In this atomised and narcissistic culture we live in, photography is a fundamental criteria of the age of social media. Not possessing the confidence (nor vanity) to incessantly share images of myself, I have always deemed the few images I share to exhibit something, more… thought provoking. That being said, one day I decided I would attempt to show a nicer side of the city I reside in.
As a non Leicester resident, I was unaware of the associations with the Aylestone Meadows. Many people had previously warned me of this notorious ‘dogging’ site, where individuals go to trade their dignity for a public sexual encounter. Presumptions aside, I began my exploration into the meadows, unashamed by the suspicious glances of passers by who were clearly envisioning a more lecherous intention for the camera.
After failing to capture a suitable image on the confines of the footpath, I ventured into the undergrowth in an attempt to capture something a little more photogenic. Amongst the litter and discarded home appliances, I came across a large, climbable tree which, I initially deemed would provide an excellent vantage point for a high rise shot of the whole meadows.
After channelling my inner child I reached the canopy. I collected my shots and began to manoeuvre myself down, however, whilst I was pre-occupied with simultaneously operating a camera and not falling out of a tree, an elderly gentleman had positioned himself right below me at the base. Before I could alert him to my presence, which would have presumably raised more questions than I had viable and believable answers for, he began to unbutton his trousers. So he was merely going to the toilet, I naively pondered. As the minutes past, however, I became tragically aware that circumstances far more sinister were afoot.
Picture this if you will. I am close to forty feet up a tree. Below me a geriatric is unashamedly pleasuring himself. In the sheer momentum of his apparent passions his trousers are now around his ankles. He is unaware of my presence, literally looming over him, judging silently and cautiously. It would be rude of me to introduce myself under these potentially volatile circumstances. The only option I could fathom was to remain in position, perched on my branch feeling like the unluckiest ninja in existence.
Fifteen minutes later, my legs were becoming fatigued in balancing silently above. Several thoughts are now going through my head; exactly how much longer till this gentleman reaches climax? What if he is alerted to my presence? What if the police arrive, tipped off by a concerned dog walker perhaps? Will I be considered some kind of lewd accomplice or will I be seen as an innocent bystander? Merely caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am abysmal at feigning ignorance. My neutral expression is a smirk. Should the Police arrive, they would ask inquisitive and inflammatory questions.
“I understand your grievance me laddo’ but what were you doing up a tree with a camera in the first place?”
“Well officer I thought you would ask that…”
Just as I was considering a future unfairly placed upon the sex offenders register, the gentleman signalled his ascendancy with a deep groan and a hearty cough. He pulled up his trousers and casually continued on his way, exhibiting a degree of unnatural complacency, as if he had merely been picking mushrooms.
If his objective had been to psychologically scar someone that morning without even realising, he had succeeded. My naivety (and retinas) simultaneously violated. I sprinted from the meadows experiencing significantly more shame than his triumphant stride away had remotely demonstrated.
As I was nearing the end of Sixth Form College, I had not considered my future endeavours in the slightest. As all of my friends prepared their applications for university, I was outside occupying my free periods with football. To me it was not a realistic option. Not once had any of my teachers or peers convinced me that university would be a viable option for my future. I was an average student at best. The ability was there, but the motivation was not.
Two weeks before the deadline for the applications was due, my parents took the executive decision to direct me into applying for a university course. This has probably been the only life altering decision my parents have influenced, but was likely the most important. I had just under a week to prepare a personal statement and apply for prospective courses. I completed these requirements with about three days spare, blindly applying for courses in the nearest neighbouring cities. Ultimately, I was accepted into DeMontfort University to study English. The subject I was deemed most likely to achieve a respectable qualification in.
On results day, fearing the worst, I had intercepted the post and received my conformation before I went to collect my results. I temporarily withheld the ‘good’ news from my parents out of spite. In the upcoming weeks I did not accept that I would be living in Leicester for the next few years and continued life as normal, normal consisting mainly of skateboarding and videogames. I had been to Leicester only twice before; once for a football match and once for a last minute open day, an unsuccessful final attempt to capture my enthusiasm.
When it came to fresher’s week, the gravity of my circumstances finally sunk in. I would be living free from my parents and away from my childhood friends, something that had never occurred before. I had only been eighteen for a month and I was now expected to be fully self sufficient. I knew no one in Leicester; the city was completely alien to me. I did not even know what to bring with me; consequently, I was completely unprepared.
On the day of relocation, I threw a strop. For the vast majority of those in my position this day would have been exciting, the start of a new chapter in their lives. I was hung-over and uninterested with seemingly unnecessary change. This was not my decision and I was reluctant to comply. My minimal life possessions were bundled into the car, leaving me with very little say in the matter. We arrived in Leicester and I was the last to move into my new flat of nine other males (another huge disappointment.) I had no computer, no pillows, bought more CD’s than clothes, and most crucially, no clear understanding of what I was even doing here.
My parents and I sat in my new room for a while discussing the now inevitable future they had played a part in. I was completely terrified and felt the most foreboding sense of vulnerability I have ever experienced. I wanted to go back to Tamworth with them and disregard the whole thing as a poor choice of our collective judgement. As my parents departed it took my mother crying made me realise I was perhaps being somewhat selfish. She was proud, her first child all grown up. She wanted nothing more than me to accomplish something for myself, regardless of whether it accumulated in grades, a direction in life or, at least something of an identity.
I was left sat in my room with a profound sense of isolation for the next few hours. I was too shy to properly introduce myself to my flatmates. They sounded and dressed differently to all my friends from home. I listened to their conversations from the kitchen and regarded myself too uninteresting to amass their attention. They all seemed much more mature than me. As they were preparing for a night out in Leicester, I was left with the realisation that I had not even been to a nightclub before. If purely conducting myself in my new residence was causing paralysing bouts of apprehension, the conformities of nightclubs were completely beyond me. I barely even drank.
By nature I am an introverted personality. The nervousness often manifests as a form of arrogance. The brief moments of contact between my flatmates and I (mainly whilst I was attempting to operate the oven,) were cut short by my terse and apathetic responses. I wanted to make friends but the intimidating circumstances reduced my already uneasy social abilities.
Whether it have been a result of patience or mere pity my flatmates eventually took to me. Soon the required fortitude finally materialised and I was able to develop a close group of friends. As the cliché states; ‘the rest is history…’
To approximate my entire University experience, I would genuinely state that it turned out to be the best decision that was ever made for me. To an eighteen year old, who has never been away from his parents for more than a week, it was also the most terrifying.
In my late teens, I was never renowned for being particularly adept with women, quite the opposite in fact. Before University, my sole experience was a brief kiss at a party with someone I did not even know, nor tragically ever got to know. The problem was that girls did not correctly register. I watched all my close friends accumulate girlfriends well before me. I was never jealous so to speak, I was never actively pursuing and so there was never any disappointment. I lived by the comprehension that the right girl would come to me, something that, subsequently failed to happen whilst I was still based in Tamworth.
Upon my relocation to Leicester I became attracted to one of the girls from the flat below. Unfortunately, I had directed my attentions towards someone who was equally as shy and inexperienced as me. In the following weeks we spent a lot of time together, but never alone. Whilst the group of friends we both became associated with, longed for us to end the awkwardness and make the next logical step towards a relationship, they did not give us the sufficient time alone to do so. I was completely unaware of how to even instigate the conversation about ‘us.’ Any discussion of our feelings for one another was through the medium of one our friends. She effectively became the middle-man in our prospective relationship. She would pass on my honest declarations of sentiment and I would receive the same in return, although, I was still not capable of acting on these instincts.
One night, we had the entire evening to ourselves; we stayed up till the early hours talking. The words were on the tip of my tongue all night but I could not say them. Even though I had been told that she felt the same, there was a crippling fear of rejection hindering my intentions. As I left for the night, she knew I had been meaning to say something. If she had made the first integral advance then I would have said yes without any hesitation whatsoever. This was all on me though. I went back to my room and embedded my keys into my wall out of sheer frustration. If there ever was a perfect moment, it just passed.
I went back to Tamworth in the following weeks, where the news that I had female interest had spread like wildfire amongst my friends. Eager to avoid their questions and their disappointment, I told them I had asked the girl out and she had said yes. Whilst relishing in the acceptance of finally being considered a man in the eyes of my peers, I was also reminded that a contingency of my home friends was due to visit me in Leicester in the upcoming weeks. I had now given myself the ultimatum of either, finally asking the girl out, or facing the embarrassment of admitting my subversion to my closest friends. When I was back in Leicester, the challenge became prevalent. Not only did I now have to confront my own insecurities and desires for my own well-being, I had to now do it for the respect of my friends. On the next occasion that arose when we were alone, we spent the time watching a film. Throughout, all I wanted to do was to get close to her. I thought since I am clearly incapable of expressing my feelings through words, I may be able to do it with actions. I thought wrong.
We watched the film from opposite ends of the bed, barely uttering a word throughout. When it was once again time to call it a night I distracted her with further sentimental talk, discussing any topic that would result in spending more time together. As my conversation topics became more suggestive my bottom lip began simultaneously reacting to my obvious nervousness. I was shaking with apprehension. More to equate to my genuine feelings for her by this point, than the foreboding sense of judgement I would experience should things not materialise to how I had previously described them.
Just as she was checking the time, a clear inclination of my departure, I asked her if she wanted to be more than friends. I could not even ask her out properly, just utter some vague sentence with the hope she understood. She did. It was almost as if we were finally comfortable with each others feelings. Following the terrified and awkward representation of my desires we were finally able to physically express our affections with a simple kiss, one step at a time, naturally.
The metaphoric weight lifted of my shoulders was unimaginable. The girl I liked actually liked me back. She was now my girlfriend, my first girlfriend. I left her room at around five in the morning with the most triumphant smile on my face. It was unfathomable what the next step from this point was, but it did not matter. I far as I was concerned I had overcome the largest hindrance to my adult life that a person could possibly face, to face it as an adult made it all that more significant, and consequently, all that more memorable.
I grew up in a very music orientated household. My Dad has always been passionate about his music and, consequently, keen to imprint his preferences on my brother and I. Consider this a testament to his success. The following is a recollection of memories that have a soundtrack, songs that still remind me of the corresponding experiences or sentiments from my youth.
Billy Joel - We Didn’t Start the Fire
Interestingly enough, my Dad does not even particularly like this song. As far as I am aware he received the single from one of his close friends. I like to imagine that it was envisioned as a joke on his behalf. Introducing his children to music he dislikes, but will therefore have to tolerate to maintain diplomacy. During my early years in a profoundly religious primary school, my class was encouraged by one of the more malcontent teachers to bring in a song which would serve as the finale of the morning assembly. This song was my selection. I persuaded my Dad to transfer the single to a cassette, who I imagine, at this point was increasingly concerned with the realisation that the teachers would assume that he was a fan of Billy Joel.
Due to the unprecedented popularity of the suggestion that young children would prefer popular music to the archaic drone of hymns, the final selection was to be decided by the majority vote of the classroom. In cruel twist of fate, it came down to two songs. ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’ and my best friend Will’s choice of The Police ‘Message in a Bottle’ Friend was pitted against friend in the battle for musical popularity. Ultimately, I lost with the deciding vote coming from the teaching assistant.
In my first instance of musical elitism, I recount not being upset that I was defeated on the basis that my peers did not enjoy my choice, but due to my profound conviction that my song was better. To this day I aim to share my musical preferences as often as I can. Even at such an early age I heard something special in the song that I desired to share with everyone. Maybe an ensemble of primary school children was not the expected audience for late eighties pop rock but the intention was surely present. As is the bitter reminder of defeat, every time I hear The Police.
The Kinks - Autumn Almanac
Admittedly, I am not certain if this song was playing at the moment in question, but it has since become integral to the experience. The earliest family holiday that I can distinctly recount was a week spent in Norfolk. I am going to state I was around seven at the time, but no doubt I will be corrected. I remember being completely preoccupied throughout the entire car journey with being able to witness the sea. I have this nuance that my holiday does not start till I am gazing across the horizon. Whether it was Autumn Almanac or not, it was certainly The Kink’s that was playing the moment I saw the land cease, and give way to the expansive sea. This song has since become my coastal theme, despite its complete lyrical irrelevance.
I attempted to recreate this moment a few years ago, when I returned to Norfolk for a nostalgic day trip, eager to relive my childhood memories with an adult perspective. Unfortunately, I had underestimated my ability to competently operate the cars GPS and I arrived at the coast to a monotonous, robotic female repeatedly informing me I was going in the wrong direction. What was significant was the similar feeling of excitement. Sixteen years later I was the same boy, sat transfixed, staring out of the car window eagerly awaiting a glimpse of the sea, whilst peacefully contemplating caterpillars and currant buns.
Bob Dylan – Hurricane
There are two interesting memories behind this song. Firstly my Dad’s copy of the album was notorious within our household for possessing a large smear of bird poo adorning one of the sides. Whilst this proved a humorous point of reference for my brother and I, it frustratingly left half of the album largely unplayable. Not that we ever wished to listen to anything except the first song ‘Hurricane’ Besides my Dad’s preference of the single, I am not entirely sure what it captivated in the hearts of two young children. Its lyrical content depicts the false conviction and imprisonment of boxer, Rubin Carter. The subject of racial tension and profiling was incomprehensible to those of our age. I was aware of the story, but naively ignorant to its motifs. I am certain my Dad may have attempted to explain the circumstances involved in child friendly terminology, but Dylan’s song writing requires an attentive listener. His lyrics are frequently filled with heavy philosophical meaning and oblique metaphors that, even as an adult, I still experience difficultly interpreting.
The second memory derives from the aforementioned ‘bring a song to school day.’ This was my brother’s selection and his chance to gain redemption for the Griffin family jukebox. Curiously, he was successful and, I like to imagine, in no way related to his then infamous tantrums. The entire school was therefore subject to the entire, unedited eleven minute version of the song. Not a single student understood the meaning, nor appreciated Dylan’s unique vocal delivery. The most significant response was attributed to the almost prophetic line “Had no idea what kinda shit was about to go down.” Which, naturally foretold the greatest overreaction to a minor swear word I have ever witnessed.
Bob Dylan - Rainy Day Women #12 & 35
There is not particularly a childhood memory or event associated with this song, merely the naivety of youth in regards to lyrical interpretation. I often wonder if the occasion transpired whereby my brother or I delivered our own rendition of the song, innocently proclaiming “Everybody must get stoned.” Ideally, to our straight faced parents, silently hoping the lyrics are not emulated somewhere inappropriate. Understandably I failed to comprehend the now obvious connotations towards marijuana usage. It would have been an interesting insight into my upbringing if I had. Ultimately, a perfect example of age defining understanding.
Roxy Music – Virginia Plain
Throughout my entire life, this song has been promoted as;
“The best song ever written” - Jon Griffin.
I never agreed nor understood its appeal. I was always more inclined towards the relative simplicity of The Rolling Stones and The Kinks which I considered easy listening compared to the experimental approach of Roxy Music. The band far preceded their time musically, an eclectic amalgamation of glam rock integrated with an accompaniment of eerie synthesizers and saxophone. I found the song, perhaps too outlandish for my simple preferences. This was emphasized when I was shown a live performance of the song on Top of the Pops. Bryan Ferry’s idiosyncratic appearance and delivery, adorned in more make up than I ever witnessed my Mom wear, only alienated their appeal further.
The song left my consciousness for a number of years, especially when I no longer became dependent on paternal musical influence. An inclination towards heavy metal dictated my early teenage years and for the first time in the household (besides my Mom’s penchant for Queen and REM) there was competition threatening the once musical uniformity my Dad provided.
It took a chance encounter with a friend at university to alter my opinion of the song. His early musical choices had, similarly been influenced by his father. This reminded me of the nostalgic capabilities that music can provide. Songs have the ability to transport you back to a previous time or state of mind. After neglecting the music I had been raised with for the majority of my teens, I was inspired to rediscover the songs I adored as a child. With my new found appreciation for song structure, instrumentation and lyrical content, I started listening to Virginia Plain again. I still deemed it unconventional, oft peculiar, but for this reason, I now enjoyed it.
Ian Hunter – All the way from Memphis
Whilst I recollect genuinely enjoying the song, the main reason for its inclusion is due to my brother and I finding exhaustive hilarity at the expense of the keyboard players appearance. Looking back now, I believe this is still justifiable.
Valentines Day. The day of object celebration for those fortunate enough to have someone, or is it? Much like my previous writings on the true celebrations of Christmas, I feel the international exaltation of love has taken on a whole new interpretation.
Recounting past Valentines, I can profoundly state that, only once have I ever felt obligated to partake in the tradition based on my own accord. Otherwise, I have felt forced to conform to the said traditions. This has either been due to my partner at the time, or due to our culture demanding that I obediently do so. A day where men throughout the world are wondrously reminded to make their partners feel appreciated with the presentation of cards and gifts and a day to make those without any one to feel increasingly bitter towards the whole affair.
Oh you are just jealous you may say? Not the case, even when I have been involved with someone, any participation in the tradition has mainly been predetermined with avoiding an argument rather than my desire to make the relevant person happy, not because certain retailers have carefully developed this aura of tenderness that, apparently affects only the female population, which naturally, us men must appease.
That is not to state that women are even responsible for their seemingly, high expectations of the day. It is a carefully crafted example of commercialism. Just like Mothers and Fathers day, a creation from greeting card companies hoping to satisfy their post-Christmas financial void; successfully capitalising on their, apparent impressionable opinion of woman kind.
Take into consideration that the day is marketed from the onset of January and appropriate or not, every retailer in the country has some kind of pseudo-Valentines directive they are keen to promote and embed into our subconscious. Take note of how frequently you experience marketing campaigns similar to…
“Show her how you feel this Valentines with a brand new dress, toasting oven, wardrobe, romantic weekend away, car, laser eye surgery.”
Never him , Additionally, What happened to plain and simple sentiment? Why do we need to show our affection with superficial gifts, are words no longer enough? Do we actually have to be reminded of our feelings towards another as opposed to being prompted? Society has been brainwashed. Women suddenly and openly judge their partners based on their enthusiasm towards Valentines and Men suddenly feel obligated to act like the boyfriend or husband they should actually be for the remaining 364 days of the year.
Retailers are essentially, profiting off our insecurities and expectations. The whole day, effectively becomes a competition between couples. To place a personal perspective on the matter, my Valentines experiences have always been overshadowed by the consideration of what others are doing and not what us, as a couple have intended.
“So and so is doing this, why aren’t we doing this? Why are we staying in, where are my flowers and undeserved gifts?”
Where are mine? I apparently did not realise that my company and exalted affection was no longer sufficient on the 14th of February, how naïve of me. Truth be told, I have heard more tales presenting the day in subject disdain than romanticism.
Unfulfilled expectations, jealousy and resentment is, therefore what preoccupies Valentines day, rarely love.
As I awoke on Christmas morning this year, I casually checked my Facebook to find I had been bombarded with a plethora of Christmas related statuses and images, words and images, surreptitiously or not, intended to invoke a sense of covetousness in those that happen to witness them. That is what Christmas is now about; to experience a more festive and effervescent materialistic holiday than those around you. To show those, (that by the main fundamentals of Facebook you should consider friends) that your Christmas day celebrations were far superior to their own.
Think I’m wrong? Then what is the principle reasoning behind sharing with the world, if not to gloat? Numerous pictures of ludicrously expensive games consoles and other gifts, portraits of a seemingly picturesque family meal, complete with meticulously prepared food and traditional Christmas themed hats and jumpers. How very in the spirit of Christmas we all are. A faultless display of perfect family harmony, cemented together by the faint illusion that social media is so adapt at creating.
Additionally when did sharing an image of yourself on Christmas become a acceptable festive tradition?
“Happy Christmas Facebook friends, here is a picture of me, since my visage is naturally so integral to your entire Christmas satisfaction.”
Tis’ the season to relish and delight at your own sense of vanity it seems, especially, when some of the hashtags adorning these photos are taken into consideration.
Naturally you get the, at least remotely relevant, captions such as these I witnessed;
#sexyatxmas, #xmasselfie, #santasbaby #foreverfestive4u, #couplesatxmas.
Then you get the hashtags from the ‘enlightened’ Facebook or Instagram users who are tragically proficient at ensuring their image is promoted as much as possible. Cue hashtags such as; #girlswithtattoos or #guyswithiphones. These are nearly always ‘someone’ with ‘something,’ or unequivocally and more accurately could be defined as ‘self-righteous cretin’ with ‘no discretion.’
Implausibly, this is not an anti-Christmas message. I enjoy my family’s humble approach to the tradition. My parents operate on the same basis as me and sensibly, understand that Christmas is primarily for young children, or those with young children, when no doubt it may be positively exciting watching the expression on your child’s face as they reveal the gifts they presumably, do not deserve.
The majority of my Facebook ‘friends’ however, are all twenty-something’s with no children, celebrating at holiday that when, deconstructed bears no resemblance to its humble pagan origins. No, I am not advocating a restoration of the archaic, religious associations of Christmas either. That is equally as moronic. During the Christmas day news broadcast I was greeted with the hypocritical sight of the Archbishop of Canterbury calling for more assistance and consideration for the poor….
Whilst perched atop his elaborate throne, firmly grasping his equally fancy golden stick. Spare some change Justin?
When I have children, no doubt I may lavish them with gifts and (fabricated) Christmas sensibilities. The difference is our Christmas will not be exaggerated to the world. It will be a stringently family affair, devoid of the intrusion and the opinions of others or the desire to outwardly publicise the day to our digital acquaintances. Today’s dangerous truth…You can receive all the ‘Likes’ available but they do not equate to true sentiment and yes, the world is watching, but, predominantly it does not actually care.
Filter - Under
A dirty and raw performance which certainly captures the essence of the song.
Primus - Those Damned Blue Collar Tweakers
Just look at that crowd. Regardless of whether they are even Primus fans, everyone is caught in the moment of the song.
Nine Inch Nails - Happiness in Slavery
One of the best live bands in history deliver their best performance.
Faith No More - The Real Thing
After a long hiatus, Faith No More show they can still deliver.
Alice in Chains - Nutshell
The greatest live performance of all time. The moment Layne Staley emerges, and the crowds reaction will always send shivers down my spine. Conflictingly difficult to watch given the circumstances regarding Layne’s obvious drug problem.
There is a small grass verge just at the pinnacle of my village. In a similar sense to how I manage to find myself in an air-conditioning induced coma, this spot has always exerted some mysterious control over my behaviour. It was common during the warmer summer months that following a night of merriment, I would visit this verge and gaze at the stars into the morning hours. Once I believe I did actually fall asleep momentarily. There is evidence to suggest that the local invertebrates exploited my unconscious bulk and utilised me as some kind of bridge. This, however, is not what shamed me, Although it did occur here.
One night I had a companion in my zone of tranquillity. A small brown cat, relaxed and spread out enjoying the night-time aura. I thought this place now definitely has some element of mystical powers if it can transfix both men and beast alike. I took a seat next to the cat who was completely undisturbed to my presence.
As I began to pet the creature there were a few preliminary signals indicating that something was not quite right. Firstly the sheer amount of hair that came off in my hands. I shrugged it off as a drastic moult and even deduced to myself at the possibly that I was dealing with a sufferer feline alopecia. Poor little guy I considered.
Secondly, as I went to get a view of the cat’s face I noticed it had a nosebleed. OK, I thought. Something is clearly not right. There is a line to my naivety in gradually worsening scenarios. I had just encountered it. Upon closer inspection the cat did not only have a nosebleed but was also missing a large portion of its head.
Effectively I had spent fifteen minutes contemplating the wonders of the universe whilst gently caressing road kill. I comforted myself with the notion that I had at least displayed a courteous respect for the dead.
This is the earliest instance that I can remember calling upon the ground to swallow me whole. Going back to primary school, possibly around reception years. Most people’s toilet etiquette is still under development at this stage, I was no different. The catalyst in this episode was the shirt that my mother had provided me with. For a rapidly growing toddler, she customarily clothed me in a shirt that would have potentially fitted a child of ten, let alone a child already diminutive for his age. To clarify this shirt hung down way below my belt line.
At this age (like many hopefully) I sometimes required assistance when wiping. Just as a precautionary measure. This safety net, however, was not available when at school. Most teachers are not properly trained to deal with a child bent over unable to grasp the complexities of toilet paper. So I proceeded alone. Job done, no problems at all. A moment of triumph for a infant. One step towards adulthood. Next stop shaving. As the day progressed, however, there was a highly noticeable aroma of poo. Like a faecal black cloud looming over me. The other children had detected it, as had the teachers. I pleaded genuine ignorance. I far as I was concerned it was not emitting from me.
When I returned home the truth was revealed. My mother, possessing the jurisdiction to investigate further, believed me to have soiled myself. Pants down, no unwanted companions. Where was the smell coming from? She felt it necessary to bathe me and narrow down the possibilities. As I removed my disproportionately large shirt a considerable (and textured) stain became visible on my shirt tails. We have the culprit. In my haste whilst wiping I had somehow managed to trap my shirt between paper and cheeks. Effectively, I had ended up wiping my backside with the clothes I was still wearing. I believe this is the fundamental reason for my long term preference for tighter fitting shirts.
On a night of pre-legal drinking around my friends Grandma’s house we decided it would be a fantastic idea to strip down to our boxers, climb out of the living room window and run to the top of the village. Once all of us had de-clothed and exited the house we quickly reached our intended goal of a semi-streak and headed back. In our absence the owner of the house had awoken, assumed we had simply left the window open and passed out in the numerous vacant sleeping bags littered around the living room. She sensibly locked the window leaving us outside in the bleak November chill.
This left us with two options. Awaken a elderly lady from her slumber to answer the door to a ensemble of partially clad teenage boys or run through the village to my house where my parents had gone away for the night. We chose the latter, although it was considerably difficult explaining the situation when we returned for our clothes the following morning.