There’s a certain comfort in close physical contact with a special person. The feel of hot breath on your neck. Your bodies fitting together like two spoons. It just feels so nice and secure. At that moment, life couldn’t be any better, right? But NOT if you find yourself spooning a complete stranger on public transport in London.

The London Underground is notorious for being overcrowded at peak times. Personal space is at a premium, so you learn to make allowances. Did she mean to brush against my butt cheek? Surely not. Does he mind me reading his text message over his shoulder? Okay, he does mind that. Sorry.

When the train carriage is packed and the doors close, sometimes you just have to accept that you have extremely limited personal space and you try to make the best of the one inch gap that you’ve managed to acquire for yourself with some subtle jostling. But there are still rules. Continue reading →

Recently I took a trip back to see family and friends in my home town of Bournemouth and had arranged to go out with an old friend for drinks in the evening. He has been down on his luck for a while, so I felt obligated to ensure that we rolled back the years and painted the town red, ideally not with vomit, for old time’s sake. I would have been happy just to down a couple of pints in a local pub, reminiscing about our youth, but my friend was determined to let his hair down, so when he asked where I would like to go, I just said “Anywhere mate.” Now, considering that this was the same friend who, on a recent visit to see me in London, had persuaded me to go to a dodgy hard house club, in which we were mistaken for undercover drugs squad officers by paranoid wide-eyed pillheads, in hindsight I realise that I possibly should have given some guidelines as to what was acceptable.

Bournemouth has a good nightlife, with many bars and clubs full of glamourous girls for us to stare at from the bar, drooling into our pints chat to and impress with our wit and intelligence. Continue reading →

An ample 'C' cup I would say

There I was, working out in the gym, trying not to let all of my previously documented pet hates of the gym bother me, and trying not to gurn too much with the effort, when out of the corner of my eye I saw her. Sure, she was lightly plump maybe, but probably at least a ‘D’ cup, with just enough of a seductive wobble to be pleasing on the eye. But then she turned towards me and it hit me. In the words of legendary 1980s rapper Tone Loc in his song Funky Cold Medina, it transpired that… ‘Sheila was a man’. As if it wasn’t bad enough that there is far too much ‘cockage’ on show in the gym changing room, I had now just been staring at a man’s jubblies. Oh the horror! Continue reading →