18 Aug



    Urine cascaded onto discarded burger boxes – piss splashing off white styrofoam and spotting the shoes of errant street pissers. They stood in the doorway of what by day was a corner shop, selling newspapers and cigarettes to commuters, whilst at night it magically transformed into a public toilet. Just hidden around the corner from The Slug and Cabbage, an ideal unloading point for bursting bladders, a role-on-role-off terminal for those with better things to do than queue outside full bathrooms and conform to the social niceties of public urination. They stood line abreast, their weapons pointed down range, moaning with relief at the ectasy of muscular relaxation.

                “Bloody needed that,” said a man-mountain dressed in the red and white hoops of the York Railway Rugby Club.  “Thought I was going to piss meself. Never would have made it to the Slug.”

                 Zipping up and wiping their hands on their jerseys, they turned to confer and revisit the night’s plan of action. So far they’d made it half way up the High Street, and although not attempting to drink at every one of the forty pubs along its entire length they’d chosen a few select hostelries to quench their thirst. The lads were rat-arsed , drink having got the worse of them. Despite their intake of curry and kebabs, the age old of formula of using grease to pacify alcohol, they were fighting a losing battle.

                “Bloody hell, that’s lovely,” said Mark pushing the last of the mystery-meat into his face. A donor kebab – a bread blanket drowned in hot sauce, and covered in glistening spam-textured flesh.  He puffed his way through the last mouthfuls as he fought off the lava sensation of liquid napalm dripping from his chin. Finished, he used his throwing arm to dispatch the container as far away from the council provided rubbish bin as possible; a cast-iron edifice burgeoning with last meals and discarded plastic. “That’s was fucking good. I’m ready for a drink.”

                The other lads nodded and smiled. Dressed in rugby shirts and jeans, they were trolling the streets of York for booze and whatever tail they could get their fingers into. When they’d first met down the club, earlier that evening, there’d been ten of them. Several had hacked off along the way, or fallen prey to the lipstick-promises of nameless housewives out on the pull without their husbands. Evil women with evil on their minds!

                One of the team members was getting married to some bird from the nursing college and this was their chance to show him exactly what he was giving up. No more the freedom of weekend booze ups, one night stands, and visits to the clinic, but instead the staid-and-steady of 2.5 kid purgatory. The supplicant to marriage had started the night off well, downing his drink with the rest of them and standing his rounds. It wasn’t until Big Bill started spiking his beer that things had gone from fun to worse. Now collapsed on one of the cities wooden benches and lying next to some poor bugger who’d been abandoned by his mates and left for dead, his trousers round his ankles and his mouth agape, moaned the man of the hour. A continuous wave of heaves and retches buckled his body as he fought to contain his guts, the fluorescent-green bile dribbling from his lips betrayed the fact there was nothing left  to expel and was failing miserably.

                 Smeared in curry sauce and smelling like a urinal, the groom-to-be cut a pathetic figure. As if his distress wasn’t bad enough, his accoutrement added to his shame. A large, pink, strap-on-penis jutted out from his jeans, a gift from the stags who’d insisted he wear it for the duration of the night. It had seemed like a laugh at the time but now the sight of a man dying whilst unable to curb a twelve inch solid pink erection was utterly hilarious. Earlier in the evening it’d caused him to be the center of attention with various birds, in diverse bars, grabbing him and even putting the pink phallus in their mouths. Photos had been taken, telephones flashed, as his embarrassment had been preserved for posterity. Smiling, gaping, mouths encircled the plastic monstrosity, whilst strange, willing hands had gripped his nether regions. Now he was caste as untouchable – a heaving mass of sick and piss with a dripping plastic willy nobody would poke with a ten-foot barge pole.

                “What about him?” Asked Bill, pointing to the aroused leper “We’re never going to get him into the slug.

                “ Course we will. Just stick him between the two of us and we’ll carry him. Besides we know the bouncer,” said Mark

                Frank had been on the team a few years back and had played center half, a big bastard with a quick temper who couldn’t play a match without getting into a brawl. After beating several of the opposition, teams had refused to play if he was fielded. Such had been the demise of his promising rugby career.

                “Alright then pick him up,” ordered Mark, the team captain. The boys dragged the groom from the bench, the drunk hanging like Christ on the cross between two of the biggest boys. The lads couldn’t help but laugh – it was hard not to when faced with a man that had a dick you could hang a towel on.

                “Mum, mum,” burbled the drunk.

                “I’m not your bloody mother, now shut up and come on,”

                He wretched once more, and the support of good friends he thought he had dropped him in order to avoid the green-goo erupting from his mouth. Saved only by the plastic-dong from a face-first interception with the pavement his body lay elevated on the ground, the huge penis acting like a shock absorber and suspending his body slightly above the paving stones. The lads were beside themselves, creased with laughter, as they watched their mate sway back and forth on his fifth appendage.

                “Got to get a bloody picture of that. That’s fricking priceless!” Bill aimed his camera, flashing and framing the groom’s body.

                “Come on lad s get him up. If the bloody coppers see us well be for it,” warned Mark. The police were out in force, searching for random pissers and pukers to throw into the drunk tank, and they’d already seen a couple of patrol cars.

                 John was the poof for the night, the designated driver who was supposed to ensure that everybody got back safely – no man left behind. Resigned to an evening of pineapple juice, it was a task that none of them relished. Although not enjoying the fun, it was always the poof that had the best stories to tell the next day. Able to distance himself from the alcoholic mayhem that surrounded the drinkers, the poof was able to piece together the night-of-the-morning-after for those suffering from killer hangovers. Who did what with whom, the dogs they’d kissed, and the disasters they’d barely avoided.

                Picking themselves up, they staggered like drunken sailors towards The Slug and Cabbage, their final destination before hitting the burger-stand and getting themselves home. The music from The Slug was bouncing off the windows and rolling down the street, a live band were playing inside which probably accounted for the crowd outside. Normally they wouldn’t have a hot dogs chance at a lesbian convention of getting in, but with their old team mate on the door it should be a doddle.

                “Now then Frank how’ve you been?” asked  Mark.

                Frank put his finger to his lips, “Shut the fuck up you drunken bastards. At least try and look like you can bloody dance or they’ll throw you out soon as you get in there!”

                 Hands were shook, backs were slapped and the rugby shirts greeted their old mate.

                “Don’t get too close you dirty buggers, don’t want none of his puke on my Tux,” said Frank holding the groom at arm’s length.

                “Any birds in there, Frank?” asked Bill.

                “The place is full of totty tonight boys, you can’t go wrong.” Looking down at the lad with the pink dildo strapped to his pants Frank pointed and laughed. “Don’t know about him though. That looks like more than a mouthful to me!  Alright fellas get yourselves inside. Last orders have just been called so get over to the bar sharpish”

                “Cheers Frank.” Smiles, waves, thank-yous and goodbyes.

                Frank  watched as the stag-party staggered into the pub. Drunken bastards, he thought. Good bunch of lads, just didn’t know when they’d enough. The bouncer glanced at his watch and creased his brow. A look of concern crossed Frank’s face.


                Propping themselves at the bar the Stags tried to attract the attention of the bar tender – a slimy looking bastard with gelled, styled hair, wearing designer clothes. Mark had hoped that the blonde with the big tits would serve them, but she was engaged with several admirers down at the far end.

                 There were people everywhere, the place was packed. The music was deafening, strobe lights flashed from the stage. The stags could barely hear themselves think and had to shout their order to the bar tender. Bloody great! This was the place to be. They should have got here earlier.

                “Aright lads. Stag night is it?  What can I get for you?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

                They listed off the requisite alcohol and the mandatory pineapple juice.

                “You the driver then?” asked Sherlock.

                “No he’s the poof.”

             The bar tender smiled and busied himself with their order.

                Mark tapped his fingers on the bar and stared at the  perfect orb of the blonde bartenders arse. Wouldn’t mind a bit of that, he thought.

                Sherlock returned with their drinks. “Lot of birds in here tonight mate. If you boys are looking, theirs a hen party just walked in. Bunch off lasses in their underwear wearing angels wings.” He pointed to the front of the bar where one of the angels was being helped onto a table by some lads – their hands all the way up her legs as they tried to stabilize and grope her at the same time. The angel didn’t seem to mind a bit. Judging by the smile on her face was enjoying every second of it.

                “Wilco wing-commander. Bandits at  three o’clock!”.

                 The lads picked up their drinks and headed for the front of house. A moan came from one of the tables and the Stags quickly returned collect the groom they’d forgotten who sat  caressing his plastic penis. “Don’t want to leave him behind now do we?”

                The bartender smiled.

               Just another Friday night at The Slug and Cabbage.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s