligence Corps. We know exactly where you are, your frigging boots are sticking out from underneath that frigging curtain”. Bearing a sheepish expression, the soldier emerged from his hiding place. “You’re not even dressed properly man, just look at the state of you, where’s your cap badge”? Baz offered him the one we’d found on the train. “Ta mate, but it’s the wrong Regiment.” The soldier replied, as the MP’s escorted him, one on either side out to their Land Rover.
Distraught, his sister ran upstairs to her bedroom. Baz winked at me and then followed her, saying; “I’d better go up and comfort her.” I stayed downstairs with her cousin meanwhile and gave her a good comforting to on the sofa. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Haaaaaaaa, High Five.
Sent from my iPad using Tapatalk
