Ok, so to prove I’m back and (kinda) firing on all cylinders, another faux pas story, albeit an apocryphal one.
Some background: This story was told to me by an ex-girlfriend’s brother. We got on really well, so I’ve no reason to doubt the authenticity of this, but…y’know…I can’t hand on heart 100% say that it definitely happened.
Legal disclaimers done.
So: a lad’s holiday, overseas in Tenerife or Ibiza or some such place. The group are in a club, sharking, and get talking to a group of girls. Five boys in one group, five girls in the other: the maths is improbably perfect.
But one of the boys is having stomach problems, and really needs to have a good clear out. So he heads to the toilets in the club where he does precisely that.
And as he finishes, the scrabbling, dawning realisation: there’s no toilet paper in his cubicle.
What do to? There are ladies out there that he needs to impress, and yet here he is, in a toilet with what can only be described as a rather unsatisfactorily wiped arse.
He looks around for something which could be substituted for toilet paper, but can see nothing. In the end, a lightbulb moment: he rips the pocket out of his trousers, uses that, tosses it into the toilet bowl, flushes and exits.
He returns to the club, his friends, the girls, he feels King of the World.
Except…dragging along behind him, attached by a single thread, is the not-quite-as-disconnected-as-he-thought pocket from his trousers, covered in his own soiled, frantic wipings.
Want an appropriate record? Have two:
More soon. Probably football related. You’ve been warned.