Archive for June 2012
Polish sister..Hallowed be thy name..
“You can take your clothes off now”, spoken to me in a harsh yet seductive Polish accent as I enter the office of the organization I will work for during the next three weeks.
From the moment I set foot on Polish soil my jaw has remained open in disbelief as countless beauties stream past and now I find myself in an office packed with staggeringly stunning students, who during their free time will help settle us into our new surroundings, take us to work and induct us into Polish life and culture. Her name was Dorota and her first words to me are from every man’s wildest dream although this is only the first of many slips and I can only wish she hadn’t just been talking about my scarf and jacket.
Leaving the office we pack our belongings into a taxi and make our way through the busy city of Wrocław. It’s not unlike any other city although shop signs, advertisements and graffiti present a stark reminder of the new language barrier to overcome. I chuckle a little at the sight of one sports shoe shop daring to use an exotic English title ‘Athletes Foot’.
Pulling up outside our accommodation I catch sight of my first nun then second and third. “Didn’t we tell you you’re living in a Convent”? “Eh, no”. I have to re-think my wardrobe, Iron Maiden shirts n’ all.
Our duties, of which we knew nothing about, are to include maintaining the garden, painting the children’s area, evenings with the local youth club and not having sex with the young single mothers that reside up stairs from us in this huge, modern house of God. Myself and the five other Scottish volunteers find out how modern one night when our favourite chubby Nun Sister Magdalena who, in control of the television remote, happens across a free-view porn channel and laughs at our embarrassment as we squirm in our chairs unsure of how to react.
Having studied religiously –excuse the pun- before descending on Poland, the usual string of insults and chat-up lines I realize I’d better unlearn quick and find something nice to say to my new house mates, but not before my first slip of the tongue. I just didn’t think. It slipped right out. I’d meant to say Dzien dobry –good morning- but said “Daj mi buziaka” –give me a kiss-! She stopped and gave me an uneasy stare of confusion. “No, no, no”, I shouted. “I didn’t mean that”! Forgetting that no is Polish slang for yes, I realize I’ve made things worse and find myself walking by one terrified Sister every other day for the next three weeks.
One mistake I’d be glad to repeat came after I asked one of my favourite students if she could take me to the local swimming pool. She looked so hot in that bikini I feared that if I swam on my back I’d look like a submarine, periscope up! The changing rooms were far from the showers and as I stood washing in the midst of a dozen ladies I thought to my-self “These mixed showers are great. What an amazing country”, I’m grabbed and bundled out by my friend saying “No Andy, this is for girls”! That smile never left my lips for the rest of the evening.
On losing my wallet during a night out I call the same girl and ask if we can retrace last-nights excursions hoping a good Samaritan might have handed it in. The clubs not open yet and I’m led to her house where I meet the family and join her seventy year old Grandmothers birthday party. I pay close attention to what comes out my mouth. Not a slip tonight.
We enter her bedroom and in turn give each-other back massages but no action for this frustrated, wallet-less Scotsman who’s soon to be lost on his way back home. After throwing stones at the wrong window I’m finally let into the Convent at half past one in the morning and dream of sexy Polish students.
After countless nights of sneaking upstairs to the rooms of the young single mothers and supplying them with vodka, it would appear I’ve gained the attention of the scary one. Prone to violent outbursts I decide she’s had enough babies’ and I don’t really want to incur the wrath of Eastern Europeans anymore.
So far I have one terrified nun avoiding me, one stalking old ghost of a nun following me around looking like she’s licked piss of a nettle, a crazy single mother who tells me to my face she wants to fuck me and one pissed off student that since our massage evening I’d spent an hour kissing then stupidly told another volunteer who felt a need to spread the word. I can assure you Hell hath no wrath indeed!
Morning before our party for the mentally disabled who live on another floor and my heads up my arse as I spend five minutes trying to eat soup with a fork. My Scottish friends still hiding that big, fat mouth although I’ve no one to blame but myself.
Into the most surreal party I go where a small squad of Polish soldiers have been recruited to help and we find Scary nun wearing a military hat plus jacket, Chubby nun bustin’ some moves on the dance floor, seriously hot student’s and mentally challenged patients going.. mental I suppose. *If thats not politically correct enough for you then kiss my sweaty balls!
Holding hands at the finale they dance in a large circle and I’m captured again by one randy disabled girl who drags me to the centre of the dancing circle, places my hands firmly on her bum and grinds her-self against me. Laughter ensues from everyone as I try frantically to release myself, but she’s so strong and I can only wait until she’s bored and latches onto another volunteer.
As an unbelievable three weeks comes to a close I realize I’ve committed more sins than I could shake a stick at and my newly acquired sense that there may be a God is met with the fearful question of “What if there is a God”? Acquitted of my sins by Sister Magdalena I climb aboard a taxi hoping it still counts for Protestant’s as I leave the Convent with my souvenir –stolen- towel.
Nun of that nonsense around here..Yes that is a nun wearing military gear!
As far as anyone could tell I was back to normal. Working now as a Live Services Marshal for my old Indian buddies and with more money than sense, no-one could have guessed that I was continuing down the wrong path . A few friends who knew what I was using did try to talk me out of it but I was happy with my choice and only noticeably troubled when my supply ran dry. With a voluntary trip to Poland just around the corner to look forward to, as long as I could afford my habit the cracks would never show.
. . .
Arriving just in time I take my place centre stage in The Grand Hall to promote The Princes Trust programme as a model representative and Young Ambassador.
Three months have passed since I took part in this project designed to help troubled youths find their way in life and now here I stand, sweat dripping from my pasty skin, ready to take on two hundred plain clothes police officers in a speech aimed to convince the law that this organisation is different. This one can make a difference.
I had it all planned. With my blank sheets of paper as something to hold I was going to take them by storm, show them how it’s done and make it up as I go. Unfortunately my morning fix of heroin wore off about half an hour ago and now I just want to die.
Raising my arms towards my podium almost knocking it over I lean over the microphone and greet my audience. “Alright, how’s it goin’”? I wait for a reply. Silence.
Continuing my speech I seem to lose track of why I’m there and nervously tell them every detail of my life before coming to an abrupt stop. “What was I talking about? Where am I going with this? In fact, where the fuck am I?” Often finding myself in strange places while living life as a hazy day-dream I have to say that this is one of the worst places to wake up.
Television cameras zoom in from every angle covering my fine example of how not to prepare and deliver a speech. Flicking and fumbling through empty sheets of paper hoping the world will disappear I slip into my own little world for about three minutes while drug enforcers from The Strathclyde Police Department try to figure me out.
Eventually I’m brought out of my trance by my mentor whispering from the front row “Andy, it’s OK. You’ve said enough.” Shrugging my shoulders I look up and say to my audience “Well…That’s about it.” An eruption of laughter follows me off-stage and I hang my head in shame. I wanted to do well. I really believed I could, but no way in hell was I bringing my kit with me to basically a police convention.
I still do speeches from time to time. A speech at a police college, kind off stand-up routines while training for the army (telling my life story) and an interesting speech on bagpipes –considering I know nothing about them- to name just a few.
No longer feeling the need to fill my body with shit I can actually enjoy public speaking to crowds of people about anything although it can still go badly wrong with flashbacks. With no real fear at what the future brings, no shame what so ever coupled with a relaxed pace in life I can only look back and gasp “I did that”!
My drug habits really fucked me up for a long time so I do not recommend it.
Hey good lookin!
I had two lives now (nothing to do with the picture!). I was involved with Environmental conservation groups in the countryside and even a safety officer for an organisation who’d take groups of near school leavers on weekends away to take part in projects such as path building, repairing fences and toasting marshmallows over a fire.
My other life would lead me to interesting situations like these;
. . .
We made our way to a barge (flat-bottomed boat) docked up for the night on the Union canal where my friend’s Dad lives. Not exactly running for father of the year, this man has something set aside for us which we intend to take to a house party in Edinburgh.
On our arrival we’re met by the rants and raving of a lunatic, fucked on something and going crazy about someone on board. As my friend enters to talk with Daddy, I’m asked to stay outside and take care of crazy woman –keep her off the boat, away from water’s edge ect-.
I’m controlling the situation, calming her down and sympathising with her when my friend slips out to hand me a bottle of beer. I take a swig, let out a sigh and hope they won’t be much longer.
She asks for a drink. “Sure” I say as I hand her my beer then watch in horror as it’s smashed across a rock and I’m charged at by a girl intent on giving me a splintered glass facial.
Stepping back I guide her attacking arm to the side and push hard against her shoulder forcing her away from me. With new found rage her anguish is turned towards herself as she drags the jagged shards across her own wrist.
“NO”! I shout while grabbing both arms and locking them behind her back. I put my foot across her legs and push forward bringing us both crashing towards the ground. I lift my head in search of the bottle only to see the shape of my friends Dad climbing ashore, catching me in one compromising position on top of a screaming girl.
“Get off her” he shouts, but understands the situation –maybe watched it from a window- and takes my place in restraining her whilst filling me in on the fact the neighbouring boats passengers have called the police.
The police arrive and get to grips with this hysterical woman and we’re told to go back inside and give statements. Daddy’s face turns pale, but as the officer descends into the barge a loud smash from a police car window sends him hurriedly back to help take down this now ferial creature.
A stash is produced and we help get rid before joined again by Officer Plod who takes statements from a suddenly very animated set of individuals. “No, never seen her before tonight. I didn’t provoke her and no I don’t want to press charges.” The armoured police van has arrived –touch unnecessary- and the lady who turns out to be a Primary school teacher is taken away.
I wonder what her subject was. Chemistry? Drama? Or How to be a psycho?!
Good day; Play with fire extinguisher..Bad day; Attempt to insert a supervisors head into a vending machine..NEVER SKIP THE QUEUE!
Leaving school as soon as I could I entered the working world and spent my days in mail distribution depots unloading trucks, flipping burgers in Mc Donald’s for a brief period before a three year stint making roof tiles with my Dad in a small factory near my home where the practical jokers put dead seagulls in my wheelbarrow and my loving Father so kindly fills everyone in one the apparent fact that when Andrews having a ‘bash’ the whole house shakes. Thanks for that!
After they went bust I became self-employed and started working for an Indian construction company where I’d spend a further three years labouring on The Royal Bank Of Scotland Head Quarters. Eventually I switched companies for better pay and started making under floor fire barriers before returning to general labour with that same Indian company and an extra job as a security guard on the same site. I spent six of those months sleeping in the basement and they still hand picked me to recieve a safety award, £50 voucher for workers shop and a small pocket knife. Almost makes up for the fact I worked 80 hours for only £300 every week.
Outside of work drink and drug habits were taking their toll.
I did have an on-off addiction and indulged in more than a few forms of whatever I could get but it was usually more of a bad (very bad) habit than actual overblown addiction. It all started with my-self and friends encouraging each-other to try new things and it seemed cool at the time.
It would soon escalate and become a game you could only win by taking and enduring the most amount of shit like some idiotic last-man-standing test of manhood. The death of a friend should have served as a warning but would only drag me further down and into a dark place there seemed no way out of.
Mum knew something was amiss and so suggested I join The Prince’s Trust.
. . .
Wearing a see through pink tutu complete with woman’s thong leaving nothing to the imagination along with fish-net stockings and an Avril lavigne vest rolled up to look like a bra, he lets out a sigh of disbelief and utters the words ‘That’s ma boy’!
With my long curly hair hanging down from a black French beret hat, long beard and tribal tattoo’s completing the image, I look like a fucking nutter.
I’m now well into The Prince’s Trust organisation taking part in a three month course set up for young adults trying to find direction in their life and today we’re fund-raising in Edinburgh wearing fancy-dress costumes. Our groups made up from three girls and two boys and deciding that we might as well do it in style, we arrive looking like a pair of hookers while the girls dress as a mouse, builder and Gypsy.
I just look nuts, whereas the other guy has pulled out all the stops and really looks the part, calling it a day after someone grabs his arse and asks him ‘How much’? A tenner’s slipped inside my money tin by someone who probably wants my number and I have much explaining to do a few times when my friends pass me not knowing I’d planned to do this.
Four hours later I’m sitting at the bar in town after changing my clothes in the toilet. I answer my phone and I’m surprised to hear Sara asking me if herself and Zandra can come to my house for a drink. Hell yea! These girls are beautiful and I make my way home thinking they’ll definitely change their minds. They’ll never come.
I frantically clean my room, throwing mouldy plates in the bin and opening the window to let the smell out. I receive a text message and head towards the bus stop to meet them.
We’re already quite pissed by the time Dad knocks on the door and sticks his head into the room. ‘Can I have a word’? Following him into his bedroom, I’m given the lecture about condoms. That’s all very well, but I’m fucking twenty four!
Letting the girls sleep in my bed, I make myself comfortable on the floor. I can’t sleep. I’m desperately hoping they’ll take pity on me and let me shag them.
Opening my eyes I see Zandra leaning over me wearing my T-shirt, looking hot as fuck. ‘About time’, I think to myself before noticing her cheeks bulging as she grabs the bin beside my head and spews. Surly I deserve some sex now after mopping up her sick, but no. I stay sleeping next to a stinking bin and a ruined carpet while sleeping beauties lie in my bed forcing me to a much needed cold shower in the morning.
Sara,if it wasn’t for you I’d never need a cold shower..Thanks for being awesome about this!
Banging shee..I mean,counting sheep!
Disaster after disaster would strike every time in the most outrageous way and a brief spell at college based on the theory that all colleges were exactly like the movie American Pie would not only add to my frustrations, but also add weight to my friends colourful suggestion that I was now ‘feard o’ the beard’ –beard meaning vagina-.
. . .
She was the one everyone warmed to at college. The centre of attention without meaning to be and an unshakable kindness with beauty both inside and out all added up towards one incredible individual. I could never understand why she had so much time for me – a fairly quiet, shy man around girls- , but accepting her invitation of a few drinks at her place, I relax and make myself comfortable on the couch in her apartment.
I was never in love. I wouldn’t allow myself to. Not in a million years could anything possibly happen between us. Maybe (definitely) in my dreams, but never in reality. She was just a friend and for once in my life I could accept that.
We were in almost every class together from Maths to History, shared similar interests and even the same black sense of humour. That night we discussed everything while downing the last of our vodka.
Feeling tired, we decide it’s time to sleep and I ask for a sheet, maybe a pillow for the couch I assume to be my bed for the night. “You’re sleeping there”? She asks me surprised. “Jump into bed with me if you want. It’s much comfier”. I figure this to be a much better alternative and undressing down to my boxers I slide in beside her. I’m asked if I sleep naked to which I reply “I can if you want me to”! We giggle and laugh it off.
For an hour we lie face to face talking of days gone by, our classmates at college and about sex and our lack off. I’m told of her recent absence of sex and how frustrating it’s been for her making her constantly horny as hell. She continues by filling me in on her fantasies of being strangled, perhaps videoed so that she can watch it back. Our legs brush a little and receiving a small kiss goodnight I roll over and fall asleep.
Arriving at college the next morning we join our usual groups of friends and I discuss my night with a mutual good friend we share. “Andy, are you a fucking idiot”? I’m asked. I take a moment to reflect. “FUUUCK! I am an idiot”!
At my house the following weekend we find ourselves sharing a bed again. This time a little too much vodka and we’re out for the count. As she makes her way home and back into the arms of her ex-boyfriend I bang my head on a fucking wall.
Always useful..for making balloons, water bombs, slingshots..
It seemed by now that if it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. That pretty much sums up my history with the lady’s so on receiving a strange phone call from a mysterious woman asking me to meet her daughter I didn’t think twice before jumping on my bike and racing towards the bigger town of Ratho.
I’ve been tracked down through a mutual friend who lived across the street from me and I’m given directions to their house and find they live next door to another girl I’m fond of.
She looked mental. Long dirty blond hair, smudged eye shadow, full sleeve punk tattoos complete with half smoked fag dangling from her lip. “Alright Andy, Ave heard aboot you. Ma daughters upstairs, first on the left. Introduce yer-sell”. What mother does this? Hearing that her daughter had a crush after watching me cycle by one day, she tracked me down and sent me to her bedroom as a surprise. Surprise indeed!
On entering the room I nervously perch on the end of the bed while she brushes her hair in silence facing towards a large dressing table mirror. Being somewhat of an ugly duckling at this stage I can certainly vouch that since then she’s blossomed into a fully hot swan. A fully hot, mental swan, but fit never the less.
The tension in the air stifles. Never before has an atmosphere felt so intimidating.Maybe shes shy. Maybe I’m the wrong guy? Maybe I’m in the wrong room? I draw from my pocket a packet of cigarettes to break the uneasy mood and make an offering of peace..and cancer. Turning to face me, looking down at my hand she flashes a look that could kill before spinning around to continue grooming/ripping that red main of hair. In my hand I realise my blunder, staring back at me I read the label “Durex, Ribbed Condoms”!
“Nice knowing you, goodbye”, I almost say before she suggests we go down stairs to sit with the family. Everybody’s there and what a massive family it is. About ten people cram in to watch me turn my attentions and chat up their mental mum. “Come fir yer tea tomorrow at six”. I’m ordered by a mother unaware I’d just offered her eldest a pack of condoms. “Sure”, I say with the intention of actually going back.
I return early and spend time with the girl next door before making my way towards the house of what could be my bodys final resting place. An almost infant younger sister struggles to open the front door and steps back allowing me to enter. Closing the door behind me I turn and come face to face with the giant hulk of a man known simply as Dad. “Who the fuck are you”?
“Eh, I eh, is…” I don’t know her name!
“Is eh…Is she in”?
“Marry-Anne!” He roars up the stairs.
“I’M NO IN”! The voice booms back. The points well taken and I let myself out.
*A change of name in this one because I like my head being attached to my neck, not shoved up my bum.
Must have been love.. Can you believe that little shit bit me!? Turtle soup anyone?
My school days (and the rest of my life as it would happen) would be dominated by disastrous advances towards the opposite sex including one instance of obtaining information regarding the whereabouts of a certain beauty I was fond of. On looking back, I can’t recall ever having spoken one word to her but, in true form I could swear this was meant to be. It was love.
Straight from the shop with a box of chocolates plus card, I made my way through her town before realising I’d forgotten one vital detail. Her address was still sitting on a coffee table in my bedroom. Can’t be that hard to find, I think to myself as I chap on the first of about three hundred doors.
Each time I ask for her then ask if they know where she lives without success before arriving at a door where I’m greeted by one angry, deranged father looking at my like he’s eaten a cold turd. His three year old daughter happens to share exactly the same name and I have about five seconds to explain myself nervously before tip-toeing towards the next house feeling somewhat foolish.
Eventually after another few streets of nothing, a friend from school opens his door and invites me inside. Putting my feet up I begin to explain my predicament. “She lives next door”, I’m told and breathing one long, happy sigh of relief, I drain my cup of tea and set off to complete my mission.
Receiving no answer, I lay the card underneath the chocolates in an effort to avoid a strong gust of wind from blowing my message of love into the garden of a certain knuckle-dragging swamp monster and make my way home where I wait for Monday to come. Before the weekend draws to a close I’m dealt one deadly piece of news from the so called friend who’d originally given me her address.
On knowing what I had planned, that furry little fuck-weasel had thought it funny to tell her I was a mad stalker and out to get her. If she wasn’t already freaked out then she would be now.
I never did get a chance to talk to her. I do however, know that she is married now with two children, listens to Otis Redding and likes cycling. So let’s hear it for the age of Facebook stalking!