So, the rooms we live in are provided by the charity we work for, the rent is very reasonable. they do keep nagging us though. about smoking pot in them. “please smoke your joints outside?” they keep asking, “that’s our property and we are legally liable”. of course, they have a good point, and of course, we ignore them and keep puffing away like octogenarian grannies on a the 25th mile of a marathon. thing is, the job is stressful, all that bum-wiping, and lifting, and bed-sores, and feeding, and death, and boredom and stair climbing, and caring. you need an outlet and weed was ours. well, that and e, and acid, and ska, and football hooliganism, and speed and uk surf: a genre of music that has sadly not survived.
eventually the bosses do what they got to and call the fuzz. i’m watching the box in the communal area and supping on a pint of shepherd neame, when i see four burly looking blokes and a german sheppard stop outside my room. i know instantly what has happened, and rather than panic, i get up and walk calmly into my fate of being a homeless and jobless criminal. i even manage a smile.
i lead them into my room and just point to the weed on the table next to the bong. they say “all very well and good sir,” all of them staring at my sorry little bag of grass, “but we will need you to strip.” so, i go through the humiliation of a strip-search (wishing that there had been at least one wpc there, to see my dong), and then they let the dog have a good sniff around. she is well trained and loves me, or at least how i smell. there is no other puff in my room and the only point that grabs her attention is my laundry basket. there are socks in there that, if you threw them at the wall, would stick to it, and the cops ask if i have anything in there.
“not that i know of.” i lie, knowing that the cop will have to rummage, very thoroughly through them all.
As they take me to the cop shop i think of doug.
doug and i have rooms next to each other, we smoke a lot of weed together. we score from the same geezer, every thursday, on payday. just like we did today. only difference between us is that i cycle and he walks or grabs a bus. i always get home quicker. he was just arriving, as i was leaving, which means… he’s like half an hour away. he ain’t back yet. there may well be a chance for him to avoid getting busted, if only i can get hold of him before he gets home.
the cops aren’t rough with me or anything, after all, they have what they want, and we almost have a laugh together. all the time i’m thinking of doug. “am i allowed a phone call?” i ask.
“sure.” they smile, “who do you want to call?” i tell them it’s my mate doug. “come with us.” they beckon, and i follow, assuming they are taking me to a telephone. all i wanna say to him is
‘get out of the fucking house man! the pigs are coming!’ they lead me into a room where i see doug, sat, being interviewed by two other cops.
“here is is”, says one cop, “what do you want to say to him?”
“get out of the fucking house man!” i say, “the pigs are coming!”
chugger: (noun) chug-er. Shortening of charity and mugger. A street fundraiser. A person who stands on the sidewalk and asks passers by to donate small amounts of money, on a regular basis, to charity.
I loved being a chugger. It was the best day job I ever had. I felt more like a soldier than when I was a soldier. It had a Robin Hood feel to it, to some we were outlaws, to others heroes. I liked being outside in all weathers, I loved chugging in the rain. I liked the pressure and the competitive nature of what we did, and I definitely liked it that most people didn’t like us.
“You’re just all fucking parasites!” a suit said to me on Wardour Street.
“If you fancy me Sir, just say so.”
“Where’s your team leader?”
“Standing right in front of you Sir.”
*looks me up and down, stares at my mohawk, shakes head and walks away*
It didn’t matter that most people didn’t get us, you only had to get three or four people to fall in love with you a day. That’s how it worked though, it wasn’t about the charity, it was all about the chemistry between you and the donor (we refered to them as ‘units’). It was us they bought, not the charity. Honestly, if the magic was there, they would have signed up for “Nuke the Dolphins”.
The prompt is:
- Topic – A Misunderstanding
- Word count – 214
- Mood – Hecticity
- Genre – Comedy
My worst gig ever.
There was this festival a few years back, can’t remember what it was called, somewhere up in Yorkshire, in a wood. There had been a misunderstanding and the organisers had thought I was a musician rather than a comic, but I was there anyway, so I might as well go on, and I needed the money.
Stand up never goes down well at music festivals and I was uncharacteristically nervous. I was on after a band called ‘Crowbar Abortion’ and everyone was very drunk. The crowd hated me and started booing and throwing things at me. Then this bloke climbed up onto the stage, told a joke of his own that offended everybody, and then pulled down his pants and started to pleasure himself. Except he couldn’t get an erection, so he stood there tugging away at his flaccid member and getting a lot more laughs than I was.
Next, this woman, who for some reason was dressed as an aardvark, she’d been dressed like that all day, jumped up on stage, rugby tackled him and started slapping him around the face. This didn’t stop him though, quite the opposite and he continued to merrily toss himself off as she beat him up. All the while I was still trying to perform my act.
We have worked together for a few months and we have both felt the attraction, seen how we look at each other, felt our gazes stroke each other’s souls, understood the growing connection. I want to taste your lips so badly, feel your gentle curves, press myself against you, into you. I feel like there is a rubber band being stretched ever tighter in my heart, like something is going to snap.
They send us together to this poky little seaside town on yet another pointless project. Our rooms in the bed and breakfast are adjacent and the walls are thin. I can hear you brushing your teeth, the tinkle of your peeing, your light snore, you sound like a kitten purring. I hope you can’t hear me masturbating, hope that I do not talk about you in my sleep.
There is nothing to do here of an evening and when the little pub shuts, we walk along the seafront talking, laughing, sharing our pasts, sometimes until it gets light. Tonight has been a night like that, and we sit on the beach, aimlessly flicking pebbles into the morning sea. I do that man thing and try to show off by showing you how I can skim little flat stones across the surface, making them bounce and dance. You shake your head and smile, looking at me like I was some kind of idiot. The early sun tickles the tips of the waves, turning them into gold and gulls circle and cry overhead waiting for the returning fishing boats.
“Fancy a swim?” I grin. You look at me almost startled but smiling.
“We don’t have bathing suits.”
“So what? There’s no-one here but us.”
“You first, then.” you say, your smile growing a little wider. I strip, my back to you and hobble across the pebbles comically, hearing your laugh against the lapping of the waves. The water is not cold but chilly and I wade in up to my waist and turn round to face you.
“Come on in, its lovely.” I beam, only lying slightly.
“Turn round then.” you beam back . I turn and wait for you to undress, hear you feet on the pebbles, hear you enter the water, hear the splash of your naked body diving into the waves, and I watch excitedly as you emerge a few feet ahead of me, shaking the water from your hair and grinning wildly, the water level just above your nipples but with the gentle rise and fall of the waves tantalisingly exposing more of you. You enjoy the way my eyes probe you and and the water is clear enough for you to see my rising erection. “Ha ha!” you giggle, pointing, “I can see a little fishy.” I make a grab for you but you are fast and slip under the waves and dart away from me. We chase each other and play and try to duck each other’s heads under the water.
We come to rest by a breakwater and I push you gently back onto it and press myself against you. I can feel your softness, your panting breasts, I can feel your heart beat, feel how it races. You can feel what you are doing to me. “Not such a little fishy now?” I snigger and you shake your head again, but you smile and I kiss you, knowing with every fibre of my being that it is what you want.