After a dozen pints and a small nations supply of Jim Beam, of course she was going to look attractive. That's why I'd spent all of 3 minutes chatting her up in the taxi queue. The night of passion between the perfect couple that followed would be Hollywood gold for a romantic movie, unless of course the director saw the CCTV footage of a fat munter being groped and humped in the back of a taxi by an absolutely mashed squaddie. Blinking through the haze, it was dawning on me that I'd bloody well done it again. I was naked next to an equally naked horror, and I had no idea where I was. I was just lucky enough to have woken first, it was time to pop smoke and get back to the block. I looked over at my conquest and immediately dry-heaved. The make-up had been washed away by the heavy sweaty antics earlier, and her greasy acne made her face a stark contrast to her milky white, council issue breasts, the same breasts which were tucked into each armpit, leaving her vast gunt sticking significantly higher than them into the air. Oh sweet jesus no. My addled brain quickly went into panic mode, and other facts were smashed into my conscious mind. Oh fuck me no, there was a babysitter wasn't there. There were toys everywhere. Fuck no, fuck, fuck, fuck, it's a single mother council rat SCH parent trap. Get out. Now. Go man, go! Managing to extract my arm from underneath Mount Scutter, I crept downstairs into the dingy living room. Somewhere, my worldly possessions were amongst the grot and the grime. I found my jeans, and hallelujah! my wallet was still in there. I quickly slid them on, and spotted my shirt and shoes, picking them up. Socks? No sign. Fuck em. I need to get some mileage between myself and the snoring lardbucket before it stirs. I gingerly tried the front door - locked, no key. Shit. I crept to the back of the house. Locked, no key. Double shit. Nothing else for it - kitchen window, go. I landed in the back garden, and took in my surroundings. My initial suspicions were confirmed, and I was smack in the middle of one of the roughest estates around. On one side was an endless terrace of gardens, the other side only 3 gardens before the main road. That'll do, I thought. Leaping over into next door, I landed in the garden and was immediately aware that in the house was a very large, very tattooed bloke at his grill, cooking breakfast. And a semi naked squaddie has just landed unannounced in his garden at 8 oclock on a Sunday morning. I froze, not sure what I should now be more afraid of, the kicking he's about to give me or the assault I'll get from Shebacca when he hands me back to her. The man mountain spoke. "Don't worry mate, you're not the first. You can use my front door if you want." I trudged through the house in utter shame, up the path, and - without looking back - pegged it barefoot up the road, only pausing at a payphone to get a (hungover and chuntering) mate to pick me up sharpish. Over to you lot.