» Cringe!

Hair
So I'm sixteen years old. The girlfriend has come around to my place for the day, the folks and the sister are out, and the afternoon is ripe for lovin' -- or at least, kissin' and some awkward groping, which is the best a fairly shy guy such as myself could have expected.

But something is wrong. From the moment the ladyfriend walked in the door, she seemed a little nervous, a little distracted -- basically, the complete opposite of her usual self. After I realised something was up (it took about an hour or so... I'm really that observant), I asked her what was the matter. She refused to tell me. We played that game for a while (What'swrongnothingreallyyesyousureyesoh, the one I would soon come to recognise as an old favourite), but I eventually manage to get it out of her. In a quiet, delicate voice, quite unlike anything I've ever heard her say before, she comes out with:

'I've... you know... *shaved*.'

For some reason, my mind doesn't quite realise what's going on, so I respond with, 'Wow... Well, I have to say, it looks a lot better. I didn't want to mention anything, but I'd definitely noticed a little bit of fuzz there.'

All the while, I'm gesturing to her top lip. The lip that, in fact, was not one of the ones she was referring to.

There was to be no more fumbling that day. It took three hours for me to get her to even speak to me.

Length? Not insubstantial, but firmly out of sight that day. I was lucky she didn't rip it off.
(Fri 28th Nov 2008, 16:40, More)

» Siblings

My bro
There's quite a big gap between me and my brother -- almost eleven years, in fact -- which means we've tended to fight tooth and nail ever since he was born. He was always sniffing around me like a little puppy when we were kids, always doing his best to annoy me in that special little way that only younger siblings can. Of course, he got away with murder, what with being so much younger than everyone else and knowing just when to turn on the waterworks.

Despite this, and all of the irritation he's caused me over the years -- including one memorable incident where he 'accidentally' set one of my girlfriends a little bit on fire (a story for later, methinks, when I have more time to type it out in its glorious fullness) -- I've always been incredibly protective of him. For a kid, he's had an extremely tough life. He not only suffers from pituitary dwarfism (which means that, even though he's only about three feet tall, he's still roughly in the right proportion, and not particularly stocky), but also from Crohn's disease, which meant he had to have an operation when he was about six to remove a section of his small intestine that was so badly inflamed it was in serious danger of killing him. As a result, he's only capable of absorbing about half of the nutrients his body takes in, leading him to be ridiculously underweight (to the extent that, even in a family of beanpoles, he sticks out as being excessively skinny).

He's ten now, and weighs no more than about three and a half stone.

He ain't heavy, but...

/coat
(Sun 4th Jan 2009, 22:14, More)

» The most childish thing you've done as an adult

Godiva
I've lived in Coventry for three years now. Every time I'm in the town centre, I find myself walking past the statue of Lady Godiva, and every time I find myself giggling at the horse's massive bronze bollocks.

Seriously. The fuckers are huge.
(Fri 18th Sep 2009, 2:01, More)

» Mobile phone disasters

Italian Sendoff
Those of you who don't know me in person might well be unaware of my Italian ancestry -- it's an easy enough mistake, given my pasty Anglo-Irish features and distinctly Eastern European surname -- but those who do will know that I remain rather proud of my melting-pot cultural background. Part of that comes from having a large crowd of old Italians around when I was growing up, mostly friends of my grandparents: men and women who smelt funny and had strong, near-impenetrable accents; people who would chuckle and pinch your cheeks in the way the elderly don't realise the young hate.

As old Italians are wont to do, however, my grandparents' friends began to pass away, and funerals became more and more regular. At one point, having gone to two or three funerals of close friends in about the same number of months (all the while dealing with a husband who was coming out of a heart bypass operation), my Nonna decided she couldn't cope with going to these affairs alone anymore and asked my Dad to accompany her.

On a cold October morning, a large group of very Italian-looking men and women were standing around a graveside in the local cemetery, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth from all concerned. Another funeral, by all accounts very much a reserved, WASP-ish affair, was going on a few rows down. The two congregations couldn't look more different: one made up of prim, obviously upset but very reserved, stiff-upper-lip Anglicans; the other a group of slick-haired Mediterranean Catholics in dark suits and gold jewellery, the women openly shedding tears, the whole thing looking like something out of a Scorsese movie.

Then, all of a sudden, through the crisp, clear air sang out someone's mobile ringtone -- bad timing at best, but even worse when one of the younger members of the Italian group has gone with the ironic choice of Nino Rota's theme from The Godfather as his alert of choice at what can only have been close to full volume.

I wasn't there, but by all accounts the shocked looks from the other group of mourners were priceless, filled with worry that their dearly departed would be spending his eternal rest twenty yards or so away from Don Corleone (and whichever poor Mafia victim would be sharing the grave).

I'd apologise for length, but it's really the second movement that'll bring a tear to your eye.
(Thu 30th Jul 2009, 22:12, More)

» I'm going to Hell...

I must be going to Hell...
because whenever I stay in a hotel, I tipp-ex out the inevitable 'All the best, love Jesus' messages in the courtesy Bible.

Just think of all the B3tans I've scuppered!
(Sun 14th Dec 2008, 22:34, More)