A Fare Trade

In the mist of a smoky haze due to endless about of marijuana and incense sticks being burned over the duration of the day sits Jack; a 21 year old, drug dealer. He sits transfixed to Call of Duty, only satisfied with head-shots, nothing else will do. The sound of his doorbell rings throughout the house, Jack doesn't acknowledge it and stays entranced by his soaring death-toll. Some murmurers can be made out over the sound of rapid gun fire blasting out from the TV speakers, then slow thuds as someone walks upstairs, finally there's a knock on Jack's door.

“Come in,” Jack shouts, “unless you're the police, in that case fuck off, please.” without glancing away from the game for even a nanosecond.
A young lad enters, around the same age as Jack, but with a massively contrasting demeanour; his hair is slicked back, his clothes are freshly pressed, he's a very presentable young man, the type of guy over-protective parents wish their daughters would eventually marry.

”I am Joshua,” he says gently, “your house-mate let me in.” Joshua speaks with an utterly middle-class accent, pronouncing every word perfectly. He has one of those voices that makes a working-class person want to punch him square in the face for no reason other than the annoying tone that oozes out of his posh cake-hole. Joshua looks over the bedroom he has just entered, seemingly disgusted by the state of it. He slowly makes his way over to Jack, cautiously stepping by plates encrusted in undistinguishable meals dating back weeks and balled up tissue paper filled with expelled love juice. “I am under the impression that you sell...” Joshua pauses for a moment, unsure of how to finish off the sentence, he braces himself, and whispers; “... marijuana.”
“You would be correct in your assumption”, says Jack in a slightly mocking tone. Joshua doesn't pick up on this fact.
“How wonderful, well I would like to purchase some please.”
“OK, what are you after?” asks Jack, eyes still glued to the massacre unfolding on his television screen.
“Marijuana, please.” responds Joshua, completely misunderstanding the question.
“No, what weight are you after, as in; how much?”
“Oh heavens,” Joshua says as he wrestles his wallet from his back pocket, opens it to inspect the wod of cash inside, “I' would like to spend £40, please.”
“So it's a quart you're after?”
“Yes please, a quart, please.”
“OK mate, just give me a … ” Jack trails off, “YOU FUCKING CUNT!” he bellows.

Joshua almost jumps out of his skin, he quickly scans the room again and attempts to configure the safest and fastest escape route from Jack's city skip of a bedroom. Jack frantically bashes the buttons on his Playstation pad to no avail, he tosses the pad to his floor, it knocks over a nearby bong and filthy bong water gathers in a puddle on his carpet. Jack stands and turns to look at Joshua.
“So it's a quart, then mate?”
Joshua takes a deep breath, “Yes, please.”

Jack makes his way over to his set of drawers that are buried under a pile of clothes, clearly he may have mastered Call of Duty but the complexed understanding of how drawers work is beyond him. He slides open the top draw and begins to rummage around until he pulls out a bag of weed. He turns and passes it to Joshua. Joshua begins to inspect the bag, then he pulls out a handful of jiffy bags himself, all of which are empty and bundles them into Jack's palm.
“I only take cash, mate.” Jack says, slightly bemused by Joshua's actions.
“Oh, yes, of course. But I simply thought that these would be beneficial to you, in your line of work. You could re-use them, recycle them even, as a way to help save the Earth.” Joshua explains.
“OK mate. I'll keep that in mind, I'll just add them to my recycling centre.” Jack says as he tosses the bags onto an already over flowing bin.

Joshua continues to inspect the bag. Feeling as if the deal is not actually going to happen Jack explains that the quality of the weed is second to none.
“It's some of the best stuff I've had in for a long time. Guaranteed to get you high. It's Thai Stick.” he says, with all the gusto of a desperate second hand car salesman.
“It does seem to be some of the finest marijuana I have come across to date,” Joshua pauses, as if he's mustering up the courage to ask something, “I was just wondering, is it really from Thailand?”

Jack looks bemused by the question, it's not the type of question he's used to hearing, usually customers want to know the weight and that's about it. Drug dealing is simple, it's all supply and demand, customer services doesn't really come into it that often.
“I'm unsure, mate. I just get it from my guy, who gets it from someone else. It's best to not go around asking questions when you're dealing with drugs.”
“Oh, I see, so you would not know if it was organic?” asks Joshua.
“It's is orgasmic, mate, I can guarantee that.”
“No, you seem to have misunderstood; is it organic? Is it grown without pesticides? I'm currently on an all organic diet and that includes my drugs too.”
Clearly getting slightly irked by the onslaught of questioning, Jack finally folds; “I'll just call up my contact, he'll know.”

Jack begins to look around for his phone, by kicking up bits of rubbish scattered around his room, in the end he unearths it from under an overturned ashtray. He picks it, scrolls through his phone book and hits call.
“Hey, it's Jack. I have a customer here that wants to know about the Thai Stick, I've got in.”
“What the fuck does he wanna know?” utters Jack's contact, luckily not loud enough for Joshua to hear.
“He's askin' if it's organic?”
“You fuckin' what? Tell the cunt to go suck some organic balls!” screams the voice.
“Alright mate,” says Jack, with a smile on his face.

Jack hangs up the phone and pushes it into his pocket. He puts a fake smile on his face.
“He clarified the situation perfectly, you have nothing to worry about, it's organic.” lies Jack.
“That is a weight off of my shoulders.”

Joshua begins to make his way to the door and Jack feels revealed that this ordeal is almost at an end. Before reaching the door Joshua stops.
“I was just wondering, by any chance do you sell cocaine?” asks Joshua.
“Well... ” says Jack, before he draws out a speech that he's probably said a million time before, “... I don't usually, but I do happen to have some in at the minute, one bag left, in fact. It'd be another £40 though.”
It's a well known fact that if you fool the customer into believing they're getting the last deal they'll take it, as this opportunity may not arise again.
“That is perfectly fine.” agrees Joshua as he once again begins to tangle with his wallet.
Jack goes back to the dresser, this time he delves into the bottom drawer and rummages around, finally retrieving a wrap of coke. The two exchange the money and the drugs.
“Oh, and don't worry mate.” says Jack, fearing he knows what's coming, “That coke is most definitively organic.”
“That is both brilliant and reassuring to know.” says Joshua.
Jack places his hand on Joshua's shoulder and slowly guides him to his bedroom door.
“I hope you enjoy the drugs.” he says as he opens the door for his customer and slowly guides him over the threshold.
“Oh, just one more inquiry,” Joshua spouts, Jack's face drops instantly, “is this cocaine fairtrade?”
“Well, I supply the drugs, you supply the money, then we trade. I'd say that was more than fair.”
Interrupting, Joshua states; “Oh heavens, I think you may have misunderstood the question …”
Jack swings the door shut, leaving Joshua in the hall. He then bolts it.
“Thanks, come again soon.” Jack shouts at the door.

The Most Wasted I Ever Got #4 Misadventures in Liverpool

It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to add an other chapter to my “The Most Wasted I Ever Got” series seeing as my tolerance for alcohol has sky-rocketed since I fell in love with Southern Comfort, but this following story is without a shadow of a doubt one (if not the) most wasted I ever got.

The story begins in Derby, were me and my heavily bearded companion Frenchie were picked up by Dave, Joe and Dave’s girlfriend Becky to make the long drive to Liverpool. This drive should have acted as a type of indignation of what the night was going to hold. As I sat cramped up in the middle of the back seat, my body twisted and contorted as if I was the victim of some new terrible torture technique I noticed the closer we got to Liverpool the heavier the rain became. It wasn’t looking good to start with.

Upon arriving at Liverpool, we emptied the car and made our way up the flight of stairs to Dave’s flat to drop of our belongings and then we went to the local Bargain Booze to get a couple of drinks before ending down town. Now I’ve never entered an off-licence in which all of the alcohol is locked behind a wall of glass before, it’s quite strange. You are unable to browse properly, instead you press your noise up against the glass squinting at the price of beer to see which is the best bargain then you make your way to the counter, ask the gentleman (situated at the counter) to fetch your order then you pay. Not the simplest ways of doing things, but this is Liverpool and I suppose crime is rife, especially when intoxicants are involved. Once me and Frenchie received our beer we waited outside and bumped into a friendly local. Now, I’m not saying this guy was on crack, he could have easily been on smack, meth or phet’ too. This charming man gave us a little advice; if you don’t want to get hit in the face with a firework put your hood up! Which isn’t as crazy as it sounds, it was around Bonfire night, so there were fireworks going off, yet at the same time, I highly doubt simply putting your hood up make you impervious to low explosive pyrotechnics towards the face. We retreated to Dave’s to drink a few beers and get ready.

After a couple of semi-warm beers, we made our way into town. Now, we’re not the most decisive collection of people in the world so plenty of time was spent standing in the street deciding which way to go. Finally we left it up to flipping a coin, always a good idea. As the night went on the booze began to flow.

One of my last memories was around midnight when I went to the cash machine, as I got paid just after midnight. I took out £100 and headed back to the bar, buying a round of shots. This is where, at least for me, the night gets a little fuzzy, to say the least. As I sit here trying to grapple with the actions that took place, it’s as if it never really happened, a dream that I half remember, anyway I’ll stop dicking around and get to the points I can remember.

I remember a lot of walking around the city with my jeans around my ankles. I remember plenty of being propped up against a wall, a cigarette forced in my mouth and being told; “Act sober, until we get in.” That single phrase has been uttered to me more times than any other. I assume as the undertaker is stuffing my corpse into the casket, he’ll lean over and whisper; “Just act sober, until I get you in”. I also remember redesigning Liverpudlian pavements with larger, SoCo, Pepsi and bile.

One thing of the night I definitely remember is falling over in a pub square-thingy, for some reason the name of the bar escapes me, I think it was Joe’s or something along those lines. Anyway, I went down like a sack of shit, in front of bouncers and taking a couple of drinks from the table next to me with me along the way to the floor. As my long-time friends pointed and laughed, I was aided up by a random Scouser. Of course my initial reaction wash to pat my pockets and make sure my wallet and BlackBerry were still there, which they were, clearly this friendly stranger was a rare breed of Scouser, either that or there’s not as many criminals in Liverpool as I suspect, guess we’ll never truly know. That’s my last clear memory of the night.

Although, I found this out later, on the way home we passed a garage. I in my drunken state decided to begin throwing my shoe at the massive sign in an attempt to hit the Tyre mascot on top of the sign. Joe managed to capture this on his camera phone (along with videos of me throwing up and walking around with my jeans around my ankles). The video’s quite good; it simply ends with me saying; “Fuck this shit, let’s go home!” or something to that effect.

When we got back to Dave’s we began drinking the rest of the beer we’d purchased earlier and played on the Wii. I attempted to put all my concentration into Wii Bowling, but alas I wasn’t good enough to win, yet at this point in time standing was becoming a bit of a task.

I woke up the next morning to Becky returning from Uni asking why there was blood on the door leading to their flat and blood along the walls. I looked at my hand and discovered a huge gash on it; I hadn’t had a gash that big on my hand since I fisted that prostitute. I had also broken my watch. Plus I had a fucking terrible hangover. Me and Frenchie later on made our way to the train station to make our way home, on the ride we decided to go out again that night; “2 nights, 2 cities” we thought, proof that you can’t keep a good alcoholic down.

May Contain Nuts!

Once upon a not that long ago, there was a 21 year old boy by the name of Jack. Jack had the world at his feet. His life was perfect. He had a great, steady job that made him a nice amount of money and he had a beautiful girlfriend by the name of Jill. Jack was entirely devoted to Jill. They were high school sweethearts and had been together for about six years. They’d first met while going to fetch a pale of water from the top of a hill. Jack had a nasty accident and Jill saved him for certain death. Since then they become kindred sprits, or so Jack thought.

Every relationship comes to an end at some point, and while Jack was thinking that his relationship would end when one of them died; from old age of course, no murdering each other, he was wrong.

It was a cold Tuesday afternoon in February when Jill broke the news to Jack. As they sat down to eat dinner at a cafe. “I think we should see other people,” she muttered after a long sip on her warm coffee. Jack was shocked by the news. His eyes instantly welled up as if he’d just been kicked in the balls, in fact, this pain was worse than getting kicked in the balls, this pain was worse than smothering your balls with dog food then letting a pack of rabid wolves feast on them. This pain was heartache. It greets many a man by the a few words from the female they idolise so much. Instant pain, instant feelings of failure, instant thoughts of suicide – the usual response to this happening. And it’s exactly what happened to Jack. He struggled to find the right words. In his mind he attempted to convince himself that if he said the right thing she’d stay. So he pushed out a sentence threw his blubbering lips, “Me love you, don’t do this. Me! You! LOVE!! PLEASE!!!” This caused an old couple to stare at Jack and Jill as Jack sobbed, tears running down his cheeks and collecting nicely into a puddle on his plate. Jill stood up, “I’m sorry Jack, I really love you. Well no, I really loved you. But I want more; I’m too young to be tied down to one man. I want to enjoy life a little.” It seemed that financial stability, handsome good looks and repetitive sexual pleasure weren’t enough for Jill anymore. As Jill started to make her way out of the cafe, Jack dropped to her feet holding on to her as a child holds on to their mother at their first day of school, not bearing to let go because of the fear of being alone. “Come on Jack, it’s not that bad.” She said, only prompting Jack to re-evaluate what the fuck they’d spent the last six years together for. As Jack’s grip around Jill’s legs loosened she briskly strolled out of the cafe and on to her new life without Jack. As Jack lay on the cafe floor crying like a new born baby, as the entire population of the cafe looked on.

The next few days of Jack’s life were spent sitting on his sofa, self-loathing, drinking anything alcoholic and texting or ringing Jill until she finally blocked his number. His friends had told him that over time he’d feel better, but Jack was thinking more along the lines of a bullet threw the temple would make him feel better. Much fucking better. While Jill was out enjoying her new found freedom by going to raves and sleeping with the first guy that bought her a bottle on Smirnoff Ice.

After a week, Jack was supposed to return to work. He’d managed to convince his boss that he needed a week off for personal reasons. Jack didn’t return to work, so he was fired. After loosing his job, Jack decided to move out of his flat and back in with his mum, seeing as he could no longer pay his rent. After about two weeks his mum got tired of the lifeless cycle Jack was living in and decided to get in touch with her brother, who just so happened to have a holiday home in the highlands of Scotland. Tired of Jack’s constant misery she planned a little get away for him.

Although Jack wanted to stay at home eating cold beans from the can with a tea spoon, his mum forced him into the car and drove him to his uncle’s house in Scotland. The idea was that Jack could get away from it all and get himself back together. His uncle had even set up a blind date for him with a pretty young girl from the next village. She just happened to be a friend of the family.

Jack got dropped off at his uncle’s holiday home and resumed the same position he did at his own house; sat on the sofa watching daytime TV drinking Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. It was a Thursday when Jack arrived. His random blind date was going to be on Saturday. Jack’s uncle had promised Jack’s date a great night in with Jack, they’d watch films and Jack would cook a meal for her.

By the time Saturday morning rolled around Jack was in such an alcoholic state he could barely move. He was wearing the same clothes he arrived in and he had the slight stench of piss about him. That’s when Jack reached the end of all the alcohol in the house and had an epiphany. That the drink wasn’t helping him get over Jill, he needed to try something else. He contemplated the matter a little, trying to decide if he should get on with his life or start self-harming. As he walked into the kitchen to get a knife to cut himself, he stubbed his toe on the door frame and let off a girlish squeal. Jack had felt some much emotional pain recently; he’d forgotten that physical pain still hurt too. So in the end he reconsidered slitting his wrists, maybe it was time he got his life back on track.

It was almost 2.00pm; Jack’s date was expected to arrive at 6.30pm so he had plenty of time to sort himself out. First thing he did was take a nice long shower. After he got out he felt like a new man, the water had washed away the self-loathing and misery to some degree. The shower acted as a cleansing process for Jack.

After his shower, Jack got dressed into some clean clothes and he did his hair. He was looking the best he’d looked for weeks at this point. And as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he knew it.

It was 4.45pm by the time Jack started to rummage around for some food to cook. But sadly there wasn’t much choice. He had been told by his mum that he needed to go shopping; she’d even left him some money to spend on food. All Jack could rustle up was some frozen vegetables and a couple of oven chips from the freezer. Everything else was out of date or had already been eaten the previous days by Jack.

Jack had a plan though, he searched high and low for the Yellow Pages and started to look up local takeaways, once he’d found one he copied the number down. He pulled out his phone only to find he had no reception. This was a major problem in his uncle’s holiday house. There was no house phone either, Jack’s uncle only spent around four weeks a year up here so he never saw the point of having a phone line put in. Jack contemplated going into the village to buy some food but without a car or a bike, it would take him about 40 minutes to walk there and another 40 minutes to walk back. By which time he’d be behind schedule.

This is where Jack had a brainwave. He remembered that when he was younger and he used to come to his uncle’s holiday house, his uncle and granddad used to shoot squirrels on the back garden with a pellet gun. Jack darted to the back garden, found the pellet gun and waited.

Jack was just about to spark up another cigarette when he saw two squirrels in the distance, he started to shoot; Rambo style hitting anything that moved. He ran up to find that he’d shot them both; one was dead and the other alive but was in pain. Jack decided to do the humane thing and mashed the life out of the one in pain with half a brick. He walked victoriously back into the house with his kills inside a plastic bag, blood dripping from the small holes in the bottom.

Once inside the kitchen Jack had to skin the squirrels. This was harder than he expected. He tried to grate the fur off first with a cheese grater, which went terribly. In the end he opted for the bread knife. By the time all the skin and fur was removed Jack was left with only a little bit of meat and organs, he wasn’t sure which he could cook and what he should trough away. He picked threw the massacre and began dropping the parts of the squirrels that he thought looked tasty into the frying pan.

Jack had a quick tidy up in the kitchen, mainly cleaning up blood and squirrel brain-matter off the side, and then he went to change his t-shirt, which was also stained crimson. Once Jack returned to the kitchen it was 6.00pm, his date would be arriving soon, but everything was going well; the oven chips were in the oven, the squirrel was frying nicely and the vegetables were waiting to go on the hob. Jack caught a reflection of himself in the kitchen window and gave himself a self-gratifying smirk.

At a few minutes before 6.30pm there was a knock at the door. Jack quickly went to open it, as the door swung open there stood a pretty girl, with long brunette hair caught in the wind was waving across her delicate face. Her cheeks were red from her having to ride her bike up to the house. Her eyes were green like the first leaves of spring. As Jack stood in awe of her, he wouldn’t have even been able to tell you Jill’s name at this moment in time.

After an awkward couple of seconds of silence, in which Jack was just memorised by this girl’s beauty, she introduced herself, “Hi, I’m Louise”. Jack snapped himself back to reality, “I’m Jack, it’s a pleasure to meet you, please come in.” Louise locked her bike to the fence and entered the house. “Something smells good, what you cooking?” Louise asked. Jack struggled trying to come up with a lie, he didn’t want to tell her that he was cooking squirrel, “Erm... it’s an old family recipe.” They made there way into the dinning room, where Jack had set out a table with cutlery and a vase with a flower in the middle of the table. “Everything looks so great.” Louise said. “Why thank you, you just take a seat and I’ll be back with the food soon.”

Jack went into the kitchen and started dishing out the food onto two plates. We carefully carried the meals into the dinning room, clutching the plates tightly so he didn’t drop them. He cautiously placed the plates on the table. Louise inspected her meal; Jack’s heart began to race. He plucked up the courage and asked; “Is everything ok?” Louise poked at her vegetables and the fried squirrel then looked up, “No, it’s fine, it’s just I have a few allergies, but there’s nothing to worry about.” And she smiled at Jack, he smiled back.

They both sat down and began to eat. Jack tucked into his squirrel, and it was surprisingly good, a lot like chicken he thought. He glanced over at Louise as she took her first mouthful of squirrel. He was waiting for her reaction. She chewed it and swallowed it. A massive weight was lifted of Jack’s shoulders, she had no idea, he was extremely proud of himself. But just as he was about to ask Louise about herself, her face started to go red and she began coughing slightly.
“Is everything ok, Louise?” Jack asked. Her face was getting redder with every second that passed, she started to hyperventilate. “What’s... the ... meat?” she asked. Jack started to panic slightly, “Does it matter, it’s just meat? You’re not allergic to meat are you?” Louise shot him a cold look; a chill went down Jack’s spine. She didn’t need to ask again. “It’s squirrel, it’s a long story, I’m sorry! If you don’t like it don’t eat it!” Louise had a look on her face like a judge had just sentenced her to death. “I’m ... allergic ... to NUTS!!” she said, in between deep breaths. “So? What does that have to do with anything?” Jack asked. “Squirrels eat ... NUTS!!” Louise said as loud as she could. “My throat’s closing up!” She squeaked in a high pitched tone.

Jack started to panic; he pulled out his phone and tried to dial 999. No signal, again. Louise reached for her phone, but it had the same problem. Louise collapsed to the floor, clutching her throat. Jack had to do something quick. There’s no way he could call for an ambulance, the only way into town was on Louise’s bike, but he couldn’t leave her on her own, plus it would take too long. Jack dashed into the kitchen and started to rummage in a draw for a pen, he returned to the dinning room where Louise lay on the floor.

“I have a plan,” he said, “I’m going to give you an emergency tracioctomy!” Louise looked deep into Jack’s eyes as if to ask if he knew what he was doing. “Don’t worry; I’ve seen it before on ER!” Jack said. He removed the ink tube from inside the pen and plunged it into Louise’s throat, just above her ribcage. Her chest inflated as she took her first breath. It had worked, but blood was seeping from the hole. “What does it look like?” Louise struggled to ask. Jack was hesitant in responding but finally mustered up something to say, “It looks like your necks having a period!”

What Jack didn’t release is that blood was slowly filling Louise’s lungs. He’d saved her from not being able to breath but now she was going too drowned. Neither Jack nor Louise realised this, it happened in only minutes. After the first initial shock of dodging death they thought they were in the clear. But as Jack sat by her side, Louise slowly drifted off and never came back. Now Jack was left with a dead body and no idea what to do with it. The police wouldn’t believe his story, he’d be going down for manslaughter. He’d only just realised that his life was worth living today, he didn’t want to spend it in prison.

He left Louise’s corpse on the dinning room floor and he slowly made his way to the living room to sit down and formulate a plan. Then there was a knock on the door. Jack sprang to his feat. Panicking, he slowly made his way to the door. “Who is it?” He asked. A million things ran through his head, was it the police? Was it his uncle? Was it Jehovah’s Witnesses? “Jack, it’s me ... Jill! Please let me in. I need to speak to you.” Jack couldn’t believe it, why had she come to see him. This is the last person in the world that Jack wanted to see, he actually wished it was the police. “One second,” Jack said, as he darted back into the living room, closing the dinning room door so Jill wouldn’t see Louise. Jack returned to the door and let Jill in. She simply walked passed him, dropped her car keys on the table by the door and went to sit down in the living room.

“Jack, I’m sorry about everything I’ve done and said to you. Please forgive me. It’s only now that I’ve really understood what you meant to me,” Jill said as she started to pour her heart out, “I love you so much Jack, I want us to get back together. Please take me back!” This is the speech that Jack had been dreaming of ever since that day in the cafe. “Please Jack,” she continued, “I’ve drove all the way here to see you. I know it’s a shock, I’ve tried calling you but I couldn’t get through to your phone. I know this is totally unexpected.” Jack could barely pay attention to what Jill was saying; he was too busy thinking about Louise. He even contemplated murdering Jill, to cover up what he’d done. “Jack, please say something...” Jill begged. Jack struggled to come up with the words, but finally managed to say, “I need some fresh air, I’ll be right back.” Jack strolled out the living room and to the door. He picked up Jill’s car keys on the way out.

As soon as the fresh air hit him, Jack knew what he had to do. He jumped into Jill’s car and sped off towards town, as Jill heard her car drive down the hill she ran to the door screaming for Jack to return.

It took Jack about ten minutes to get into town. He pulled up outside the police station and made his way inside. As he approached the desk, he knew what he was going to say. He was going to admit to what he did, but as he tried to explain to the officer at reception, something different came out of his mouth, “My ex is trying to kill me!” he said. The officer instantly dropped his cup of coffee.

“I beg your pardon, young man?” the officer asked. Jack looked him dead in the face, tears trickling down his cheeks, “My ex-girlfriend has just turned up to my uncle’s house. She found me with another girl. She’s killed the other girl. Louise is dead! It’s my entire fault! Now she’s trying to kill me, but I got away.” The officer radioed all officers; Jack gave him all the details of where to go. A police woman appeared from behind reception and lead Jack into a room to comfort him.

Only a month later Jill was in court going up against charges of murder. Jack took the stand and gave a damning version of what he’d told the police officer at the reception desk four weeks before. But luckily he’d had time to practice. He delivered a tale of a bitter ex hell bent on getting the love of her life back by any means necessary. It was extremely believable, the judge and jury ate it up liked it was grilled squirrel. Jill was sentenced to life in prison. She denied Jack’s story of course, she really was innocent, but so was Jack, why should he go down?

Jack was proud of what he did; he saw it as the ultimate revenge. She’d victimised him, now everyone could see he was the victim. She’d almost destroyed his life when she left him, so she could go out fucking and sucking random guys from nightclubs.

Jack is now in a new relationship with one of Jill’s best friends, he his happy. Jill is now in a relationship with a butch dyke in prison, she is not happy.

The Misadventures of Moz the Spoon Burner

Once upon a time in a little place called Lemo lived a man named Moz. Moz was a Spoon Burner. If Moz wasn’t burning spoons he was thinking about burning spoons or coming up with ways to burn spoons.

Me and my friends met Moz the Spoon Burner a few years ago and although he liked to burn spoons and he was twice our age we still spent time together.

This story involves Moz getting caught burning spoons. It was a usual evening at our secret headquarters (Graham’s Caravan), when there was a knock at the door. Graham opened it and discovered Moz. Graham invited Moz in and as he entered I noticed he was carrying his plastic bag of tricks. Moz went everywhere with his reliable plastic bag.

But today Moz was just making a quick visit to see us because he had a problem. ‘What was his problem?’ I hear you cry, well Moz had a major problem, but he wasn’t willing to admit it! His other problem; the one that he recognised and the reason for his appearance at the caravan, was that he needed a spoon to eat his yogurt. He dipped into his plastic bag, which always seemed to be bottomless to me, he carried everything he owned in that plastic bag, and pulled out his yogurt as if he was trying to prove something to us. Graham quickly filled Moz’s request for a spoon. But surprisingly Moz didn’t stay with us to enjoy his yogurt; he had to make his way. So he wondered into the evening with his plastic bag and newly acquired spoon.

Sometime passed and later on that evening Moz returned to regale us with his actions after he left the caravan. It turns out that Moz went to the local ASDA disabled toilets to devour his yogurt. Which is understandable, I don’t like people watching me eat so I often go to a public toilet with wheelchair accessibility to consume my snacks, I’m sure all of you have done the same in the past.

Apparently the staff at ASDA don’t like people consuming yogurts in their toilets and they entered while Moz was in there. And those yogurt eating hating bastards started to quiz Moz over his spoon. He went on to clearly explain to the ASDA staff that he had the spoon so he could eat his yogurt. Unfortunately for Moz and Graham’s cutlery collection, the people at ASDA didn’t believe Moz so they confiscated the spoon.

At this point Moz apologised to Graham for losing his spoon. But it don’t not all end badly, because those people at ASDA didn’t want Moz to go hungry so they gave him a plastic spoon, which he passed on to Graham.

So there we have it people, a Misadventure of Moz the Spoon Burner. I’m not sure if this story had a moral attached to it, it probably does, but that’s for you to discover for yourselves.

I Think I'm Turning Thai-anese!! (Trippin' on Thai)

About two months ago I was lucky enough to come across some Thai weed. I got a nice deal on if from a mail order bride that had come over to England to marry an old man. I ended up buying three ounces for only £200. My plan was to smoke an ounce and sell the other two ounces to make my money back and a nice profit. But I had to try it first, so this is the story that unfolded.

I picked up the weed on a Wednesday, but didn’t get around to smoking some until Friday night after a long shift at my day job. I had the house to myself as my friends were out drinking Government-taxed-drugs. So I sat on the nice leather sofa in our living room, put my feet up on the coffee table and beginning to skin up a joint while watching the idiot box. I lit up the first spliff and as the smoke filled up my lungs my eyes began to water, this was some good shit. I’ve smoked weed for a good six years now and in that time I’ve tried many strains but there was something different about this Thai weed that was different. ‘Was it just the strain?’ I thought to myself. No, I’ve had Thai weed before, once in the stoners’ homeland (Amsterdam), so that wasn’t it. Maybe it is because this was hidden in some prostitute’s snatch, who flew across the globe for over half the day, maybe this is some AIDs laced weed. But I highly doubt that weed can get an STI, but I’m no scientist. In the end I just decided that it was strong weed, plus it had been a few days since I’d had a smoke plus I’d just burned this spliff on my own.

As the time passed I was really buzzing off the high from the spliff. It was one of the best highs I’d ever had, my body was completely relaxed, I had the giggles and I was grinning so much that my cheeks hurt. So I chilled out for a while watching the TV, then I rolled another joint, blazed it and the high just got better. After a while the inevitable happened; I got the munchies. Now munchies is a problem for every stoner and this time it was a major problem, I was too stoned to cook and I knew for a fact that I had nothing in the fridge or cupboard. I did contemplate stealing some food off my housemates for a while, but I was in the mood for a takeaway. So I called the Chinese restaurant that is situated a few streets over, I knew they wouldn’t take too long. So I sat and waited for my order and rolled another joint and smoked it.

I’m not sure how long the takeaway took, but when I heard the knock at the door I slowly made my way to it and opened it up. The Chinese guy looked at me weirdly and asked; “Whereabouts you from?” This was quite annoying to me; I’d ordered food not a fucking conversation, but I thought I better be nice I give these people plenty of custom, the food’s always good and cheap I don’t want to come across as rude and have them spit in my food or possible cook and serve me a rat when I next ask for some Chicken Chow Mein. So I told him where I was born. He then responded with a remark about me being oriental. Then it dawned on me he was taking the piss because of my cannabis induced squinted eyes. I just passed him the money and took my takeaway.

I returned to my living room, which by now was smoke filled and had that potent cannabis smell, which was gradually creeping throughout the whole house. I love how the weed aroma drifts through the house and covers up the stench of the festering unwashed pots in the kitchen and the odour of solidified tissues coming from the bin in my bedroom. I sat in the in the living room engulfed by a cannabis cloud and inhaled my takeaway as if it was a bong hit.

Once my hunger was taken care of I decided to roll myself another joint. By this point, time seemed to be passing extremely fast or I was moving at an exceptionally slow speed. I started rolling this spliff at about 11.05pm but didn’t complete it until 11.50pm.There are only a few things I pride myself on and one of those ‘qualities’ I have is being able to roll a very decent joint in about five minutes, so this made no sense to me. Eventually, I brushed off this matter about how fast time was moving and I just sparked up.

As I inhaled a lung full and slowly exhaled via my nose my vision began to blur as I stared at the television. I took another hit and I could no longer make sense of what the presenter on TV was saying. I slipped backwards into the sofa into a more comfortable position. The last thing I remember is looking at the half smoked spliff and thinking to myself I’ll never be able to finish this on my own.

I woke up on the floor with two dark figures peering over me. It was my two housemates back from their night out. They were pissed and I couldn’t understand what they were saying, due to their slurs and me not being able to think straight. Leon helped me off the floor and sat me back on the sofa.

“What the fuck were you going on the floor, dude?” Leon asked. I didn’t know, I just look at him bemused and told him; “Pǒm yang mâi róo” (I don’t know yet). Leon and Kate looked at me as if I was talking in tongues. I understand why, because I had no idea about what had just out of my mouth. In my head I said “I don’t know yet”, but for some reason there was some miscommunication between my brain and my mouth.

I started to panic a little. A million things were running through my head at the time, but I kept having the same thought; this weed has given me brain damage. I took a few deep breathes and Leon asked; “Are you feeling alright, dude?” I stared at him with a facial expression that I thought surely explained I was not feeling too well. But sadly, Leon is not the sharpest knife in a Chav’s arsenal, especially after a skin full. So I attempted to answer him; “Mâi, pǒm róo sèuhk klêurn sâi!” (No, I feel nauseous!).

Now, I was really starting to panic because I couldn’t even speak coherently. I wanted to let Kate and Leon know that I was tripping out but they could understand what I was saying. I was unable to speak a word of English, only gibberish. Eventually after Kate and Leon came to the conclusion that I was not joking and there was a serious problem they decided to call someone that will help. I was hoping for a doctor but Leon decided not to call an ambulance seeing as it wasn’t an emergency, instead he was going to phone Chelsea, a girl we all know on a medical course at University. Chelsea’s smart, extremely smart in fact, last time we spoke she told me she was top of her class, but I was still pissed off that Leon didn’t class this as an emergency. He was clearly unbothered about my opinion as he ignored me shouting; “Hèet-gaan-chúk-chəən! Hèet-gaan-chúk-chəən!” (Emergency! Emergency!).

Luckily Chelsea answered the phone when Leon rang, which was good seeing as it was now 2.40am. Leon explained how he and Kate had discovered me sleeping on the floor. They chatted for a bit, I knew Chelsea was explaining something difficult to Leon because, unlike him, I can tell what people are thinking from a facial expression. Leon reached for a pen from the table and began rummaging around for something to write on, in the end he settled on a rizla. He jotted something down, thanked Chelsea and put the phone down.

He stood over me and began to study the rizla. “Retinocochleocerebral vasculopathy …” He muttered. ‘That’s it’ I thought! ‘Whatever I have is contagious. Leon’s talking in gibberish too, soon Kate will be infected and we’ll all die from this’. If I’d have remained calmer, I would have released that Leon hadn’t finished talking, “… or susac syndrome, as it is commonly known as. Chelsea said that you’ve probably fell over, bumped your head and when you came around you’ve started talking in foreign accent or foreign language. There are many other symptoms too.” I couldn’t believe it, one short phone call to Chelsea and all of a sudden Leon thinks he’s Gregory House. “She also said that you shouldn’t worry too much,” he continued, “just try and get some sleep and if you wake up the same in the morning she’ll come over and take you to the hospital”.

I felt slightly relieved; at least I’d had some almost professional over-the-phone advice. I decided sleep was the best idea so I went to bed. It was easy for me to fall asleep seeing as I was still high.

When I woke in the morning and my thoughts started to collect themselves together, as they always do the morning after a heavy smoking session, and I began to think back to last night and if it had actually happened. I put on my dressing gown and walked into the living room to be greeted by Kate. “Feeling any better then?” she asked. I hesitated before I answered, I wondered if I’d just speak gibberish again, “I’m fine … that was English! I make sense!! Yeah, I’m great thanks!” I was cured. I could speak English again; of course I still spoke it badly. But it was English.

This all happened about two months ago, and since then I have discovered what I was speaking wasn’t gibberish, but it was Thai, although some people still believe it was gibberish. I question Chelsea’s theory too. I personally believe the Thai weed played a major part in what happened to me. Personally, I think that there was something wrong with it; I think if I’d have kept smoking it eventually my ethnicity would have been permanently altered. I fully understand that this is scientifically impossible (unless you’re Michael Jackson), but there was something strange about that weed. Make of it what you will; I’m just presenting the evidence. As for the weed, I sold it off in small amounts to people I didn’t know. As of yet I haven’t heard anything back from people possibly having experiences from it as I did. I didn’t touch it again, or let any of my friends smoke it, much to the dismay of all my friends. I did think about getting back in contact with the lady I got it off, but I’d rather put this incident behind me.

My 6 Days in Sutton/Hell

Hello readers, I hope you all had a Merry Christmas. I understand it couldn’t have been too great seeing as there have been no updates on my Blog, but don’t worry people, step away from the oven, don’t put your head in yet! I’m back to tell of my Christmas. For those that don’t know, I live, study, work and pleasure women (and girls) in Derby but I’m actually from Sutton-in-Ashfield. Sutton (as it’s commonly known) is a small town in Nottinghamshire, right next to Mansfield, another purposeless town. For Christmas I returned to Sutton to ‘celebrate’ with my family and drink with my friends.

Monday 22^nd December
I caught the bus from Derby to Sutton and my journey began. While on the bus my mind was wondering away and I started to have random thoughts. This often happens to me if I have nobody to talk to. I was thinking about a few years ago and how all these rumours came about that surrounded possible terrorist attacks on random places. The main two I remember were Sutton’s ASDA and Centre Parks, of course there was never any terrorist attacks planned on these places, I’m willing to bet that terrorists don’t even know these places exist. I kept with these thoughts on terrorists and I began to think about what if a terrorist was on my bus, totally unlikely of course, but sometimes my mind just doesn’t stop thinking. As I thought about this, I began to think if a terrorist did blow up my bus I would totally support it, even though it would kill me. Think about it I was on a bus from Derby to Sutton, this was a bus full of scum! Undoubtedly I’m great and the world would miss me greatly, but if 30 or so oxygen-wasters get killed, I’m in full support.

So, I made it to Sutton and nobody blew up my bus. I carried my heavy bag to my house and went out to get pissed.

Later on I ended up in ‘Spoons (the HQ for me and my friends) to see my friends who I haven’t seen in a while. So we had a little chat and I told them about my experiences because for some bizarre reason they don’t all read my Blog. Which I don’t understand, hopefully the ones that can read will start reading it as a New Years Resolution. Anyway, I got talking to Ash, who had clearly been reading my Blog (shout out to Ash!) because he had grown an outstanding beard. Personally I think this was in response to my brilliant “Where’s My Bloody BEARD???” Blog, just in spite to show me he could grow a beard. So after a few beers at the pub, a few of us went back to Graham’s house.

Now, as many of you may know I spent much of my youth, and killed off many of my brain cells, at Graham’s house. So, on my return I thought I better not change tradition and began drink and smoke. But I wasn’t drinking larger or bitter! I was on Graham’s dad’s homebrewed ale. Which I can only describe as George Best’s blood! This stuff made Special Brew taste like shandy. After a while it took its grip on me and I had to go and sit outside for a while. Just like the good old days. After I came back around I chilled out for a while then made my way home.

This should be the end of this day, but it’s not because someone had left the keys in the front door, which meant that I couldn’t get in to my house. So I had a phone my sister to let me in. I then climbed into bed, which was a task seeing as I have to share a bunk bed with my younger brother. The first problem with my bed is that I’ve been forced into having the top bunk. Now ten years ago, when I was 12, having the top bunk was cool, now I’m 22 it’s far from cool. In fact it’s a massive fucking challenge to climb into bed after a couple too many beers. The second thing is that this bunk bed is quite old now, and I’m not sure it was built for a 22 year old to sleep in seeing as the whole thing creeks and shakes if I move slightly. And I couldn’t stop moving because I was extremely uncomfortable seeing as my duvet was too small, it didn’t have a duvet cover, I had no pillows either, in the end I used a rolled up mattress cover. It’s a good job I was pissed or I never would have fell asleep.

Tuesday 23^rd December
I took it easy on Tuesday. I went to see Danny, seeing as his parents had gone away for Christmas, maybe they were sending some kind of subliminal message to him by doing this. I mean, leaving your son home alone for Christmas, the most family orientated holiday of the year, I think there’s something they’re hinting at. One day in the not too distant future I think Danny might return home to find the locks changed and all his stuff on the street – but seeing as Danny (like me) lives in ‘Lemo’ (the rough area of Sutton – although my street is quite nice) all his stuff would be stolen before he returned home, if it was left on the street … but back to the subject at hand. I went to see Danny seeing as he’d be Macaulay Culkin’d* because I felt sorry for him. Of course Danny being Danny, he was already drunk and stoned by the time I got to his, so I took it on myself to get in the same state as him.

There’s a few things about Danny that sum him up quite well, he’s ginger, he loves getting wrecked and he has a weird taste in films. Well it’s not really weird but he watches some of the most obscure movies ever. And I was in for a treat seeing as he had a new movie for us to watch; Frontier(s). A film about Neo Nazi Cannibals … that was in French. It was a brilliant yet disturbing film! After that we chilled for a while and we were joined by my biggest fan; Dave (a/k/a Batch). Some more chilling was done, Danny fed me, I stole some of his dad’s sweets then I left Danny and Dave to watch Frontier(s), I was tired and didn’t want to watch it again.

So I made it back to my house and once again tried to unlock the front door, but I was unable. So once again I had to ring my sister. She came and let me in again. I then released that I was using the wrong key! I climbed into my terrible excuse for a bed and fell asleep, seeing as I was drunk again.

Wednesday 24^th December (Christmas Eve)
The excitement was brimming in me as I woke up, seeing as I didn’t have a hangover. I then released it was Christmas Eve and I was low on funds and I still hadn’t bought anyone a Christmas present, but fuck it, I said I was boycotting this bullshit holiday. I hung around my house for a while then headed to ‘Spoons to meet my friends.

At ‘Spoons the usual stuff happened I drank, I called my sister’s fat friend “Fat” and she got offended! Observational humour is sometimes not well received … especially by fat bitches. Also I had to make this guy, for the purpose of this story I’ll called him Faggot-Fucking Foetus-Features, apologise to my sisters because he said some horrible shit about their dad. And I love my sisters very much and more than that I’m the only one that gets to say horrible shit to them, I can’t let Faggot-Fucking Foetus-Features move in on my patch. I was expecting a fight or at least a little attitude but Faggot-Fucking Foetus-Features was surprisingly nice and he apologised. So we all continued to get drunk.

After the pub, some of us went to Danny’s again; I don’t think I stayed long … although I can’t really remember. But I do know I made actually opened my front door on my own, third times the charm. I once again crawled into my top-bunk and fell asleep.

Thursday 25^th December (Christmas Day)
I woke up around 11.00am and went downstairs to discover approximately four gifts for me under the tree. “What did Santa bring you Ben?” is probably what you’re now thinking. Well people, Santa bought me the same things as last year; misery and disappointment.

Me and the family sat down for Christmas dinner, all apart from my youngest sister she managed to escape to her boyfriend’s house. So we all starting stuffing our faces and after that I thought it’d be a good time to start drinking while I waited for someone to get in touch with me telling me the plans for today. This took longer than I expected and by the time I made my way out I was already quite pissed. Shockingly it was Danny that got in touch with me and I once again went to his.

Then the both of us attempted to kill off our livers while watching five films; Dark Ride (another random Danny film), Alpha Dog, Harold and Kumar Get The Munchies, Planet Terror and something else. I can’t quite remember because I was totally hammered by this point. Somewhere in between all these films Dave arrived at Danny’s to join us. At the end of the night Dave was nice enough to give me a lift home. Which saved me having to stumble along the road for the three minutes it takes me to get from Danny’s to mine.

I once again mastered the door! Go me! Bed. Sleep.

Friday 26^th December (Boxing Day)
My mum woke me around noon to inform me food was ready. I wasn’t feeling too ‘fresh’ but I was hungry. Sadly it wasn’t what I was expecting. My mum had prepared a little buffet with cobs (rolls), crisps and all that shit. Not the breakfast I was expecting but apparently everyone else had already had their breakfasts! Fuckers, do they not even care I was out until 5.00am? So I munched on some BBQ Ribs and went back to bed.

A little while later I found myself in ‘Spoons, I told you it was HQ for me and my friends. Liam had been nice enough to invite me out. So once again I started drinking. But shockingly we actually went to another pub; The Swan to play pool. After The Swan we went to … Yes! We went to Danny’s again!

We chilled out for a bit, but around midnight everyone decided to go home. I think by Boxing Day everyone was wanting an early night, I know I was. So I went home to get some sleep. But sadly for me, it was next to impossible to fall asleep in my bed when I was sober. Finally I did nod off.

Saturday 27^th December
My last day in Sutton! I started the day off by going into town to see if the cheque my dad had sent me had cleared yet, but it hadn’t. This left me with £5.00 to my name and I was really looking forward to having a haircut while I was home, I guess that’ll have to wait until I’m next in Sutton. I returned home, but not before posting some sweets threw Danny’s letterbox – I’d been munching his dad’s sweets for the last couple of days and I’d hate for that to be the final straw that ends Danny’s current living arrangements. Once home, I borrowed some money off of my little brother. There’s nothing sadder than borrowing money from someone that’s too young to work.

I started packing my bag to get ready for Derby. But I couldn’t fit all my ‘misery and disappointment’ into my bag so I to leave some stuff. I also checked my Facebook before I left for Derby, and I had a message from Faggot-Fucking Foetus-Features! Which, as I could decipher through the terrible spelling and stupid ‘text language’, basically sad he’d “let me off” but if I ever did that again “I would see” and then he asked me if I’d like to “meet up and settle it on our own”. Here’s what I wrote back to him:

Look Faggot-Fucking Foetus-Features, what you said to my little sister upset her. I'll tell you now I'm not a guy that settles stuff with his fists, that's why I came up to you like I did, I could have just jumped you, but that's not what I do.

If you've got a fucking problem just say, mate. I just wanted to clear the air. But fuck it.

Which is the truth, I’m not a fighter, I’m a writer (and a lover).

I then got my shit together and went for to catch my bus back to Derby. Now, this part of the day may seem strange but I swear it is all true. I got on to the bus and sat on the back seat because I’m on for the whole journey and the backseat has more foot room for my massive bag. I was sat there with my phone in my hand, which now was probably the worst thing I could have had in my hand! I was joined on the backseat by some guy who saw me holding my phone and starting talking to me about phones. This guy went on for about 30 fucking minutes talking about all the phones he has. Apparently he has four, all on different networks because he uses them for different things. For example the one he had (an O2 phone) was just for calling his girlfriend seeing as she was also on O2, now this is quite normal, but what’s not normal is the fact that they are constantly on the phone to each other. And when I say this I in no way mean they are constantly talking to each other, what I mean is they are always on the phone. He had his earpiece in and she was on the other end of the phone doing whatever the fuck she was doing, they weren’t talking to each other, they were just on the phone, but not talking! I hope you understand, the guy even showed me his phone and sure enough it said that the current call was at something like two hours and 30 minutes long. Now this was the first sign that this guy is not all there. Secondly was the fact that he was drinking Super Skol on the fucking bus. Thirdly, he wouldn’t stop mentioning the fact that he’d been to prison. But the time we’d got to Alfreton he got off and I was counting my blessing, then at the next stop he got back on the fucking bus. It turns out he’d just got off to take a piss, he’d got off at one stop, cut across the town centre as the bus looped around on the long slow moving road. Luckily some people had taken his seat so he couldn’t sit next to me again, sadly for me the seat in front of me wasn’t taken so he fucking took it! Now he was right in my fucking face. He then starting telling me about how he was building a motorbike illegally and how to get around it all, I really couldn’t have given a shit. He told me about how he gets all his bus rides for free because he complains to them and they send him free tickets. I thought about writing a letter to Trent Buses actually, asking them why the fuck they let people drink on their buses.

He didn’t spend all his time just talking to me and did try to draw me into conversation by asking me if I was a student, I told him yes and what I was studying (Media Studies), he asked what that involved so I told him; journalism, writing, TV Production and so on. He then decided to tell me that I was learning how to be bias. I just let him chat his shit. At one point he did actually start talking to his girlfriend over the phone, this was because he’d hit a black spot, a place were his signal cuts out on his phone, so he had to call her back, the conversation went something like this; “Hey Honey, just hit that black spot on route to Derby, here do you want to talk to my new friend?” Then he passed the fucking phone to me. I didn’t want to talk to him, never mind his missus. He then went on to tell me about the inventor of the bouncing bomb, he daughter, his alcoholism, his first marriage – which ended when he caught he wife fucking the window-cleaner – who he then kidnapped, or so he told me.

We were getting to the outskirts of Derby, the fucking racism started. All the stuff before was annoying as fuck, but if there’s one thing I can’t fucking stand it’s racism. He started chatting bollocks about how Muslims are trying to take over England and turn it into an Islamic state and all the bullshit that Daily Mail readers spout off. He was complaining about how Muslims get off their holidays (such as Ramadan) but also holidays such as Christmas, I think this also tied into something about while they were working in prison, at this point I wasn’t too interested in what he had to say. A few minutes before we pulled into the Derby Bus Station I thought I’d give him a piece of my mind seeing as I’ve had to listen to his bullshit for what seems like a lifetime; “Look mate, if you’re moaning about the fact that Muslims get time off working in prison for their holidays and Christian holidays, that’s not their fault! It’s the systems fault. If you could have Ramadan off you would, wouldn’t you?” To which he replied yes, which made my point, but I thought I’d echo the point seeing as he was such a cunt, “Well you can’t blame the Muslims for it then can you, you’d do the exact same. If you want to be pissed off at anyone be pissed off at the system!” And with that the bus finally arrived, I grabbed my bad got the fuck off that bus and lit up a much needed cigarette.

* Macaulay Culkin’d means to be left home alone by your family during Christmas.

The Most Wasted I Have Got #3

Welcome again to a true life story of me getting too wrecked. Now this story took place when I was the young tender age of 18. Back then I was extremely naïve and stupid.

This story starts with me and two close friends of mine going shopping after school. Me, Tom and Will had finished school early and decided to go to Mansfield (the town next to my hometown) to spend some money seeing as it was pay day for me and Will. After having a wonder around a few shops we decided to head to the pub for a drink. Of course over all the years I’ve known Tom there’s one thing that stands out the most, when Thomas says; “Shall we go have a drink?”, what he actually means is; ‘Let’s getting fucking hammered’. And surprisingly one drink turned into two, two turned into three, three turned into four and so on. We had been out so long that the pub we were in had changed from a pub to a club. It was also a Thursday night, and Thursday nights in Mansfield is student night. We’d been talking to this random guy and had a few drinks with him. Then it got the point that Will and Tom had decided to leave and go home, this is where I made my first mistake by not going with them. So they left and Will had told me to look after his watch that he had lent me. It was a Rolex … but it was fake, of course, he wouldn’t leave me with his real one, something to do with me being a thieving little shit.

As I’ve stated my first mistake was not leaving with Tom and Will, my second mistake was running off my mouth that I’d been paid to a random person I’d just met. So I hung out with this dude for a while and had a few more drinks. Now this is where it gets a little ‘fuzzy’ for me. What I can remember is downing some shots then after that all I remember is being dragged down some stairs by two bouncers while I tried to fight them off some I could get my bag (like I said, I’d just come school). Then I was thrown at the club onto the street. Here is where I made the third mistake of the night by entering the next pub. I bought myself a drink and sat down; I was quickly interrupted by the bouncers of that pub and told that I had to leave once I finished my drink. At least they were nicer than the bouncers in the last pub. Although they wouldn’t even let me sit down because I was falling asleep. So I finished my drink and finally made the decision to go home.

What I remember from here is not much. I remember leaving the pub and walking across Mansfield market. After that I remember getting off the bus in Sutton (my hometown). After that I remember finding myself on my way home. But for some reason I wasn’t walking the usual way, I was going a longer way. I have no idea why. Then the last thing I remember of the night is falling flat on my face. As I lay face down on the cold pavement I noticed I’d smashed Will’s watch on the concrete. I climbed to my feet and told myself I had to get home, I was only about 10 to 15 minutes away.

The rest of this story is made up from what my mother told me. According to my mother I woke her up at gone 1.00am trying to unlock the front door. I then proceed to try and make myself a cup of tea. My mum took over and told me to go upstairs and she’d bring my drink to me. My mum helped me get upstairs, and then she returned to the kitchen to make my tea. Then for some unknown reason I went back downstairs to make the tea myself and my mum had to take me upstairs again.

I woke up the next morning with a massive headache and my brother telling me that my tea was on the floor. As it turns out I’d fell asleep as soon as my mother had bought me my tea.

The story doesn’t stop there, let’s just rewind to me falling over and breaking Will’s watch. The next day when I looked at it the time read 11.30pm. From this I can conclude that I fell over at 11.30pm. And if you have been paying attention I said the point I fell over at was about 15 minutes away from my house. So from the point of falling to my front door, it took me one and a half hours. I have no idea what happened in this time, which is extremely worrying.

The moral of this story is never go for a drink with Tom. And if you do, leave when he does. Also don’t talk to strangers in a bar because I suspect that this guy spiked me in an attempted to rob me later, seeing as I’d been chatting about how I’d been paid. Also if you get thrown (and I mean thrown – catching air and everything) out of a pub you should probably call it a night.

The Most Wasted I Have Got #2

I’ve already told you one story of me getting extremely wasted, so if you liked that story you may also like this one, if you didn’t like that story you probably won’t like this one either, so go put the kettle on and get a sense of humour!

This second story takes place in Derby. Derby is the lucky city I now live in, and while many Nottingham Forest fans might not want to live behind enemy lines, I’m not like most people; in fact my psychologist even suggested I’m one of a kind and need special attention. Anyway, “what does this have to do with your story?” is probably what you’re thinking. Well reader, I need to set the scene and get my word count up.

The plan for the night was go to my local pub with my acquaintances for some cheap pints of larger then to return to my flat for some illegal substances, while discussing the state of the economy and society, just like every Monday night. But little did I know that this Monday night would be a lot different to the ones that came before it. The night started as it should have done, we had a few beers at my flat and headed to the pub. We had a few beers and chatted the night away. With it being a Monday I’d had a busy drug-filled weekend and found that I still had two pills on me. So I thought I better get rid of these little things. The best way to get rid of pills is to take them. You could always sell them but that’s bad, because people that sell Class A drugs are very bad people and should be in jail because they are bad. You could just flush them, but I paid good money for these pills, I’m not going to flush them, that is just a waste of money. So I took one and continued to drink.

Of course after a while I started to feel a lot better. By now I’d had quite a few pints and was defiantly in an intoxicated state. Everything at this point was fine, until Graham left the table to get a drink. This is when things start to come apart. A girl came to our table and asked for the free stool, but I told her that Graham was sat there and she responded; “OK, calm down!” At this point it would be funny to shout; “I AM CALM!!” in a joking-sort-of-way. A few minutes later my phone rang so I went outside to answer the call and talk. After the phone call I went to walk back into the pub but was met by a big bouncer who told me I was not allowed back into the pub. I asked him why and he told me that I had been screaming at a regular customer saying that I had a bomb! This was a load of bullshit. This bitch that got me into trouble was not even a regular, I was a regular to the pub, and so were the people I came with. We went to that pub every-fucking-week! The bouncer wouldn’t even let me in the pub to give Graham his coat back; I was wearing it because it was really cold. This caused me another problem; I was in the beer garden which is situated at the back of the pub. I had to leave threw the back gate, which was new to me. I hadn’t been in Derby that long and wasn’t sure where I was going. So I just walked into the nearest pub, which didn’t look like a pub from the outside. I ordered a pint and took out my phone to text Rob seeing if he could explain to the bouncer what really happened, what I’d really said and if I could return to the pub. Rob informed me that they wouldn’t let me back in the pub, so I decided to stay put in this new pub. I’d already started talking to some of the chaps at the bar anyway.

After a while I decided to nip to the toilet and take the last pill I had on my possession then I returned the bar. After chatting to a few of the guys drinking there I noticed that they were all gay, maybe this should have made me realise that I was in fact in a gay pub. But I didn’t take that fact in until Rob sent me a text that read; “Dude, you’re in a gay pub. GET OUT NOW!” But I was too far gone. I couldn’t leave this pub in my state. I needed a little time to get my head together, so I stayed. And I’ve got to say I had a great time with those bowel bangers. They were some of the nicest guys I have ever met. Let me just state, that I was not leading them on, it was clear from the moment I walked in that pub that I was straight, seeing as none of the guys picked me up on their gay-dars (which are radars for homosexuality). So I had a few more drinks and then left the pub. I cannot remember walking home or how I got home, but once back in my flat I met up with my flatmates and started smoking weed.

As I mentioned before the plan was to talk about social and economical issues just like every Monday night. But I was currently finding it hard to speak. After a few spliffs I was gone. But then the fire alarm went off, more than likely caused by us, but we never did find out. So the whole of my block had to go outside, bear in mind that this was about 2.30am, once outside I was taking on the chin. Being well-known as a stoner does tend to mean people blame you for such things as fire alarms, and as I lay on the cold concrete floor rolling around I was finding it hard to defend myself. After the fire alarm we all poured back inside, but not for long. A few minutes later the fire alarm went off again causing more problems for me, because walking was becoming very difficult at this state and holding back the vomit was equally as hard. Once again as I lay on the floor I began to think maybe I should call it a night. The fire alarm was stopped again and I returned to Frenchie’s room to pick up my beer, I remember leaving his room and not being able to walk, so I crawled to my room on my hands and knees. I climbed into my bed and fought with my clothes as I pathetically attempted to remove them. And eventually I fell asleep.

The moral of this story is you should never shout at strangers in a pub because they might be moody bitches that will get you thrown out, never take drugs without your friends being with you and go to gay pubs because homosexuals will buy you drinks.

Mr Whiskers Must Die ...

Now, I'm an animal lover, not in a sick twisted bestiality way. But I've always had pets growing up as a child. But when it comes down to it, dogs are better than cats, for many reasons. Dogs are loyal, trusting and can attack anyone breaking into your house, unlike cats. I don't hate cats, but I do hate Mr Whiskers. Let me explain who Mr Whiskers is, and how my hate was built up against him and how I tried to kill him.

I was introduced to Mr Whiskers through my girlfriend; Lisa. Mr Whiskers was Lisa's cat; she got him from her gran after she sadly passed away after a freak stair lift accident. The chair flew up the stairs at 100 mph and Lisa's poor gran was ejected out the seat, out the window, into a motorway and hit by a lorry. Of course Lisa was really upset by this and when her mum said they were going to have to put the cat down as nobody wanted it, Lisa soon rescued it.

At first everything was fine. When I went around to Lisa's I would pet and feed Mr Whiskers all the time. But as time went on, the more Lisa's love grew for Mr Whiskers the more his hate grew for me. Maybe he saw me as a threat to him. I know it is hard to tell if an animal hates you or not, but Mr Whiskers has done plenty of things to lead me into thinking he hates me. Such as taking a shit in my new trainers, which he did on purpose, he has a litter tray, which he does not even use because he is trained to shit outside. Of course I didn't smell his shit, I discovered when I was about to nip to the shops for a few beers. I slipped my bare foot into my trainer and heard the squelch, the cat crap was pushed threw every tiny hole in my trainer. This caused me to throw up all over my other (cat-shitless) trainer. I washed the trainers but I could still smell the cat crap, so I got rid of those trainers, even though I loved them very much. I viewed this trainer’s incident as a one off accident, until the Mr Whiskers began what I believed to be an all out war between me and him, with Lisa being caught in the cross-fire.

Mr Whiskers would start to randomly attack me. Usually when me and Lisa were being intimate. Once he jumped on my back with claws out, causing me to elbow Lisa in the face and breaking her nose. Of course she viewed this as my fault. This is just one example. Mr Whiskers also mastered a skill of running between my legs when I ran downstairs leading me to fall over my own feet and fall to the bottom of the stairs.

Mr Whiskers would also try to out do me, as we both raced to Lisa's heart. I would buy her gifts such as flowers or chocolates, which she often thought was done out of guilt for something I had done wrong, which was never the case. So my gifts were often seen as some sort of attempt to get on her good side. Lisa would usually turn her nose up at what I had bought, but when Mr Whiskers killed mice and birds and brought them to her she thought that was cute. I tried to make peace with Mr Whiskers, I treated him great, but he continued to attack me. So I decided to fight back!

I hatched a plan to kill Mr Whiskers. Now I'm not a violent person, far from it. So instead of stomping on his head, I decided to poison him. Plus it would be hard to explain to Lisa why her cat's brain was all over my trainers. My plan was simple, put four grams of MDMA in Mr Whiskers' food, which would surely cause him to OD. Now many drug users may see this as a waste of good MDMA, but this was the best plan I could come up with. So one day I put out Mr Whiskers food and mashed up the MDMA. Along came Mr Whiskers to eat his food. A small while later, Mr Whiskers gets a bit 'crazy'. He begins to run threw the house making noise like he was dieing; I began to question what I had done. Lisa was starting to worry, especially when Mr Whiskers was climbing the wall, literally like a spider, then he crawled across the ceiling like the baby on Trainspotting! As I looked at him above me, he dropped, landing on my face, claws out. I let off I massive scream as he clung on and began to bite my forehead. Lisa panicked and in a bid to help me she picked up a fire poker and swung it at Mr Whiskers. But just before she struck him, he jumped off leading me to take the brunt of the fire poker. As I collapsed to the floor holding more head in my hands as the blood poured out my face, Mr Whiskers darted out his cat-flap. I went to hospital to get a few stitches. And we did not see Mr Whiskers for the rest of the week.

So imagine my shock when I found Mr Whiskers back in the kitchen on Monday morning. I thought he had ended up dead from the MDMA, but no, that did not kill him. And I was starting to feel bad for what I'd done, that all ended when I saw him again. I should have taken care of him then, instead I yelled upstairs to Lisa to tell her he was back. So was so excited. I thought I'd forget about killing Mr Whiskers, until he started to attack me again, worse than before. He knew it was me behind his 'crazy episode’; he wanted to make my life hell. So it was back on!

I spent all my free time thinking of ways to kill this cat. I'm not ashamed to admit that it turned into an obsession. But it had to look like an accident. That was the most important thing; I did not want to lose Lisa because I killed her cat. I mean, I was doing this so we could get back to how it used to be, before her gran died and this demonic feline made its way into our great relationship. I started to look at Mr Whiskers actions to see what I could capalise on.

My second plan was to lock the cat in the washing machine and drown him. Mr Whiskers had a habit of sleeping in small spaces such as wardrobes, draws and the dryer, so it made sense to kill him this way. I'd do Lisa a favour by washing some of her clothes while she was at work, this was a great plan. I was doing her a favour, but had accidentally killed her pet. So once Lisa had set off to work I put a few clothes in the washing machine, then I took a towel and jumped on Mr Whiskers while he slept. As I wrapped the towel around him he began to try and fight out. With a little luck I kept him wrapped in the towel and I stuffed him into the washing machine and quickly closed the door and turned it on. Inside the washing machine, he escaped from the towel to see me threw the glass in the door just as the water started to fine the machine. It was hilarious to see him trying to escape the water, but for him there was no where for him to run. As the washing machine went around I could see his limp body twirling around and around. I didn't watch all the time, I watched for about five minutes then turned on the TV.

I waited for Lisa to return from work so she could discover Mr Whiskers in the washing machine. And she did, she walked in the kitchen and saw the washing was finished, she thanked me for doing it and opened the door and began to pull the clothes out. Then I heard her say, "Oh my God..." that was it, she'd discovered him, "... are you alright?" Then I heard a meow. That sound sent a shiver down my spine. She reached in the washing machine and pulled out Mr Whiskers, although he was soaking wet he was still alive. "Ben, it looks like Mr Whiskers was sleeping in the washing machine when you put the clothes in. We'll have to make sure he's not in it in the future. That sure was lucky!" And it was, lucky for that fucking cat. Lisa didn't think I'd done this on purpose, she'd see it how I'd planned it. She'd seen I was doing her a favour and Mr Whiskers had climbed in the machine and accidentally been washed, it all went great, apart from the cat not dieing.

After that I went back to the drawing board, to see what else I could do. It didn't take me too long to come up with my next plan. Mr Whiskers loved to play with the window blinds in Lisa's front room, usually he play with the bit of string used to open and shut the blinds. This little string what soon become the end of Mr Whiskers. My plan was simple; wrap the string around the cat's neck and hang him, Saddam style, if you can kill an evil dictator that way, you can kill a domestic feline that way. So one night as we headed off to bed, I made an excuse to go back downstairs. I heard Lisa climb into bed and I went into the front room while Mr Whiskers slept on the window ledge, lucky for me, unlucky for him. I took the blinds cord and tied it around he neck, not waking him, then I pushed him off the ledge causing him to fall the string tighten. As I walked out the room, leaving him tangled up, I could hear his weak breath. I went upstairs and slept like a baby. Until I was woke by Lisa, telling me that Mr Whiskers had had another accident, getting caught in the cord of the blinds in the living room. But he was fine! She'd discovered and rescued him.

Of course, after three failed attempts I was starting to doubt my cat killing abilities. And I started to look at any objects around Lisa's house that could be used to kill Mr Whiskers. My fourth plan was a spare of the moment thing. Lisa's large auntie had come to visit. Lisa's aunt has a inflatable doughnut to sit on because she has piles. So I saw my chance. Lisa welcomed her auntie into the house and they went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, while they did this I lay a blanket over a napping Mr Whiskers and put the inflatable doughnut on top of that. When Lisa and her aunt came into the room, cups of tea in hand they took their seats. And Lisa's aunt did not feel a thing. We chatted for about an hour then Lisa's auntie had to make her way home. As she stood up and pick up her inflatable doughnut she noticed a lump under the blanket. As she lifted the blanket she saw the lifeless body of Mr Whiskers. "What have I done?" she shrieked, "me a massive favour" I thought. She bent over and went to pick up the cat, until Mr Whiskers shot up and bit her hand. Lisa and her auntie exchanged some banter, but I was too busy fuming to take in what they had said. The cat had survived a 15 stone woman sitting on him; it was going to take a lot more than this to kill him.

I went back the basic stuff, what animal hates cats; dogs. This was barely a plan. It was just a desperate attempt to put a violent end to Mr Whiskers. By now Mr Whiskers was more cautious when sleeping or napping, due to the fact I'd been trying to kill him as he slept. So I changed my attack plans. Instead of being in Lisa's house this time, I was on her street, late at night waiting for Mr Whiskers. Around 2.00pm I saw him; I snuck upon him, grabbed him and quickly fixed elastic bands to his legs. Leaving the front two stuck together and the back two stuck together. I stuffed him into my backpack and walked to the other side of town. This plan was taking him out of his element (Lisa's house) and was much more violent than any plan before it. I went to my friend Dave's house; I wasn't going to enlist his help. I was going to enlist the help of his two Staffordshire terriers. I waited outside Dave's house and when nobody was around I opened my bag, grabbed and Mr Whiskers and threw him into Dave's back garden. I smiled as I heard the dogs bark. I zipped up my bag and made my way back to Lisa's house. But as I returned, who was on the doorstep ready to greet me; Mr Whiskers! I have no idea how he survived, got away or managed to find his way home before me.

To be honest, I was now getting really desperate and finding it hard to come up with ideas to kill Mr Whiskers. Another spare of the moment idea came about when more of Lisa's family came for a visit; Kyle (her younger brother) and Adam (her cousin). They came to Lisa's house because to do things they couldn't do at home like get drunk, smoke weed and shoot birds with their pellet guns. Of course they always invite me to do some shooting on Lisa's back garden, but in the past I turned them down because I'm not the type of person that kills innocent animals, but times have changed. So this time I joined them. Of course, Kyle, Adam and Lisa all thought I was a bad shot, but what they didn't know is I used have a pellet gun was I was young and stupid and I'm quite a good shot. The idea is simple; I'm such a 'bad shot' I accidentally shoot Mr Whiskers. This was a daring move to be honest. I'm about to shoot Mr Whiskers with Lisa watching, hoping she'll believe it was an accident. But I was done caring this cat needed taking care of, once and for all. So we shot at some birds for a while, I was missing them on purpose and Kyle liked to rub it in that I was a terrible shot. They were falling for it, hook, line and sinker. So when I saw Mr Whiskers walking along the wall at the bottom of garden I took my aim and shot, telling them to look at a pigeon flying passed. As the pigeon continued to fly off, they then noticed Mr Whiskers looking dizzy then falling off the wall. "Oh shit!" I shouted. We all run up to the cat, blood was seeping out of his head. To be fair to myself, it was a great shot. Adam dropped to his knees and began to give the cat mouth to mouth. After about two minutes Mr Whiskers came around. Lisa told Adam he was her hero. I was expecting a serious fight, but it never came, probably because her family was there. Once Adam and Kyle had left, I was waiting for the argument, but it never came. Lisa told me that I should never pick up a pellet gun again, due to the fact I'm useless with it.

I waited a few weeks before my next attempt; I didn't want Lisa getting suspicious. There's only so many 'accidents' a pet can have until the owner notices there's something going on. And I was lucky to have made it this far.

So after a couple of weeks had passed, I decided to expand on an early attempt. The washing machine idea was great, but the cat didn't die. So I thought I'd use the basis of that plan but step it up a gear. I've always had a fondness for microwaves. I'm lazy so microwave meals are a must for me. But now my favourite cooking appliance was going to become my murder weapon. For this plan I would place a meal in the microwave, get Mr Whiskers to follow the meal into the microwave, but I wouldn't be the one to 'pull the trigger' this time. I'm going to leave it to Lisa. So everything was set up, I called Lisa into the kitchen and I put the kettle on. I asked her to put the microwave on for me, which she did. So a few minutes passed and the microwave finished, Lisa opened the door, and found Mr Whiskers. Now we all know that any pet will die if you put it in a microwave, but not Mr Whiskers. It's unexplainable. I was not even shocked this time, although I was surprised he'd eaten my meal. Again Lisa told me to be more careful in the future.

By this time, Mr Whiskers was no longer attacking me, he had stopped along time ago, but I was still hell bent on killing him. Everything was going great with Lisa, and the cat wasn't coming between us anymore. There was no cat shit in my trainers. There was no reason to kill Mr Whiskers. I'm not sure why I was carrying on my plans.

My next plan wasn't a plan at all. Me and Lisa had spent the night in watching DVDs and drinking (heavily). When Lisa had passed out, I saw Mr Whiskers and went a bit crazy, I picked up the fire poker (the same one that Lisa hit me with) and began to beat the pussy. I crushed his skull, I broke everyone of his legs, and he was dead. I put him in a plastic bag and buried him in the back garden. Then I cleaned up the mess. I wasn't going to say anything to Lisa; I was just hoping she'd think he'd run away, who could blame him if he had done? I climbed into bed and went to sleep. And sure enough in the morning I woke up with Mr Whiskers sleeping at my feet.

Someone once told me cats have nine lives, I never used to believe it, until my experience with Mr Whiskers. MDMA, washing machine, being hanged, fat bitch, two dogs, pellet gun, microwave, beaten to death ... he'd come back from it all. How else can you explain it? I count that as eight lives he's lost. So there's one left, but I'm too tired of killing him. My final plan is simple; wait him out. He's an old cat. Mother Nature will take care of him soon enough. I'll live longer than him; he'll be dead before me. I will get to piss on his grave. So I'm in a constant cease-fire with him. I still hate the little bastard. He no longer hates me. I'm the type of person that holds a grudge. And trying to kill him was a good hobby.

Mr Whiskers must die, and one day he will. But not as a victim of mine.