Masturbation.
Thug Colleague is waxing lyrical on one of his favourite subjects.
Thug Colleague: …. And you’re sitting there in the bathroom with your troosers roond yur ankles and spunk all ower your hand thinking ‘this is proper sordid this like’….
We’re in a pub, it’s a lunchtime. Normally I would never drink during the day but the previous evening had been a ‘staff do’ and we are all cripplingly hungover to the extent that a couple of midday refreshments are the only way of getting through it. I’ve conducted a survey and none of us can clearly remember our journey into the office that morning -which is not a good sign.
Thug Colleague: ….and you’ve covered every mirror in the bathroom with towels so you don’t catch a glimpse of yoursell deein’ it……
I’m only half-listening but he seems to be having quite the trip down memory lane. Although, he still lives with his parents so maybe not. It could have been last night.
Thug Colleague: … and whenever yer Mam looks at the Littlewoods catalogue she cannit understand why it alweys oppins on the underwear pages …
Grant From Work: I was always more of a Freemans man myself.
TC: Aye, that was some quality grumble that like …
I’m thinking back over the previous evening. I remember dancing on smashed glass with a female colleague. There is something about red wine down the front of my trousers as well. Also helping myself to the ‘one complimentary glass of champagne upon arrival’ half a dozen times and getting into a foolish confrontation with a member of front-of-house staff on the subject. All in all, not too bad.
TC: … like, when you find an auld copy of Razzle in some bushes and you fuckin’ think it’s Christmas come soon …
Perhaps inappropriately I start thinking of my son. It’s probably Thug’s childlike delight and stupid toothy grin.
It occurs to me that Favourite Son will - once he becomes interested in such pastimes - probably not enjoy the illicit pleasures of the Playtex section of the Kays catalogue as virtually every young man in the United Kingdom of my generation has.
I’m sure that once he reaches that age of curiosity technology will have advanced to the extent that all he will have do is press the red button on his digital remote control and whoever is presenting CITV that day will appear in a pop-up window fellating an alsation.
Which simultaneously makes me feel both a bit sad, and also a bit worried about myself for even thinking like this.
Thug Colleague [clearly moving-on from his festival of Masturbation Nostalgia]: Tired? That lass ye were dancin’ with? Well, she was dancin’ anyways, Ah divn’t knaw what you would caaall what ye were dein’ – did ye shag her?
Me: No.
Thug Colleague: …. And you’re sitting there in the bathroom with your troosers roond yur ankles and spunk all ower your hand thinking ‘this is proper sordid this like’….
We’re in a pub, it’s a lunchtime. Normally I would never drink during the day but the previous evening had been a ‘staff do’ and we are all cripplingly hungover to the extent that a couple of midday refreshments are the only way of getting through it. I’ve conducted a survey and none of us can clearly remember our journey into the office that morning -which is not a good sign.
Thug Colleague: ….and you’ve covered every mirror in the bathroom with towels so you don’t catch a glimpse of yoursell deein’ it……
I’m only half-listening but he seems to be having quite the trip down memory lane. Although, he still lives with his parents so maybe not. It could have been last night.
Thug Colleague: … and whenever yer Mam looks at the Littlewoods catalogue she cannit understand why it alweys oppins on the underwear pages …
Grant From Work: I was always more of a Freemans man myself.
TC: Aye, that was some quality grumble that like …
I’m thinking back over the previous evening. I remember dancing on smashed glass with a female colleague. There is something about red wine down the front of my trousers as well. Also helping myself to the ‘one complimentary glass of champagne upon arrival’ half a dozen times and getting into a foolish confrontation with a member of front-of-house staff on the subject. All in all, not too bad.
TC: … like, when you find an auld copy of Razzle in some bushes and you fuckin’ think it’s Christmas come soon …
Perhaps inappropriately I start thinking of my son. It’s probably Thug’s childlike delight and stupid toothy grin.
It occurs to me that Favourite Son will - once he becomes interested in such pastimes - probably not enjoy the illicit pleasures of the Playtex section of the Kays catalogue as virtually every young man in the United Kingdom of my generation has.
I’m sure that once he reaches that age of curiosity technology will have advanced to the extent that all he will have do is press the red button on his digital remote control and whoever is presenting CITV that day will appear in a pop-up window fellating an alsation.
Which simultaneously makes me feel both a bit sad, and also a bit worried about myself for even thinking like this.
Thug Colleague [clearly moving-on from his festival of Masturbation Nostalgia]: Tired? That lass ye were dancin’ with? Well, she was dancin’ anyways, Ah divn’t knaw what you would caaall what ye were dein’ – did ye shag her?
Me: No.
posted by Tired Dad at
7:47 pm
8 Comments:
A gentleman never tells tales. I like that.
nosy bastid int he?
Why not? seems to spring to mind.
But that's just me.
I just don't understand what Thug Colleague is saying. Is he from a lot further North? Like Scotland?
Forgive my ignorance but I'm from so far South that there is no such thing as masturbation...
Anon, why not just ring Tired Dad at work?
PB: There were no tales to tell. TC is a young man and doesn't understand that it is possible to enjoy some time with a lady without performing bedroom gymnastics at the end of the night.
P: Ok.
Dinners: See above.
Em: Any further North and it would be Scotland.
Anon: Congrats.
Em: I'm fairly sure 'he' already has.
It is really sad when you realize how far access to pornographic materials by minors has come in a decade or so. My boyfriend and I were just lamenting a week or so ago that we were the last generation who actually had to rely on something besides the internet, and how lucky the little bastards are that they have both high-speed internet and negligent parents.
Hello Jean whoever you are. I'm not sure if they're 'lucky' or just destined to get very jaded at the sight of hard-core anal porn at the age of ten or something.
They'll be very let-down by 'actual sex' by the time they get round to it.
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