he's not listening, so I'll share with you Dukey, but keep it to yourself.
Me and a mate (Ill call him John, cos thats his name) had decided on a weekend on the lash in his hometown, Newcastle. This would be my first night up there and I was especially looking forward to a visit to the Bigg Market, as I needed some new sports socks for PT.
We made the trip over from the Fatherland without incident and got a tad merry on the boat, eventually rocking up at his gaff in Gosforth late on the Friday afternoon. This was fitting in nicely as it meant a quick intro to his folks, quick shower and offski into town for a few scoops. This went exactly as planned, we did get royally pissed and the locals all took the piss out of my accent until I started chatting up their lasss, who were enjoying the attentions of proper REME swordsman for a change, and conversation about things other than Newky Broon, the Toon & Alan Shearer. In fact, one lass gave off a gusset-moistening moan when I asked who Alan Shearer was. A vast kebab on the way home was all the company I needed that night and all was well in my world. The beer jacket leant to me by my Geordie sidekick kept me lovely and warm, the kebab compass worked a treat and I didnt even mind sleeping on his bedroom floor in a dossbag. (I was disappointed with the Bigg Market as there were hardly any stalls there at all. They really ought to visit Cardiff Fruit Market before they start boasting like that.)
I digress. Saturday night was to be more of the same, only with an earlier start and a later finish. Added bonus meant that his folks were out and away that night, so we had the whole house to ourselves, though his Ma did warn me about bringing back any dorty who-eres whatever they might be. We got out and on it early, and worked our way across town on a fairly conventional night out. .We got chummy with a couple of likely girls, poured a few glasss of Chardonnay into them and generally treated them liked princesss. The one swapping face with John also had a tattoo on her arm with the words John True love in it, so as you can see, all was going well.
Now, I tend to get hungry when Ive had a few and nothing stands in my way. I decided that I fancied a curry and the girls agreed, saying they knew of a place down by the river that was pretty good. It turned out to be a converted railway carriage (ring any bells with anyone?) and, as promised, the scoff was top notch. So good was it, that John troughed more than his fair share and plenty of Kingfisher to wash it all down.
We settled up and ordered a joe baxi back to his gaff with our new lady-friends, and all looked to be going well. Sadly, it wasnt to last and John, overcome with the effects of a long sesh on the Broon, a fairly hot Madras and a cabby who thought he was Colin McRae, decided to spew all over the cab door. To give you the full flavour of the incident, the door pocket of the car (a navy blue 1998 VW Passat, if memory serves me) was full of his curry sick, mixing in with the pints of Broon which had been poured in all afternoon.
The driver wasnt impressed and nor were the girls. In a frantic attempt to save myself the £50 puke-penalty and still get my hole, I fibbed to the driver and told him there wasnt much to worry about and that I could easily clean it if he stopped at the nearest petrol station. The harsh light of the of the forecourt convinced me I couldnt and when the cab drew to a halt the girls got out and walked off without another word. Oh well. I paid the penalty and got the driver to run us home, pausing only to have an argument with him when I lit up in the cab. (my reasoning being, I had just spent £50 and the car needed a valet anyway, one fags worth of smoke wasnt going to make a jot of difference.)
Back at his and I carried John into the empty house and dumped him on the sofa, where he flaked out, the ungrateful northern monkey. I went upstairs with my hormones still frothing and didnt really fancy the dossbag & love sock, so I decided to treat myself to a little luxury and kip in his mum & dads bed. Got myself comfy but decided to have a shufty through their bedside cabinets, as you do.
Not much in his dads other than folded, ironed hankys and biros. Mums however, turned up a small plastic heart-shaped box with the words for your bottom from my heart in gold on the top. My curiosity awakened, I opened up the box to find a pair of frilly pink knickers. Naturally, I put them on and started wanking. And just as naturally, the booze caught up with me & I blew myself out and dozed off mid stroke.
Sometime around 11:00am, I was shaken awake by my oppo and it was pointed out that 1) I shouldnt be in his Mums bed and 2) he hoped that I hadnt had a wank while in there (told you he was a mate). I assured him that I hadnt shot my wad between her sheets and waited for him to leave the room before getting up and taking off his Mums smalls and checking them for any DNA I might have left in them. One small stain was all I could find, so I stowed them back in their rightful place, got dressed and went downstairs to get ready for the long drive back to Germany.
I often wondered if his Mum ever put them on and wondered about the small skidmark I had left in the gusset? Hmmmm.
Newcastle. A top night out.
Any other readers have a night out with a mate whilst on leave, that didnt quite go according to plan? Care to share with the group?