Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) (17 page)

If someone gets their knickers in a twist about people being disrespectful at the funeral of man nobody liked, they should take a long hard look at the people who are devout, and use it as an excuse to kill.

That’s
far
more disrespectful, don’t you reckon?

I’ve always considered agnosticism the right way to go.

Not a religion, more of a state of mind.

Its tenant is that none of us have a hope in Hades of knowing the true nature of God, so it’s best to hold our own council, keep an open mind and stay out of the way when the religious lunatics come to town.

It also means that when we do die, we can stand in front of whatever form God may take, happy in the knowledge we never said anything bad about him - or her.

…well, nothing bad enough to warrant a trip to Hell on the next passing goblin to join Satan and his new chief lieutenant Gerald Shearwater.

I think Gerald was an atheist, in actual fact - which could explain a lot. Atheists are generally very grumpy and surly individuals, who you wouldn’t invite to the family barbecue.

I kind of wish Gerald had been Buddhist, because then he would have been re-incarnated as a slug, and I could have taken great joy in pouring salt on him.

I like the idea of re-incarnation.

Don’t believe a word of it, but like the concept nonetheless.

There’s something amusingly ironic about returning as a lower form of life and having to deal with all the pollution and rubbish you produced when you were human and thinking you were the bees knees of carbon-based life forms.

What’s the order you’d progress up the food chain if you were re-incarnated?

Slug – chicken – dog – lion – dolphin – football supporter – human being?

If so, I’d be quite happy to call a halt to the process as a dolphin.

I think I’d thoroughly enjoy a life messing around in the ocean, doing tricks for the poor, dumb human beings.

When I do die, I have - in my infinite wisdom - decided that I want to be shot out of a cannon into my grave, while a chorus of singers dressed as nuns belt out It’s Hip To Be Square by Huey Lewis And The News.

I figure if your death can’t be heroic or meaningful, then it might as well be entertaining.

2.03 pm

38304 Words

It’s mid-afternoon and time is starting to run low, methinks.

I plan on bringing an end to this before midnight tonight, so it only leaves me ten hours to finish.

I can get a few more chapters in before we take our leave of one another and return to the real world though, no problem.

By this time on a Sunday, most of those chores are usually done.

The car is washed, the dog is walked and the Sunday papers have been read from cover to cover - the lifestyle section and funny pages anyway, no-one actually reads the financial section, do they?

As the day moves along, thoughts turn to eating roast dinners and watching TV as the old girl on the Antiques Roadshow looks pole-axed when told the snuffbox she found in the attic during the last clean out is worth twenty grand.

Sunday is the day we traditionally commune with God, if we happen to follow a faith that holds Sunday as the day of worship.

Fitting then, that I just spent most of a chapter slagging off organised religion.

I’ll probably be struck by lightning any minute.

Religion isn’t the only way we try to cheat death’s hold on us.

If there’s one pursuit we take part in - and enjoy a lot more than praying if we’re honest - in order to poke the grim reaper in the eye, its procreation.

We do this to ensure the survival of our name and heredity, if not our actual physical being.

I’ll get on to the business of children and how we raise them in the next section (see? I am thinking ahead now and again). For the moment though, let’s discuss the fun bit that comes before:

Sex.

Great
, isn’t it?

The one thing we can truly thank God for above anything else is the gift of a good, hard fuck.

He could have been nasty and decided the best way for humans to create new life was shaking hands or head-butting each other. Instead he made the process a great deal more enjoyable - and if we’re lucky, very sweaty.

Because he made sex such an enjoyable thing, a great deal of it conducted across the planet is purely recreational.

The purpose of making the beast with two backs may be to create babies and keep the human race on its feet, but that often takes a big back seat to covering each other with chocolate and hanging from complicated looking leather contraptions.

There may be stories in this book that may have made you feel a touch of sympathy for old Nickle-Pickle, but I’m here to tell you not to worry.

Yes, I’ve had my fair share of humiliation and angst, but there’s one thing that’s always raised my spirits and kept me on an even keel. One thing I can always look to for comfort and solace.

You really shouldn’t concern yourself about me too much because:

I have a large penis.

See
?

Everything’s not so bad, after all.

Not that I’m bragging. No, no, no.

It had nothing to do with me that God looked down on my moment of conception and said in a big, booming voice:

 ‘Spalding shalt have a big wang’.

Thus it was done, and lo… Spalding’s father did celebrate and walk about the cities and the streets, proclaiming to the heavens how proud he was of his offspring’s meat and two veg.

You may cast your mind back to the story about Callie and how I lacked the confidence to chat up the blonde minx with the button nose.

You may be thinking:
‘If he’s got a big schlong, surely he’d have no problems chatting up women?’

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that.

If it was socially acceptable to whop the bald-headed champ out on the first meeting and wave it around to show your virility and strength, then yes, I would have had a lot more confidence. The kind you could bounce rocks off.       

Sadly it isn’t and I had to fall back on charm, which was virtually non-existent due to fear of rejection and a skinful of lager.

There might be women in this world who’d respond favourably to this chat-up line:

‘Nine inches, love.
Nine
inches.’

…but if there are, I’ve never met one and would probably be terrified if I did.

It’s only on the occasions I’ve managed to get past the first few dates - like with Sophie, for instance - that the girth of my manhood has started to pay dividends.

At university, if I could have created a reputation with the ladies as a three-legged man, it would have made pulling a lot easier. The problem was, I already had a reputation as the guy who shits himself at parties.

My penis could have been two feet long and able to move like an elephant’s trunk and it wouldn’t have mattered much.

Having a large penis is cool, but in no way makes you a good lover. Nobody is good in bed when they start out and I was no exception – cock like a donkey’s not withstanding.

My first sexual encounter was definitely not one for the books.

The girl in question would probably agree if she ever reads this.

Her name was Annabelle. Annabelle Itchen.

Fantastic name, eh?

Ripe with piss-taking potential, that one. I’ll leave you to think up some suitably humorous variations. God knows how the girl must have suffered during her school years.

By the time I met her, Annabelle was eighteen - as was I - and we were going to the same college.

College isn’t like university, as you still tend to hang around in the same old groups you did at school, but spend less time outside the Co-op worrying old people and vandalising bus shelters.

College exists in that awkward time between trying to fit in at school with everyone else - and making every effort to be an individual once you get to university or into a job. It’s kind of like floating around in limbo for a couple of years, working out who the hell you actually are.

Annabelle had moved down from London and was a bit of an outsider. This was fine because I was too.

I never really bonded much with friends at school, as I kind of liked pensioners and found bus shelters to be largely inoffensive.

I went to a large city comprehensive, where I rubbed shoulders with the petty criminals and McDonalds staff of tomorrow, so didn’t have much in common with anyone, being a nerdy little sod who liked Star Trek and sandwiches with no crusts.

Annabelle was in the same English Literature class at college, so we had something to talk about in the student common room. We got on well and I was pleased this made some of the other lads jealous.

While Annabelle wasn’t a glamour model in waiting, she was an attractive lass with auburn hair and a winsome smile.

I’m not going to recount how we got together, as I’ve already covered meeting women and establishing a relationship elsewhere. Suffice to say we fancied each other and started going out immediately. It was all pretty run-of-the-mill and probably similar to your own experiences with first love.

After a month of kissing and awkward fondling, I was ready to take the plunge into full-on copulation.

Thankfully, so was she.

We arranged a special evening at her parent’s house, while they were off sunning themselves on the continent and completely oblivious to their daughter’s forthcoming deflowerment.

I went round on Saturday evening, condom stuck firmly in wallet, half filled with excitement about finally losing my virginity and half terrified of getting it wrong and poking my dick in her ear hole.

For men, virginity is the exact opposite of money: You want to lose it as quickly as possible and don’t care when it’s gone.          

For women, virginity is
just like
money: They don’t mind giving it away, but would like to spend it on something worthwhile that they won’t want a refund for once the dust has settled.

I would have been more than happy to get down to business the moment she opened the front door, but Annabelle had other ideas.

She’d planned a romantic meal.

She’d put the lights in the lounge on a dim setting to try to give it an atmosphere of romance and banished the family dog to the spare bedroom, not wanting it to intrude on our night of passion.

The meal was a Kentucky Fried Chicken Fat Bucket and the lounge lighting made me slightly myopic, but it’s the thought that counts.

We chatted as we ate. The kind of conversation two people have when the same thing looms large in their minds, but don’t want to bring it up for fear of jinxing everything.

After the meal, we sat down on the couch and put the telly on. Raiders Of The Lost Ark was on BBC One and my desire to deflower young Annabelle was temporarily put out of my head by whip-cracking archaeologists and spooky religious artefacts.

When the film ended, I remembered why I was there and put my arm around Annabelle, making the first move.

My heart pounded like a jack-hammer and she looked like somebody in front of a firing squad. 

We continued as best we could and eventually started to relax into things.

We kissed. I let my hands wander over her shirt and she did the same over my face and neck.

There was a brief pause when in her excitement, she poked me in the eye and I had to spend five minutes blinking away tears, while she apologised and went to get some tissues.

Service was resumed and I thought it best to divest her of her clothing before she poked me in the other eye and I was rendered unable to because of blindness.

Her shirt came off with no trouble.

I spent a few moments ogling her breasts in adolescent awe, before starting on the bra.

Ah, the
bra
…

A contraption of such fiendish intricacy, it has baffled men for decades.

It looks so simple:

Undo hooks and remove.

Nowhere near as complicated as a computer or Sky Plus box.

So why are some men - including me at this point - unable to get the damn thing off inside five minutes without a copious amount of swearing?

Having a hard-on the size of Northampton and hands shaking like a shaved polar bear doesn’t help much either.

Annabelle willingly sits forward in a cramped position while I fumble around swearing, before she takes over and whips the hooks open in a nano-second. Thanking her profusely, I try to pull the bra off in teenage excitement.

She’s not ready for this and the bra nearly garrottes her when I yank it up instead of forward, as is the customary procedure.

This time it’s me apologising as she sits holding her throat making gagging noises, with her head between her legs.

Deciding further undressing is best left to the experts, Annabelle and I strip independently of one another.

Standing in the lounge’s dim lighting, we both peer at each other through the gloom.

I definitely like what I see. She seems to feel the same way and gives me a good look up and down. Her eyes widen perceptibly when her gaze reaches my purple headed love truncheon.

…yes, you’re right. Half the reason I decided to tell this story was so I could use all the comedy nick-names for male genitalia I could think of.

There we are, butt naked and drinking in the sight of one other.

We come into each others arms and now the extraneous clothing is out the way, it’s a lot easier to get at all the interesting, soft bits.

Now, I could get pornographic here…

I could spend the next couple of paragraphs going on about throbbing members, heaving breasts, milky white thighs and bodily fluids that are hell to shift in the wash.

I could, but then this book will only be bought be a certain clientele who like to wear large coats, dribble slightly and have furtive expressions.