Kendal Called, I Wish I Never Answered, Episode 4: Electric Light Organ Grinder, The Second Coming and Oral Threads

As Paddy lurches off into the gaggling masses of canvas domes, a cacophony of twisted sounds fills the air. Thousands of goblins chattering, beats, rhymes, melodies. Pure audible desynchronisation. Those inconsiderate bastards, I just want peace.
I slide myself back into the tent and feel the sweet relief of stuffy third-hand air.
I feel every molecule interact with my senses. With every intake of breath I not only smell the dank and putrid foist of the atmosphere, I feel it too. I taste it. I feel part of it.

Just as some form of comfort begins to envelope my body, I start to feel more confident. I want interaction. Tank lies in the corner of the tent, trying to sleep. It seems his body is simply rejecting the novel chemical that drifts through his blood stream. Strauss is sitting silently, busying himself with sleeping bags and zips and pointless paraphernalia. He seems happy and settled.

We must talk.

“Imagine being in side your own teeth.” I excitedly eject, following up the suggestion with several loud clicks of my own gnashers.
“Imagine being inside your own teeth whilst trying to eat some other teeth.”
I am aware that this sounds particularly odd, even in the current circumstances. The reason this seemed like an important topic was that I had an episode of Futurama stuck in my head. It starts with a faux commercial for “Thompson’s Teeth: Strong enough to eat other teeth.”

Before Strauss can make any kind of sense from my words, there is a knock on the tent door (or what passes for a knock on a tent). “You lot in there?”

It was Tasty Jesus; I am thrilled, as I need interaction. I feel compelled to experience things. I open the flap.
“Alright lads, how’s it going?” comes the foolish question. Of course he believes we have followed his instructions. Eat only a third and wait an hour. Take it easy. He looks at us.
“You lot ok?”
“Yeah. Great.” I burst. I had taken on a particularly odd motif with my speaking, as I was later informed. Every sentence I uttered came forth as if they were spoken with the very last gasp of air in my lungs. As if I was trying to make each sound whilst using as little oxygen as possible.
“How much have you lot had?”
“How much what?” asks Strauss, as if his honour had been blemished.
“The acid. How much did you do?”

A brief pause that lasts hours.

“All of it.”

A brief pause that lasts aeons. Continents drift. New species flourish then die. Civilisations rise and fall.

“ALL OF IT?”

His high-pitched query is quickly followed by the most manic laugh I have ever heard. It is at this point I realise he is sitting astride my leg and is idly humping it.

“Really? All of it? Fuck me, that’s a dose! I better catch up.”
He pulls out the remains of his cosmic sugar cube. Over the course of the day, he has only consumed around half. He bangs the rest down his throat. He is already in the midst of other chemicals so is decent and appropriate company in the tent.

I suddenly feel exceptionally thirsty, the kind of thirst that drives a man to drinking stagnant water. My mouth is as dry as any Ghandi cliché you care to mention. As it is thoroughly dark now, we are using the wind up lantern that Tank had purchased for this trip. It is an amazing bit of kit. Wind it up a bit and you get light. Simple.
The charge we had previously given it was almost gone and the lantern gave off a low level glow, barely enough to give everything inside the tent a sinister blue hue.

“Smart, let me wind up the lamp?” pleads a gleeful Tasty Jesus.
He grabs the lamp and winds furiously.
As he does the lamp bursts into life and showers the tent in glorious luminescence. I see an electric blue wave front explode from the body of the lamp. I watch as this bright blade cuts it’s way through the darkness. When it reaches me the cool blue energy washes over me, momentarily satiating my thirst. Once the light has reached the deepest and darkest depths of our tent, our universe, I sigh.
“There is not enough light in the universe to quench my thirst.”
I proceed to push my teeth against the lantern to get as much of the light inside me as I can. It works, it makes me feel good. I can see the effect the light is having on my body.

I sit back feeling more content than I had ever felt before, I could remain like this for eternity.

Suddenly my mouth feels odd, unfamiliar, and alien. Alien like when you look down at your feet and wiggle your toes, but you don’t see them move. That feeling of frustration and confusion that has yet to gestate into fully formed panic and despair, only to realise you’re looking at the feet of the person you are sitting next to.
I know I am moving my tongue, but I can’t feel it moving. I can only feel the things it touches…and it feels like it is touching some very strange things. Have I OD’d? Have I absorbed too much light? Of course, that must be it. I am more light than human.
I open my mouth tentatively and feel every nanometre of muscle stretch in my jaw. I whip my tongue from side to side. I feel it break through what I can only describe as, strands of electric thread, stretched tightly between my upper and lower teeth. Each flick of the tongue breaks these threads with and audible spark and flashing blue burst of energy, then the thread is reattached, waiting for the next flick of the tongue.
My jaw clicks wildly and the sparks in my mouth jolt my mind.

Strauss and Tasty Jesus are in their own little conversation. But I know they’re watching me.

They watch me.

Next Time: The Futility of Money, Too Many Beers and Wanker in a Hat

Kendal Called, I Wish I Never Answered, Episode 3: Catfish in the Trees, Tank Makes Tracks and Pretence of Normality

Strauss looked at me with a mixture of concern and intense disgust. Tank stood close by, hunched, as if ready to pounce. Evilness spread across his face. His mouth cut a fine slash underneath his sharpening eyes.
"We need to go. They're onto us. They're sitting down. They think they're better than us."
Strauss eyed me once more, this time with suspicion, "I see. Let's move."

It was raining heavily. I already had on a mac. We wandered to the nearest, calmest, most subtle place we could; a big marquee framework, without the canvas cover, instead it was made of Maypole tip strips of ribbon.
It was more air than material, but the colours looked safe.
We sat on a bench and I rested my face in my hands in an attempt to climb inside my own soul and rearrange a few basic principles.

The rain is tearing down and I can feel each drop trying to merge with my body. It feels like someone is driving nails into me, nut I like it.
"I'll show them!"

Strauss, getting wet through, is struggling try to get his army surplus poncho on.
Both Tank and I start to help. Very slowly and carefully, in case we damage the fine, gossamer fabric that is before us.
"I can do it! I invented the Krypton Factor." Strauss cried.
I turn away, dejected. I suddenly feel an intense hatred for Army Surplus stores. How dare they come between Strauss and me!

I look over to my right; I see a massive canvas that was an ongoing piece of spray can art. It was nearly finished.
It must've been around 15 feet long by 7 feet high. The images, though innocuous in the cold harsh light of sobriety, were now twisted and piercing and, I knew for certain, were designed especially to intimidate me.
"That's not inert! Look at it!"
On the left third of the canvas was a giant, humanoid, pug, wearing a pink, neon rabbit outfit. The backdrop was a tight knit mesh of cubes, messing with my perspective. To the right of this abomination were 5 tree trunks. No foliage in site. Weaving in and out of these uprights was a long fish with the face of a cat.
"The dog. It's a rabbit. It's trying to get away with this madness. I'm powerless to stop it. We all are!"
Strauss stares at the dog. I'm sure I can see his vision. It's a stiff gaze of anguish aimed right at the pug. He relents, "We should leave this place."
"We can't leave now, look at the water!"
The grass was moving. Lights were swinging in the wind, the low throb of the Zoutons in the background on the main stage, my heartbeat reminding me to breath, all these things were causing the grass to undulate.
"There's no way we can move. We must wait for calmer waters."
My hands are gripping onto Strauss.
"I agree. It's no good. Not right now."

All this while, Tank is sitting there, inches from the edge of darkness. He's only moments from full, moral, breakdown. He could go at any minute.
"Look Strauss. We have to go. There'll be events."
"Yes! Excelsior!"

We rise, uneasy, it takes a few seconds before we are able to adapt to the shifting terrain.
"Tank, we are going back to the tent. It's better there."
"Good."
Tank stands and walks off with the intensity and determination of an earthmover. Each tenacious step felt like it was rattling my insides as Strauss and I struggled to keep up.

Once we were back into the camping area, Tank slowed down. Strauss went up to talk to him, obviously making sure he was ok.
This is not how I perceived it.

What are they doing? What are they saying? They're looking at me. I thought we were in this together. They're plotting. I knew it.

Every time they looked at me, their eyes were full of treachery and badly disguised malice.

No! It's fine. It's all in my head.

They laugh and look at me again. The look lasts a thousand years. I laugh back. It is fine. It's all in my head.probably. I play along. Be on my guard. Just in case. Prepare for the worst. I could take Strauss with a quick reaction. I can outrun Tank. I can do this. Right now, it's fine. I'm sure its fine.

They laugh again. They're voices are whispers. A baffling white noise of hisses and pops. Another look. Another laugh.
"HAHAHA! Yeah, good one."
You wait you bastards.

We near our tent. There is a giant yurt close by. On it is a banner that reads "Happy Birthday Killa".

What does that mean? There cant be a killer here. But there are thousands of people here. There must be some bad people. There must be thieves, child abusers, rapists.maybe even a murderer. If it's his birthday, he might want to go on a celebratory killing spree. Jesus! We're done for.

"We are back. That is fine." Strauss claims, somewhat foolishly.
"Fine? How can it be fine? It's going to be a blood bath!"
"What?"
"You'll see."
I could see he was worried.I was winning.

We climbed into the tent. Suddenly I feel very safe. So relaxed. Everything that has happened seems like a lifetime ago. Once the tent is zipped up, the outside world ceases to exist. There is just we three, in a tent. That is the universe.

I get bored of this cosmic, status quo.
"They never did this in The Somme. I'm opening the tent."
"No! You don't know what'll happen." protested Strauss.
I pull the door open, the most wonderful rush of cool, fresh air bursts into our cocoon.
Delicious. I shut the door again. Allow the tent to get stuffy once more.
"BRAHHH!" I fling the door open again. More fresh air.
I continue to do this until I suddenly feel sad.

They really didn't do this at The Somme. A cruel knot or remorse begins to grow in my stomach. I sit, legs curled up, arms wrapped round my shins, gazing out into the wasteland before me. Lamenting.

Suddenly there is a familiar voice.
"You ok?"
"What, me? Yeah. I am great." I lie.
I look up through watery eyes to see one of Tasty Jesus' comrades, "Paddy".
My voice is full of authority and certainty, but my body betrays me. I am a visual wreck.
"Cool, erm, you calling it a night then?" asks Paddy.
"Probably."
"Good. That's good. Have a good one." He says these words before he recognises the irony in the phrase. I am quite obviously not having a "good one". In fact, I am currently having a shocker.
Paddy walks away. He must've drawn the short straw. Been sent to check on us. That poor bastard, he doesn't understand. No one does.

"Catch you late, Paddy!"

We're doomed!

Next Time: Electric Light Organ Grinder, The Second Coming and Oral Threads

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Kendal Called, I Wish I Never Answered, Episode 2: The Whisky Cats, Balloons and Fear & Loathing in the Comedy Tent.

After a terrible night of non-sleep, I dragged myself shivering and grumbling out of the tent and into the brutal reality of a festival campsite, at 6:30am.
It had been raining for most of the night, so as you can imagine, things were a bit grubby. I wandered off for a pee. Sadly there were no female genitalia on display. I could've done with cheering up.

As I wound my way back to the tent (I decided to go the long way back so I could have a little walk round the rest of the camp) I gradually saw more and more people rising. Just ordinary people, going about their early morning routines. Bastards. I bet they all had a lovely sleep with sleeping bags.

I got back to my tent kicked my boots off and went inside, where I sat, eating a tinned "All day breakfast".
This monstrosity of canned catering is nothing short of an assault on your constitution. There were many things, in that can that I had never seen before, nor do I wish to see them again.
As I sat there I watched the other festival campers pass back and forth, trudging through the claggy earth. A neighbour close by poked his head out of his tent, "Fucking hell, where're my bastarding wellies? It's like the fucking Somme out here!"
I gave a mental round of applause for his vigorous use of English at such an early time of the day.

Strauss, Tank and the Tasty Jesus Crew rose shortly later. After cracking open a few early morning cans of beer and discussing the previous days events, word got round that the main area had opened. Off we went to sample the delights of day two. Little was I to know that the "delights" were not going to be as all together delightful as I was anticipating.

Tasty Jesus went off to a soup stall for some pumpkin based liquid scenario. Now Tasty Jesus is fond of partaking in numerous varieties of amateur chemistry. He'll try anything and he seems to get his hands on a miscellany of chemicals, without much trouble.
"I asked if there were any 'mushroom' soup. Soupy Joe said 'No. But I can do one better.'"
Out of his pocket, TJ produced a small foil cube, the contents of which, I was told, was a sugar cube, infused with LSD.
"You fiend, do these things just rain on you?" Strauss asked.
"You just need to know the language."
"Not really," I said, "you just look like you're constantly fucked and need some variety of chemical to keep your blood pumping."
"Well, a little nibble of this will keep me going for a while."

Myself, Strauss and Tank headed for the main stage.
The Whisky Cats had just gone on, they are a quite an amazing band. Poor timeslot, but well worth appearing on the main stage. It was a collection of ragtime numbers, with an undercurrent of swing and mild indie pop. It was rocking. No banjo though. That made me sad. The triumph of the set came when these ragtime ragamuffins covered "I like to move it, move it!". It was perfect. The lyrics were bang on; the brass section blew everyone away with their arrangement. The crowd went nuts.

Once The Whisky Cats finished, we meandered round the area looking at the random small stages, as was our theme. On one stage was a band that were pumping out a standard set of indie tunes. Tight trousers and complicated hair. But they were palatable, not least because the singer was an animated, red headed beauty, who bounced around the stage like a maniac. There was a lot of bouncing, and parts of her seemed to be having a bouncing competition of their own.
"I'm so happy so many of you came to see us, we weren't expecting this big a turn out. Thank you so much.. Did anybody see the streets last night?"
And handful of muted "yeah"s sounded off around the packed tent.
"Did you enjoy it?"
An even smaller response rippled around the crowd.
"I'm not going to slag off Mike Skinner, but all I'll say is that I'd have like to have heard some of their older songs. Sung well!"
Cheers.
I liked this girl.
Sadly, like all the women in my life, she finished up and disappeared while I had my back turned.

"I'm going to put something out there, let's go back to the tent and have a few drinks."
"Strauss, that is a grand idea. I commend you for your plan forming ability."
Back we went to the tent. We drank; quite a lot actually, Tasty Jesus came back with a balloon. He sat down and breathed the 'air' of the balloon in and out until he laid back smiling.
"What the fucks that""
"Laughing gas!"
"Interesting. Fetch!"
Off he trotted and returned with a balloon for each of us. I was sceptical that it was Nitrous Oxide for a few reasons. Firstly, as far as I am aware, NO2 is a volatile liquid, so I wondered how the little scally who was selling these balloons managed to decant such a substance into a soda bottle without losing it all to evapouration. Secondly, Tasty Jesus did not laugh, he just smiled like a goon.
We all grabbed our balloons and ventilated the contents in and out. It was mad. Everything started to echo, colours exploded, proper nuts stuff. 20 seconds later, usual service was returned.
"That was alright. The echoes of all the balloons going up and down made quite a funky beat."
Conversation got round to drug usage and TJ produced his little acid cube and took another little nibble.
"Are you lot not partaking in anything this weekend?" TJ asked
I've never taken drugs. I've been around lots of people who have and found them intensely boring company. Coke doesn't interest me. I'm a big lad, if I wanted to be able to walk though walls, I wouldn't need chemical enhancement for it. Nor do I wish to spend a fortune on something that will make my cock and balls small(er). Opiates don't really interest me as I like to be up and about and amongst things when I'm having a good time. Lying, monged out, in the corner doesn't really appeal.

I'm not morally against drug taking, what people do is their own business. I love to drink. I put a chemical(lots of booze) into my body(well buff) to produce an effect(being totally charming and not falling over at all, much.).
The only problem I have with drugs is the manufacturing process, it's the exact opposite of fair trade, plus the end user gets a diluted substance so a bunch of cunts can get rich.

Strauss, a former proponent of the chemical arts piped up, "You said the only thing you'd be interested in trying is acid, didn't you?"
This is true. I find the idea of having a totally altered perception of things very intriguing.

After more drinking we headed back to the main area, leaving TJ alone with his peeps. We wanted to get to the comedy tent early so we could see Howard Marks. After a bit of a leisurely stroll, Tasty Jesus popped out from behind a massive oak tree, like a cartoon, woodland, villain.
"I got you something."
He handed over 3 small foil cubes
"Nibble off a third. It'll take about an hour to kick in."
Usually I'd have told him to fuck off, but curiosity got the better of me.

An hour later, around 9:30pm, we were standing at the back of the comedy tent, enduring some hideous, cockney beat poetry.
"Anything yet?"
"Unless imagining a ginger cunt, in a leather trilby, talking utter bollocks, is a symptom, I'm getting nothing."
"Fuck it," I said, "We all weigh about twice as much as TJ. Let's get amongst it!"
Full of foolish bravado I flicked the rest of the sugar cube into my mouth. Strauss and Tank followed suit. We all have a decent understanding of biology and chemistry so our drunken logic seemed bullet proof.

As it happened, initial third was just slow to take hold. By 10:00pm I was seeing traces, sounds were echoing, people were looking.
Were they looking at me? Fuck! This is off the third I took before. In two hours I'll be dripping of the ceiling from the rest of it. Why are people looking?
I was stood at the back of the tent, not at all paying attention to Howard Marks; he was just reading his old Loaded articles anyway.
I was receiving text messages. I was trying to reply and focus on the bright screen. That was difficult.
I wish people would let me write this text in peace. That woolly hat has a face. It's looking at my text. Fuck off hat; I'll text you when you give me your number. The man that hat is around is a slave. It's Master Blaster from Mad Max. The tent is way brighter than I recall. Everyone is laughing. I bet they're laughing at me. Bastards. Fuck, this tent is breathing on me, its breath is cutting through me. The crowd's heads inflated and deflated as the tent inhaled and exhaled. Waves of expanding and retracing faces and they have the nerve to laugh at me. They can't hide it. I know the score.

I glance at Strauss and Tank. Their faces contorted with wicked grins and jet black eyes burning into me.

It's time to leave.

Next Time: Catfish in the trees, Tank makes tracks and Pretence of normailty.
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Kendal Called, I Wish I Never Answered, Episode 1: Bush Adventures, Skanking Nanas and Pyrates.

Well, where to start? It was an interesting weekend. I think its only fair to begin from the beginning. It is conventional. Some may say it is clichéd. Those people can get stuffed.

On Friday, I went to Kendal Calling, a medium sized music festival held, this year, 15 minutes down the road from my house.
My weekend didn't actually get interesting until Saturday night, but I feel I should set the scene.
Because there's a lot to get through, this will probably be a multi part blog. Arrogant of me to assume you're interested? Well you've read this far.

Even though it was a short car journey away, we decided we would camp. It's what festivals are for.
There were three of us in our party who, for anonymity's sake, I will give pseudonyms.
There was "Strauss", a good friend from school and uni, his older brother, "Tank" and myself, the amazing "Nettofabulous".
Tank was going to Millets to purchase camping equipment and I asked him to pick me up a sleeping bag, which he did. What a kind lad. Shame the fucker forgot to bring it!
There was the usual long cue to get in to the camping area, a long trek after the ticket check. Standard stuff.
We pitched our tent next to another old school friend and his pals, I shall call him "Tasty Jesus" as he has a beard, long hair and he's full of shit."Tasty" will be explained in a later post.

After sitting about, drinking for a while, waiting until the main area opened, I became overwhelmed with the pressing urge to do a number one toilet time. Rather than hit the festival loos and cue until for ages, I ducked off into some trees for a tinkle. After I had finished and tucked myself back in I returned to the narrow path in the forest area.

"Argh, there's a man!"
Whoops! There were four, somewhat attractive, young, ladies in various stages of urination. There were two girls on either side of the path.
"Don't worry, I've seen girls peeing before. You, my dear, have a good strong stream. Like a racehorse. Would it be a faux pas to offer a high 5?"
One of the girls had finished and was trying to pull her skirt down and underwear up at the same time whilst holding a drink. "It's too late now isn't it?"
"I'm afraid so, there's no modesty to be saved now." I replied.
"Just as well. I have no loo paper so I'll have to drip dry."
At this point I wanted to hug her, not in a sexual way.well maybe a bit.
The third girl, shocked by my sudden appearance on the path, fell back on to her arse, as she was mid squat, whilst peeing. I found this funny. As did girl four who had already finished and was casually waiting for her friends to finish up. Nobody helped girl three as she tried to push her self off the floor whilst simultaneously holding her skirt and pants out of the way of her pee AND holding them in such a way as to protect her modesty.
I would like to say I was very adult about the whole situation and just walked on, keeping eye contact at all times. I would like to say that, but I would be lying. Of course I looked at the front bums on display. Three of them. No hair in sight. I'd like to think that girl four had a massive 70s bush, to balance things out.

Back at the tent, we filled up our hip flasks with lashings of wonderful Jack Daniels and hit the festival area.
We got our bearings by just wandering about. The only band we really wanted to see was Goldie Lookin Chain, so we stopped by some of the smaller stages to see some unknowns; this is the best way I feel.

The first act we saw was one man with an acoustic guitar. He was called Captain Hotknives. It was pretty obvious from the outset that he was either a comedy act, or just an utter cunt. His first song was called "I hate babies." With the sing-a-long chorus of "I hate babies. I fucking hate babies."
It's worth bearing in mind that this was at two in the afternoon. Parents with children shook their heads in disgust as 50 drunken revellers sang along at the top of their voices. Another hit with the audience was the remarkable tale of how he stole his grandmother's drug money, "I skanked me nana". Good times.

We chuckled off for more wandering before a few drinks, then off to the main stage to see Goldie Lookin Chain. They were amazing. New instrumentals for some of their tracks. Some poorly, yet hilariously choreographed dance moves. Shout outs to the crowd, such as "I hope you have the best weekend ever. I hope you get a finger in, even if you're a girl."
They did not let me down.

Headlining were The Streets. Understandably I wanted nothing to do with that Brummy, mockney, scum cunt and his pseudo, street poetry. His very existence makes me want to crawl up inside myself and eat my auditory canal.
Instead of The Streets we went back to where we saw Captain Hotknives. This time we were met with "Pyrates". Three men in their early 20s singing authentic sea shanties dressed as proper pirates. At first we three thought, "What the fuck is this?"
We hung around a little longer and realised that we should not have been so quick to judge. People of all ages were dancing proper jigs, linking arms and spinning round. Every time an "Yarrrrrrr!" was uttered in a song, the audience responded with an "Yarrrrr!" of their own. The lead singer (Captain?) seemed overcome by this, "You lot are good with the "Yarrrrrrrr!" We should take you on tour with us"
The audience response was a deafening cacophony of "Yarrrhaaarrrrrhaaaaarrrrrrr!"

"Have you ever seen a program called "Sharpe"? This is the song that is featured during the opening credits"
What followed was a rousing and emotional cover of "Over the hills and far away." Everyone was really into it. Singing along at the top of their voices. There were TWO mandolin solos, one of which was played behind the first mate's head, a la Hendrix.
It was outstanding!

At this point I came up with the idea of getting Sean Bean to be in the video for it, if they ever release it as a single. Sean Bean on a rocky outcrop, playing a rifle customised into a guitar with a helicopter sweeping around him filming it, while his regiment are behind him killing an oncoming French battalion. I must make some phone calls to arrange this.

Final song played, "Thank you all so much, you made this an amazing night for us." At this point there was the slightest of silences and I spotted my chance.
I took a deep breath. "YARRRRRRRRRRRR!"
A smile broke out on the band's face as the rest of the audience waited for my "Yarrr" to end before producing the biggest "Yarr" of the night in response. I felt good.

After this, the was simply more wandering, a bit of pizza, a piss then back to the tent for a sleepless, uncomfortable, freezing cold night. I still had no sleeping bag.

If you've read this far, you may be wondering what the point of this blog is. This is merely the opening episode.

Next Time on Kendal Called, I Wish I Never Answered: The Whisky Cats, Balloons and Fear & Loathing in the Comedy Tent.

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Kendal Called...

These are a few photos of some things at Kendal Calling. Look at them and it'll be like you're there...in monochrome.
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Stripper Story #2...this one is not like #1.

When at university, you find your social circle explode in size.
At school, I had a handful of close friends, that is all I needed, but at the grand old age of 18 I left home and moved to Dundee to lay the foundations of an exciting career in mechanical engineering.

After a few months of the hedonism that comes with living in halls of residence less than 5 minutes from the student union, I found myself a member of many different groups of friends. In some circles I was a fringe member, in others I was a key player. These circles crossed over and intertwined so you'd always end up hearing about pretty much everyone's adventures and mishaps.

This story came to me a few days after the event. On the night in question, I was present but not paying enough attention to the heroine of the piece to fully realise what was happening. With hindsight, of course, the events I actually witnessed made perfect sense.

The heroine in question was, and probably still is, named "Kat".
Kat was a student.
Kat was also a stripper.
What a marvellous cliché. She paid her way through university by dancing naked and performing industrial strength lesbionics for money.
She made a lot of money too, and I could see why. Though she wasn't stunning looking, she was remarkably well constructed body. On one hallowe'en, she was out on the lash in the union in bra, pants and stripper heels. This is when we all found out she had an extra nipple. Nothing at all John Merrick-y, but noticeable.

Although I wouldn't like to generalise about ladies in the stripping industry, I will say this...Kat was a slag!
She was epic in her sexploits. But this is by far the worst/most depressing story I heard out her.

As was the commonality on a wednesday afternoon, I had no lectures. No one did. Wednesday afternoons were reserved for sport. My sport was getting hopelessly shitfaced and trying to pull the bar maids. I could've gone pro, but I didn't know how to pace myself and often burntout before the end of the night.

Once 12 noon hit, I would often trot to The Liar, a bar in the union named after a Stephen Fry novel. This was the gathering point for all the circles I was involved in.
Not a day went by where I could walk in alone and not see a group of people I knew well enough to drink with.
And so it was on this afternoon. Pint of strongbow in hand I marched up to a booth and settled with a few chums.

After a couple drinks, you can always tell if its going to be an all dayer.
This day, the banter was funny, the cider was sweet and the times were good. This was obviously going to be more than a casual few pints before going home for Supernoodles & beans and a torrid bout of self abuse.

At around 6pm, Kat and a few others walked by, exchanged pleasantries with everyone. And walked on by, continuing "the lap" that any ex-Dundee student would know well, before the Liar was turned into a horrific, trendy, wine bar.

A few hours later, our paths crossed again, she was wearing something different. I didn't think much of it. Not everyone was as slapdash as I. I was happy to role up to the pub after lectures, drink into the early hours, crash where I could, then go to lectures the next day having not even showered, let alone change clothes. I assumed Kat had gone home, after seeing us, and prepared for a night out, like any woman would.

The night continued as any night out would. Nothing of note happened. No bouncer led expulsions, no tree climbing, nothing. The only memorable thing that happened, that stuck in my mind, was seeing Kat a number of times, wearing different clothes each time. But as I wasn't really paying a great deal of attention, it didn't strike me as interesting enough to take my attention away from the slinky feline barmaid in Mono, the union night club.

A few days later, on the way home from lectures, I called In to see o cohort of mine who was present that night.
A gypsy haired scot, called Dave, with teeth like pearls and a disposition to dress like a cuban.

"Fuck, did you see Kat on wednesday night?" He shouted as he opened the door to his flat.
"Nice to see you too. Milk and two sugars please!"
He hands me a can of Miller's
"Good lad. What about Kat?"
"You know how she kept turning up in different clothes? You'll never guess why!"
"You need to calm down a little. Go have a wee, sit down, take a deep breath and tell me."
"Katie's just had a shit, obviously, I'm not going in there for a while!" He declared.

Katie was his sister, a beautiful, cherub faced girl who was as sweet as anyone could be. But she farted lots. Also we formed a weird synchronisity. If I was to turn up, unannounced, she would, without fail, have a terrifically noxious shit, whose smell would permeate the entire premises, no more than 10 mins before I showed up. One time it was so bad it was like walking into a wall of stench. I could feel it in my eyes. My hair was crying. Katie was hanging out the living room window getting fresh air. Not at all healthy.
But I digress.

Dave sat down as we opened our cans.
"Just after we saw her the first time, she went round the corner and got talking to some dude. Within half an hour the were back at her place and she fucked him."
This did not strike me as weird. She would do this quite often. Also her place was 30 seconds, door to door from the union.

"Hardly breaking news, is it Dave. She's had more meat in her than a butcher's dog."
"Yeah, but when she finished with him, she jumped in the shower, washed herself out. Then came back out." Dave's use of certain phrases are one of the things that first endeared him to me.

"Yeah, she's efficient, I'll give her that."
"How many different outfits did you see her in? I counted three. Katie counted 6!"
Penny drops.
"No! You're fucking joking!"
"I'm not. She fucked five different lads on wednesday night. And after she got crammed by each one, she kicked them out, flushed herself out, got changed and came back to the union!"
"Nah, that's bollocks." I couldn't believe that even Kat would be that crass.
"Ask her and ask Knox. He fucking knows two of the lads!" Chris Knox was a tall, podgy ex bf of Katie. Oddly likable, but a bit of a tit sometimes. Word has it, he shagged a girl of dubious legality, on stage, during a karate club night out at a private strip show.
I should change his name...fuck it!

"She pulled, took home, fucked and kicked out five different lads in one night? She's a master of logistics! Five lads, including costume changes in 7 hours. I don't know whether to be impressed or sickened, Dave."

"I know, right. She told Katie 'I wanted to see how many I could get through. I would've managed more but a couple wanted foreplay and wanted to cuddle. Bastards!'."

This I found hilarious, heartwarming and alarming in equal measure.
"You aren't joking are you?"
"Nope."

But the story doesn't end there. It gets worse. A few months later, after not seeing Kat on the circuit for a while, Katie informs me that she's pregnant! Possibly to one of three of the five as they were the only unprotected liaisons she had had in the past few months "probably".
"How's that going to affect uni and stripping and...fucking about?"

"She's not bothered. Uni will provide support and she says that 'All the dirty old men at the strip club love that I'm preggers!'
She says she's never made so much money. The bigger she gets, the more money they give her."

That's right. She was still getting her muff dived upon, for the delight of seedy old men with erections, while her first born wriggled around inside her.

Now, I realise that this is not as much of a jovial little tale as the young lady with the twix. I felt it important to include this story for balance.

Going for a shower now. I feel soiled just recounting this awful event.
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I'm a customer, so why do I feel like I'm asking for a favour?

My landlords have been consistent arse holes. it took them over 6 months to do work that was supposed to be completed within a week of me moving in.
On Friday I awoke to a "Drip, drip, dripping" noise. I could tell that it was pissing down outside as when I looked out my bedroom window, I could see water falling from the sky. That is a big clue.
"Fuck!" I thought, as I am quite the smooth tongued Casanova in the morning.
Low and behold, my flat had sprung another leak.

Last time this happened the landlord jumped to action and 3 month later had erected a partition wall to cover the leaking wall.
That's right. Instead of fixing the roof, where the leak occurred, they basically built an obstacle to stop me from seeing water flooding into my bedroom while, at the same time making the bedroom slightly smaller.
I took exception to this and a week later the outside of my building was littered with scaffolding and the roof was fixed.
I was victorious, in the most minor way possible.

This new leak occurred above the living room window and dripped onto a number of my books. I found this most infuriating, to the point where I actually said "Fuck!" as opposed to thinking it.

Now, to the withholding of sarcasm. People who are in a position of relative power are likely to take advantage of such power. I know I would.
I know that one wrong word, to the bint at the letting agency who deals with my property, would lead to a delay in getting the leak fixed.
Here is the phone call we had, with what I wanted to say in *~*.

Me: "Hi there, I've got a leak in my flat."

Landlord Bint:"Must be all this rain we're having."

Me: *That explains it, thanks.*
"Yeah, probably. Well some of it is leaking in through the living room window."

LB: "Well we just did the pointing on the outside last year. That should have stopped any chance of a leak."

Me: *Oh, you got me. I made it up to brighten your day.*
"Well there is water dripping from the window into the flat.from the outside. It's only dripping when it's raining so it's not coming from upstairs."

LB: "It's probably the rain then. It hasn't half been coming down."

Me: *Do you have someone who looks after you? Perhaps I could speak to an adult.*
"Yeah, it's awful, but it's coming into the flat."

By now I feel rather annoyed

LB:"It's probably the angle the rain's falling."

Me:*Well it's falling at the precise angle required to get into my flat, do you not see this as a problem?*
Silence

LB:"Everyone has gone home for the weekend and the building repairs manager is on holiday. I'll ring you back in ten minutes."

Me:"OK. Speak soon."

I can't believe people like this are in charge of builders (my Landlord agency is a large building firm also). Building is far too much of a delicate and intricate job to allow builders to do it, I can't imagine what happens when they have Muppets like this in charge.

Actually I can.Leaky windows happen.from poor pointing!

The phone rings.

Me:*Hello.*
"Hello."

LB:"Hi, yeah, it's me. I've had a word with Alan and he says it's probably from all this rain and the angle it was falling."

Me:*If the rain was falling up, I might accept this line of conversation.*
"Did Alan say anything about fixing the leak or changing the angle of the rain?"

LB:"What?"

Me:*Whoops!*
"Did Alan say anything about stopping the rain coming in?"

LB:"Oh yeah, We'll send a cherry picker round on Monday. We have to get a permit to use the pavement and hire a cherry picker to fix it. It'll cost a fortune"

Me:*I'll go halfers then, eh?*
"I can imagine. I'll be at work on Monday. Let yourself in if you need to be inside."

Goodbyes said, then hang up

So as it stands the leak is being fixed tomorrow, luckily it hasn't rained since Friday.
Last night though, when turning on the living room light, the bulb lit, as is the convention in such affairs, but then it went off. It did this a few time while I flicked the switch repeatedly, like a man who knows what he's doing would do.
I changed the bulb and gave the fitting a few jabs with a hammer and now the light wont work at all.

Luckily I have the day off tomorrow, so now I can be present when these craftsmen are at work. I can stop LB from rummaging around my flat and sniffing my underwear (She sounded like a snuffler!).
I can also tell them about the piss poor putty job that has been done around the windows. It's dried and crumbles off and the glass is barely held in. I suppose I should tell them about the light fitting too.

"Why are you living there?" I hear you ask.
It's cheap and big and in a very handy location.also, I am a glutton for punishment.
I once had a landlord who tied to charge me for breaking my own microwave. He also tried to get me to live with a strange chinaman called Mark.
I liked that landlord.
He had balls.

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