Recipe – Beans on toast.

This is beans, in a tomato sauce, served on a bed of toasted bread.

Firstly, buy some beans, there are many own brand beans but most of them taste like shite. I always go for Heinz.

Once you get home, it’s time to start preparing your meal, it should go without saying that attempting to prepare beans on the bus home will most likely be frowned upon and you could be at risk of bean thrown off the bus as well as risking incurring some small feinz.

Most modern cans will have a ring pull on them, however, if you’ve been at the bargain baskets in your local corner shop you may find you need a tin opener. It’s also probably worth checking the date on the can, if your can of beans is a special edition celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ it might be an idea not to be such a tight bastard and get yourself a new can off the shelf.

Pull the ringpull upwards to open your can, again if your can is an older one and you are using one of those cheap silver tin openers, you may find you need to reattach your severed fingers or attend a month long course of physiotherapy to mend your torn tendons.

With your can open, get yourself a pan on the oven. I find electric ovens work best. Gas ovens can often see yourself turning on the gas and spending a life threatening 30 minutes pressing the ignite button only to be greeted with an unsuccessful clicking noise but no flame, if this happens I find it best just to continue to fill the the house with dangerous levels of gas and continue to press the button for a good hour, rather than just getting a match and saving yourself the risk of a Hiroshima style barbeque. Indeed, had my previous oven been a helium oven, I’d now be living the rest of my life talking like the love child of the Lisa simpson and Grandpa Smurf, all for the sake of a match.

With the pan ready on your oven, gently pour your magnificent beans into the pan. It wont take long for the beans to start to heat, it’s important to stir the beans regularly.

A wooden spoon is recommended, however if you use a regular spoon, you deserve the inevitable searing fuckpig of a spoon handle blister your will receive after thinking it’s ok to heat a metal object in a pan for ten minutes and then try to pick it up.

Now comes the multi tasking, with your beans heating it’s time to get the toast on the go. I come from quite a well to do family so we have an electric toaster. It’s one of those new ones where it actually has a setting to burn your toast. I can only assume it’s designed for artists who like to sketch with as well as eat their breakfast/lunch.

SPECIAL TIP: A top tip, unless your butter is of the “spreadable” variety it is best to take it out of the fridge to allow time for it to soften to a spreadable consistency, for example, for a block of Lurpak in the silver foil packing- I find it’s best to take it out of the fridge approximately seven years before you intend to use it. Failure to do this will result in you angrilly shredding your toast with hard chunks of butter, tearing great holes in them and even shattering your plate as you refuse to admit defeat, leaving your toast unrecognisable and not entirely appealing to look at.

You should now be ready to serve your meal. With your toast on the plate get your beans and drizzle them over your bed of toasted bread. It’s best not to swamp your plate as things can get a little mushy.

If you have beans left over, it is highly recommended you put them back in the can and put them in the fridge, you are guaranteed to have one family member who will take great pleasure in announcing you shouldnt store beans in a can in the fridge as it’s “dangerous” . It’s a well known fact that the mass extinction of the dinosaurs, the birth of Hitler and the assasination of JFK was actually the result of someone storing beans in an open can in the fridge. If they insist on you doing this, find the largest pyrex casserole dish you can find and put the remaining 12 beans in this and into the fridge, just to give them something else to piss and moan about later on.

You are now ready to enjoy your beans in tomato sauce served on a bed of toasted bread, your hard work has finally paid off.

One last tip is whilst you are eating your meal, ensure that your spill some of the beans on your top. This will absolutely guarantee that when you pop to the shops later on and forget about this you will be certain to bump into someone you really fancy, or an ex girlfriend, who upon seeing your tramp like bean juice stained attire will leave her feeling comforted in the knowledge that you are indeed a scruffy cunt and she was right to leave you.

Bon apa tit.

Not All Heroes Wear Capes

Due to the strange fact that the plethora of alcohol I received at Christmas must have all had holes in the bottles or were somehow faulty as they were now empty I found myself once more perusing the alcohol aisle at the local supermarket to replenish the stocks for the New Year celebrations.
Next to me were two pretty lady things, clearly dressed for a night at the local discotheque and were looking for something to get “Tanked up” prior to their evening of dancing.

Being a bit of a nosey fucker I picked up a bit of their conversation and soon gathered that the drink they required was on the top shelf they couldn’t reach it.
“I can do this” I thought. “I can help these poor damsels in distress”. I’m tall, I can reach, and I’ll look cool as fuck, bearing in mind the last time i could say I was cool as fuck was when I had to de-ice the car for the wife in my pyjamas on Christmas eve morning, so cold was it outside my nipples all but tore through my ill fitting bed top to shatter off the ice and my shivering man part retracted and stacked up to resemble one of Makkapakka’s antennae.
“Can I get that for you?” I asked, my voice the velvety tone of a confident hulking man hero.
“Yes please can we get two” Delight at this unexpected knight in Burtons armour.
“No problem” I said “One of the advantages of being tall”
Unfortunately for me I mistook “Being tall” for being a fucking giraffe on stilts. Not only was the drink on the top shelf it was also right at the back. I stretched, reaching in a panic now that I was going to look like a tosser. It was too late, tosser would be a polite description and another problem was now more pressing.
I’d left the house wearing my normally already quite snug leather jacket, with the Christmas festivities it now probably looked like someone had hurled a massive turkey at a sheet of warmed and melting bin liners. As I stretched further into the shelf my leather jacket had somehow managed to rise up and traverse over my impressive belly, it didn’t stop until it nestled itself under my moobs, displaying my apparent complete festive pregnancy for all the shop to see.
Like a really shit version of that plastic twat from Fantastic four, (this was more fatastic), I somehow managed to extend myself and retrieved two of the bottles. Victory! I retracted back to normal height like a lard slinky being let go from the top of the stairs.
Purple faced and clenching a bottle in each hand I dismounted the fixture. Unable to pull my jacket down I stood arms stretched out offering the bottles. I probably made things worse by acting like there was nothing wrong or weird in the fact that a purple faced panting stranger wearing a tiny leather crop top with the physique of an inflated weeble was handing them drink.
“No problem” I said, even though they hadn’t thanked me, too stunned even to speak, they clearly didn’t know where to look and for some reason chose my shimmering marshmallow kite, my belly button staring them out like Cyclops, it even give them a cheeky wink as I coughed for their attention to take the bottles.
I strolled away quickly, but cooly, pulling down my leather jacket, it squeaked on its journey back down to waste line.
Not all heroes wear capes, I thought as I strutted out of sight, they wear tight leather belly tops.

What happened Next

So today I had my first experience of the early morning “Next Sale”, and by early morning I mean I was up at 4am and in the queue at the local retail park at 5am. Obviously this was the lovely wifes choice of how to spend a boxing day morning not mine, had I had my own way I’d be still fast asleep enjoying a nice dream, probably involving me saving the planet Endor from the evil clutches of the darkside whilst munching on a kebab and a bag of chips served by Megan Fox at the same time.

Upon arriving I was astonished at not just the length of the queue but also the states at which some people had clearly rolled out of bed and staggered to the store. Bargain hunting skiprats littered the walkways and it resembled an audition queue for a remake of the video for Thriller.

The doors opened and the queue of Zombie’s lurched forward, like a flock of hotching wolves after a lone lamb they scrammbled inside.

Large clear shopping sacks we’re handed out as you walked in, in a scene resmebling a day in the life of an elephants family planning clinic the shoppers grabbed their giant contraseptives and began their attack on the sale rails.

Inside the air was rife with the smell of morning breath and the unwashed. I headed to the mens section whilst the wife attempted to wrestle with the bulk of the sale locusts as they flocked over the crop of end of line bargains.

At first I was more interested in who else was actually mad enough to turn out at this horrid hour, which on a weekend, really shouldnt exist on any form of timekeeping device.

Bed head was definately the choice of hairstyle, and many faces still bore the crease lines of a pillow or the glimmer of morning drool that hadnt quite had time enough to dry up yet. Eyes were filled with huge rocks of sleep, so large that it looked like some of the shoppers had just gone down on a bag of cinder toffee and misjudged the location of it’s honeycomb genitals.

I decided I’d best take a look at what was on offer and began my perusal of the men’s area (By that I mean the clothes department, not rifling through a strangers under crackers).

For all of my pissing and moaning and complaining at having to get up so early, it wasn’t long before I was taken over by the same lust for cheap clothes as everyone else.

I began filling my bargain sack (And by that I mean shopping bag, not cheap replacement scrotum) with anything I was even remotely considering that I could wear. I was, like everyone else out of control, hurling shirts, jeans, shorts, anything into the bag. People didn’t care what they picked up, “it says reduced so must be worth having” racing through everyone’s head, including mine. You could hear people saying “Even if you only wear it once it’s worth it”. Yes of course, disposable clothes, now there’s a good idea.

It wasn’t long until I couldn’t fit anything else into my T-Rex condom and clothes were spilling out of the top of it. “What’s happening to me” I thought, I didn’t like it, I was normally so controlled, so uninterested in such things, but here I was hurling clothes into  my shopping bag like they were going out of fashion, which they were. Even if they weren’t my size I still grabbed at garments left right and centre, “I’ll get into them once I’ve lost all this weight, in the year 2056”. Indeed, the last time my wardrobe had seen anything with medium written on it was when a flyer for a fortune teller fell out of my coat pocket.

To my surprise the wife came upstairs, her bag only half as full as mine. She looked drained, and informed me she’d had enough of the chaos downstairs and we soon joined the enormous queue for the checkouts.

The queue was like something for a Disneyland ride, it snaked around the room like a whales willy after a night on the pop. We stood inching along for what seemed like day’s, the smell of morning breath was now so strong in the shop the staff were forced to walk around with bowls of mints to try and combat odour of the many rancid customers. I wondered if when we got nearer the checkout people would be hosed down or offered soap.

We finally made it to the front of the queue and were next to be served, an assistant came and took all of our shopping out of the bags and hung it on a rail for the rest of the shop too see, like Gok wan proving his latest guest had shit fashion sense. He picked up and moved a ladies vest top along that the wife had chosen and asked “Is this one one of yours as well?” “No that ones the wife’s” I quickly replied, pleased with myself, maybe I could entertain the queue and be paid for it, I looked around for my applause but was greeted only by a hundred unimpressed glances that all spelled out COCK.

The assistant picked up the bulk of shirts to carry over to the checkout, “And these are your shirts?” It was a loaded question and he said it in a way that suggested “Really? Good luck getting into those lardy, let me know so I can leave the region and flee the inevitable projectile buttons that you will be firing in all directions when you try them on”. “Yes they are” I replied, the well groomed fuck. Now take them to the checkout quickly before you snap your manicured stick like arms. His hair was of the precise shaven at the sides and high and swept over on the top look, I’m not sure of the correct name for the style so I’ll call it cunt.

We were served efficiently, and I was hypnotised by the speed at which our shopping was scanned through and bagged up. The price came up on the screen and after momentarily dropping my guts at the sight of it, we quickly paid and left. “Keep the change” I said, even though we’d paid by card, they’d soon catch whiff of what I meant.

At the entrance the security alarms we’re going off constantly and customers came back in to have their bags searched. As I approached the door I ,like everyone else, did my best impression of an innocent person who hadn’t stolen anything, even though I had nothing to hide I felt the need to “not look guilty” it was like an episode of the cube and I was relieved to get through the gates without triggering the siren.

We packed our purchases into the car and climbed in. As I turned the key to the ignition I passed comment on how it was only 6.30 and we’d already been shopping. The wife tentatively asked, as if expecting a no, if there was any chance we could call into the  next Next store down the road. To my amazement I said “Yes, yes we can”. I was speaking involuntarily, my voice an emotionless drone “For there may be more cheap clothes that I cant get into and will never wear”. And off we set.

And so, as I type this, from the queue of the Next Sale, I warn you all to take cover, as soon I will be trying on some slimfit shirts and medium sized shorts, and at some point those buttons are indeed going to pop and fly, you don’t need to be a medium to know that and you seriously do not want to be standing next to me when they do.

Christmas

Christmas, a time for celebration sharing and the joys of the supermarket gridlock.

Those of who enjoy meandering to a standstill and parking their trolley horizontal in the aisle whilst they stop to consider the discount on spinbin full of fucked Whoops sticker loafs, whilst a tailback of a hundred other frantic shoppers mentally project the words “Move you daft fuckmonkey” in their direction. Or perhaps deciding that now would be a really awesome time to have a catch up with a family of fifteen that you’ve not seen since last Christmas, yes let’s get Ashingtons answer to the Walton’s to form a fucking rugby scrum on the cereal aisle just because it’s Christmas and no ones in a hurry.

A time for the wise to open the freezers up to grope every single frozen turkey in there to weigh up which one is the biggest, when it’s quite clear the fattest turkey in that freezer is the reflection of the cockmunter holding it open whilst letting out enough cold to give the store it’s own weather system and entice a swarm of confused penguins into the pizza aisle.

The time to use the fast lane with a basket so full the handles are stretching so it’s trailing along the floor, threatening a near avalanche of groceries to tumble forth “Yes, I agree, you should have got a fucking trolley” instead you engage in your own festive game of grocery Jenga and cause the already stressed out robotills to blow a fucking circuit when you slam down your mountain of Christmas tat and proceed to scan through a years worth of shopping in an area the size of a phone booth whilst poor R2ShopD2 has an electronic hernia trying to cope with it all.

A time to ask the checkout operators “Has it been busy?” Whilst a queue the size of a small moon snakes around the store behind you.

A time for said checkout operators to ask “Will you need bags?” As you push three trolleys full of grocery’s towards them. “No thanks, I’ll just balance the whole lot on my fucking head, and if I get really stuck I can always ask Yoda to use the force and float the fucker over to my car, which incidentally I’ve had to park so far away I’m going to need my fucking passport to get back to it”.

A time for Charity collections on the EXIT so that when you are visibly struggling with a hundred bags in each hand, arms stretching like Mr Tickle, they shake their boxes in your face “Yes of course I will, lucky for you I’m a fucking octopus so I can not only carry all this shopping I can also rummage around for some change in all of my pockets at the same time, and yes, I do want a fucking sticker”.

A time for other cars to park so close to you, you have to break open the Chrismas goose fat just to lube up your thighs and kite so that you can slide into the car before executing a 436 point turn to exit whilst an impatient mingehead behind you shakes his head while he waits for your space “I’m sorry, not all of us fly a fucking harrier jump jet and can manoeuvre out with such ease”.

Happy Christmas, it’s going to be great.

Bin there, done that.

One of the cons of the dark nights – The night before bin day.
Every week I fail to remember what bin it is that goes out on the Tuesday. It’s like I have bin amnesia. So every week I sneak out and stealthily tip toe to the neighbours drive to see what one they have put out, them being a bit more organised than myself, except its so dark I practically have to press my fucking face on the bin to see what colour it is. It’s like watching snooker on a black and white TV. Except instead of balls, its bins, and instead of a snooker player, it’s a forgetful cunt. So the folk across the road either think I’m having an affair with Oscar the fucking grouch, or that times are hard and it’s scraps again for tea.

So if there’s ever a rumour going around that every week disgusting Dave can been seen all over the trash from down the street – It’s not what you think, I’m just a bit rubbish at bin organised.

The Brown Fountain

To ones neighbour with the unexpected fireworks display as I was just passing by I would like to add to your spontaneous and eardrum piercing surprise display with my own tribute to guy forks, the brown fountain.

So taken aback was I, so perfect was the timing of your initial launch, that I almost travelled side by side with one of your expensive “not for garden use” rockets due to the force of which my arse burst it’s audible terror at the shock of a bomb going off just a mere few feet from it. As each screaming rocket hurtled skywards, my arse in record time played out it’s own rendition of the gunpowder plot. My heart itself joined in this fabulous display by not only jumping out of my chest but bouncing off my ribcage and attempted to burst backwards out of my startled starfish before bungee bouncing back to where it was, beating out the morse code to “WHAT….THE FUCK…IS GOING…ON”

Concerned that you might have missed my own personal display, as I’m sure you were quite consumed by your own “Look at how much I’ve spent kids” and “let’s give the passing fat lad a coronary” fireworks display, I’ve thrown over the fence a record of my own explosive event in the form of my gunpowder shocked undercrackers which are now plastered to your patio window, slowly sliding down leaving behind the signature stroll of a warm trundling chocolate snail.

Enjoy..

Gone with the wind

An apology to the residents of my estate.

I must apologise for the sight to which many of the residents of my estate were witness to this afternoon.

Today being a warm day I decided to wear a “Nice light loose shirt”, this being somewhat of an occasion as normally my shirts are put on by me standing on top of a maypole while dancers kindly wrap the material around me whilst the use of buttons has to be be cleared by the local armed forces due to the buttons posing a threat to the safety of the general public such is their incredible strain and pending ejection when they are “loaded”.

Tonight whilst bringing the food shopping in from the car (You can imagine there was fucking loads), there was an unfortunate and surprise gust of wind. Said wind was at such a direction as to lift up my shirt and inflate like a billowing sail, I did in fact lurch forward carried by the belly wind, whilst the entire estate was engulfed in a blinding and incredible light such is was the brilliant whiteness of my bulbous kite.

The shirt lifted, and the sun was reflected in all directions in the great reveal, neighbours rushed to close their curtains, ships changed direction, grass wilted and a family of vampires died, it even made a mole squint. I tried desperately to pull my shirt down but it remained pinned up revealing all, it was like that infamous Marilyn Monroe scene where her skirt lifted up, except this was more Marilyn Manson trying to pull a bed sheet over an albino space hopper.

I can only apologise and promise to wear my usual brand of airtight titan garments going forward. I’ll start by filling out this one I’m wearing, just to stop it happening again, man of the community that I am.

HD or not HD – That is the question

There are many mysteries in the world, the great pyramids of Giza, Stone henge, the Bermuda triangle, but the greatest mystery of them all has to be why do women chose to watch channels in standard definition when HD is available?

“What you watching?”

“Coronation street”

“You’re watching the normal channel, why aren’t you watching it in HD?”

“There’s no difference”

“Yes there is, it’s sharper and the sounds better”

“No there’s not, shh I’m watching it”

“Let me turn it over to HD”

“Don’t turn it over, i’m in the middle of watching it”

“It’ll only take a second, let me put it on in HD”

“But you’re not watching it, I am”

“Yes, but just knowing, just knowing it’s in standard definition, It fucks with my mind, i can’t deal with it, watch it in HD”

“Shh, I’m missing it”

“I’m turning it over to HD”

“Fuck off, don’t turn it over”

“I’m turning it over”

“Don’t turn it over”

“Dont, see, you can’t even find the HD channel, put it back, shit husband”

“Yes i can, it’s only seven pages down the menu”

“IM MISSING IT!”

“There it is see, HD”

“Turn it down, it’s loud”

“That’s because it’s HD”

“See I don’t know what’s going on now”

“You’ve missed like 17 seconds, and look, it looks awesome now, it’s HD”

“But I don’t know whats going on”

“You’ve missed 17 seconds of coronation street and you don’t know what’s going on?”

“No”

“Well you can figure it out, in HD”

“Oh just leave it, I’ll watch it on +1 later, I’ve missed too much”

“But you can’t get +1 on HD, just watch this”

“No, I’ll watch it later”

‘But it won’t be in HD”

“Doesn’t matter, there’s no difference.

“yes there is……”

Continue until death…

Hernia – Part 2

So a month has passed since the dreaded Hernia operation, and what’s been a fairly horrid few weeks it looks like I’m well on the road to recovery and can reflect on what was one of my least favourite chapters in my life.

I awoke on that dreaded Thursday morning full of nerves and full of the stuff that often goes with nerves, I managed to get rid of some of the latter, the nerves however stayed.

I was fortunate enough to have an early morning appointment so I didn’t have to wait around too long before we’d be setting off for the hospital. In the car I turned the radio on and Gary Barlow sang to me “Today this could be, the greatest day of our lives”. No Gary, I suspect it won’t, and if it is then I’ve not got much to look forward to, I’m going to get knocked out and cut up which is exactly what would happen to you if I could see your singing cheese filled fucksmug of a face right now. I changed the station, Adele came on, more fitting as in many ways she reminded me of my hernia, a painful lump that needed removing.

Upon arriving at the hospital I was sent to a waiting area where there were already a few other people ahead of me. My details were taken and I was told someone would call on me shortly. It was very much like the deli at Tesco, except instead of getting a nice bit of edam cheese I was going to get cut open and have my intestines pushed back inside of me, so actually, exactly like Tesco.

I was one of the first to be called, I told myself it was because the nurses thought I was best looking and couldn’t wait to get my top off and their hands on me. More likely was that they had to give time to construct the scaffolding around my belly and retrieve the flag from the surface of the moon which they would later use to plant on my kite upon reaching its summit to mark this momentous occasion.

I was taken into another waiting room. The first waiting room was just the waiting room for the waiting room. Having waited in that waiting room I was now expected to wait in this waiting room where I would later be taken down to the surgery waiting room to wait for my operation. I waited.

I was soon designated a bed area in the “day ward”, this made sense, it being day.

Soon a nurse came around and took all of my details. She would also require some swabs from me which were part of the routine checks for MRSA. I would be required to take a swab of my groin area and also one up my nostril. Fortunately I was given two separate swabs I didn’t much fancy having to wipe my ball sack then stick it up my nose, the swab that is not my ball sack, not that I’ve tried but I don’t think my scrotum consists of enough elasticity to reach my face, might be worth a try one day though, I decided here was not the right time to try.

The nurse took away the forms I filled in and my lovely swabs. She left behind a gown and some “Surgical stockings” that I would have to wear for the operation. So, not only was I expected to stick a large cotton bud down by my meat swingers, then one up my nose, I now had to put on a skin thin frock and white knee high socks.

My lovely new wife (and first, just in case it sounds like I collect them) sat in the corner. A month into marriage as she watched me wiping the side of my nads with a swab and handing it over to a stranger, the swab that is, not my nads, I needed them, and as she sat watching me strip down to my George boxers displaying my less than toned form with my new accompanying belly testicle and then watched me slipping into my hospital frock and daz white skin tight tights I couldn’t help feel that she was probably thinking that this wasn’t how she envisaged the honey moon period and the words “could have done better” were probably doing laps in her mind.

The stockings proved to be an absolute nightmare to get on, tight doesn’t come close. I sat on the bed in my frock and wrestled with them, forcing my pasty legs into the tiny socks, I could barely get them over my feet let alone roll them up my legs. I felt like an elephant raised on Viagra trying to put on condom. What seemed like about half an hour later I finally got them on, I sank back in the bed exhausted from my fight with the tights.

The anaesthetist came around and told me what would be involved to put my mind at rest, it didn’t I was now terrified and whiter than my new lady socks. If shitting bricks is a measurement of regular nerves, I was now curling out replacement blocks for the great Pyramid of Giza.

I was told that when I awoke I would have a mask on my face and would probably have a sore throat as the surgeon would need to put a pipe in my mouth and down my throat. I was starting to worry as to just what sort of hospital this was. So far I’d had my balls wiped, been dressed up like an old woman and now I was going to be knocked out while a “surgeon” sticks his pipe down my neck and then gets me to wear a mask. I’m sure I’d seen a documentary on this sort of thing on Channel 4, and I’m pretty sure you had to pay for it.

The surgeon then came to talk through the operation with me. After he finished the discussion he asked to see the hernia, I lifted my frock up and showed him my belly testicle. He gave it a prod and then produced a pencil and drew a target around it. I was too nervous to ask what the point system was and hopefully it would be a game I would be partaking in.

It was time. The porter came to collect me. I turned and said goodbye to my wife, I was a soldier going to war, and they wheeled me away. In my head REM’s “Everybody hurts” played. I was in slow motion, and I half expected Paul O’Grady to start narrating, informing me that there was no hope for this fat old dog and that I might need to be put down.

The porter was talking to me, doing his best to make light of the situation, I just wanted him to shut the fuck up and let me shit myself in peace. I was driven down what seemed like the longest corridor in history, people stepped aside and gave that knowing smile that said “wonder what he’s having done, bet it’s going to hurt like fuck”.

We eventually arrived in what seemed like an alien autopsy room from the x-files. Once again to add to the shame a pretty student nurse came and took some more details, she was followed by who I assumed was her mentor who instructed her in what she needed to do. They asked to have a quick look at my Hernia. Again I lifted my frock up, doing my best to suck in my gut but given the level of my nerves I was scared to suck in too hard in case I released a projectile bottom bullet and put someone’s eye out.  As they eyed up their target I half expected a short fat man to appear informing them to “keep out of the black, and in the red, there’s nothing in this game for two in a bed” though for this game it was more a case of, “take a good look but don’t press down, push it to hard and you’ll be covered in brown”.

Another young nurse then joined me, again a student nurse.  She would be responsible for putting in the needle adapter thing for my drip. She was shaking like a leaf and was having trouble “Finding a vein”. She slapped my hand. (Could she tell what I was thinking?). She slapped it again, but apparently still couldn’t find a vein. Again she slapped it, as if beating it into surrender. She lifted my arm and asked me to flex my hand as if I was squeezing something. My hand was level with her chest and I was tempted to make a comedy horn sound as I mimed squeezing repeatedly. Still no vein. They tied some sort of band around my arm and proceeded to slap my hand.  Christ, cracking start this, I thought, as I was tied up and slapped around repeatedly. Soon I thought I would break and tell my capturers where the secret plans were hidden. They had ways of making me talk.

Eventually a good vein appeared and the nurse went for her target, and missed, tried again, and missed. She was shaking so much I was tempted to grab it off her and put it in myself. Something told me she wasn’t on the university darts team, if she was, she’d clearly spent all her winnings on smack, and today was her first day of going cold turkey.

The plug was in, “does this mean I can shoot webs out of my hand” I said, pleased with myself  that I still had my wit about me, nothing, not even a smile, difficult audience, not funny apparently, just fat, and veinless.

One of the assistants asked what I did for a living, clearly not a comedian, she thought. I began to tell her and no sooner had I started I felt pins and needles running up my arm, I assumed Nurse blind smackhead was attempting to put another needle in me and was turning my arm into a sea sponge. The pins and needles continued up my chest.

Sneaky fuckers, I thought, they had already given me my anaesthetic, I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to my tummy testical, within seconds I was out.  Saying goodbye to my pesky belly ball should have been the least of my worries though, for the worse was by far yet to come.