The time I first took a girl out on a date

I was a huge Twin Peaks fan. Huge. I had to have or watch anything I could find that was even remotely related to it; film, TV, music, book, clothing, food, posters, audio recording. Anything.

So when I got the opportunity to see Boxing Helena at the cinema, I seized it.
I knew it was going to be a bad film. I'd followed its production in Empire and was fully aware of the plot and the controversy.

But Sherilynn Fenn was in it. She was in Twin Peaks. And she reportedly went topless in it. I, like so many boys my age, had a massive crush on the female cast of Twin Peaks. So I had to see it.

The opportunity to go to the cinema was the occasion of my awkward first date with my first girlfriend, Charlotte.

The first time I saw Charlotte was in my Psychology class at college. She was wearing dungarees, had very short hair and said "all meat is murder" in the first class.
I instantly assumed she was a lesbian.

Turns out that she wasn't. She was a Madonna fan instead, which is arguably worse.
She also, unaccountably, liked me.

So at the end of the year I asked her out on a date. To see a terrible film. Because I fancied the lead actress. Who got her tits out.

The film itself was so bad that it was funny. Laugh out loud funny.
I laughed all the way through.
I laughed as Helena was hit by a car.
I laughed as she woke up to phantom limb pain.
I laughed as she tried to escape in her wheelchair.
I laughed as he cut off her arms and stuck her in a box.
I laughed when she learnt to love him in spite of his psychotic amputations.

Then I walked Charlotte to her bus stop, had my first kiss and went home.

The fact that Charlotte thought I was boyfriend material after that should have sounded alarm bells, but that's another story all together.

The time I broke someone's arm with my face

You take your victories where you find them. This is a celebrated victory for the little guy and the genesis of my tried and tested fighting style.

I'm eleven years old, and it's my first week at 'big school'. I've not made many friends as yet, and my genius move to attract more is to walk around the school grounds alone every lunch.

This lunch I'm walking along the fence that divides the tennis courts from the hockey pitch and I pass three older boys on the other side.
They call me names. I ignore them.
This is unacceptable to them, so they squeeze through a gap in the fence and chase me.

When they catch me, which wasn't hard - I was a fat nerd - they surround me and make some threats. I threaten back, although mine are a lot less convincing.
Their appointed leader decides that things are taking too long, and swings at me.
He his me soundly on the head, above my eye, on the brow.
I rock backwards for a moment.
He cries out in pain and clutches his wrist.

You see, 12 year olds are not that skilled at throwing punches. He literally swung at me and whacked his wrist right onto my forehead and, it turns out, fractured his wrist.

I only learnt this because about two weeks later I saw one of the gang in the corridor at school and called him and his boss out.
Because I'm a fucking genius. I was born that way.
So, when the gang of older bullies turn up in my class room, the leader shows me the cast on his wrist and threatens to beat me to death with the pot.

I think my school bred geniuses.

The time I first bought condoms

I went out with my first official girlfriend when I was 17, a girl called Charlotte from my Psychology class. She had short hair, wore dungarees, liked Madonna and was a vocal vegetarian. I instantly assumed she was a lesbian when I first saw her, because 17 year old boys are morons.
I took her to see Boxing Helena on our first date. Yeah, I had all the moves.
As soon as we were officially 'going out' I did what every red blooded moronic 17 year old boy would do... Instantly assume we were goibg to have sex, and bought some condoms.

I wanted my first experience of buying condoms, of being a responsible adult no less, to be a memorable one. One I could look back on with respect and dignity.

To this end, I chose the largest branch of Boots in Leeds city center, on a Saturday lunchtime, to buy my condoms.
I went straight to the aisle, picked up a ten pack (because I was optimistic to a fault) of Durex 'ribbed for her pleasure' (because I'm a considerate guy) and marched to the pharmacy counter.
I chose the prettiest assistant I could and handed her the condoms.
"Just these, please," I said, looking her straight in the eye
"Did you pick up your free wallet?"
"Pardon?"
"Your free wallet. Every pack of ten gets a free promotional wallet. Hang on," She waved to one of her colleagues in the aisles "Mary! Can you get this lad one of the Durex wallets please!" She waved the condoms above her head to remove any doubt, then turned to my whitened face "Wouldn't want you to miss out... They're free."

I used that wallet for years. It was actually pretty good.

The time I learnt what a freebased OXO cube smells like

This is not quite a story about me, but it is one of my favourite stories ever...
This is a story about Simon Walsh, a flatmate in my first year university dorm. Simon is reportedly dead now, which is unsurprising given the kind of life he lived - he had the best stories ever.
He was a recovering smack addict. His ex, Dee, left him for the guitarist from Hawkwind ("amazing guitarist though"). He'd been a tree surgeon, and done some work for Eric Clapton (in hurricane winds). He drank White Lightening (cheap white cider, commonly used to clean cassette heads). We will never see his like again.

One night the flat decided to go see a film at the local cinema. I opted to stay behind with my friend Simon Lloyd and roll around on cars pulling 70s cop show poses wearing 70s jackets and pointing toy guns at each other.
Yeah, we got all the ladies..

After a few hours the rest of the flat came back, minus Simon Walsh.
Where was he? No-one knew. They'd last seen him as they walked past Shiftnal Street, Bolton's red light district.
Clearly Simon Walsh had made a diversion.

An hour later he appeared at the flat, looking exceptionally pleased with himself.
He poured himself a pint of White Lightening and sat with the rest of us in the kitchen whilst we played a board game (possibly Talisman).
We didn't pay much attention to him, as was tradition, and soon realised that Simon Walsh had vanished again, and left a half pint of paint stripper on the table...
"He never leaves alcohol," we observed.

Sure enough he reappeared some thirty minutes later, significantly less chipper, and finished his White Lightening in silence (none of us had touched it. Not after last time).

The evening drew to a close, and we stood to leave the kitchen and go to our respective rooms. As we opened the kitchen fire door we were greeted by the most god awful smell. I'd once thrown cat shit onto my parents rayburn, and that had smelt bad. This smelt worse. Much worse.

One of my other flatmates, an impish ex-chef from Norwich called Dylan, grabbed me and bundled me into his room, barely containing his glee. He began to tell me a story..

Simon Walsh had indeed separated from the group in the red light district and approached a prostitute. Not for sex, oh no, for something else entirely.
Simon wanted heroin, and the best place he could think of getting it from was a pimp. So he had to talk to a girl.
The girl introduced him to her guy.
The guy introduced him to a car full of other guys who drove him out somewhere to meet another guy.
The other guy sold him some smack and the car full of guys drove him back.
On the way, they shared a joint with him. They also advised him to hide the stuff, as the police had a habit of searching people walking out of the area.
Simon put the heroin in his sock, as advised. Good job too, as he was stopped and searched on the way back. They didn't find it.
This is why he was so pleased with himself when he got in. He'd had an adventure, gotten stoned, evaded the police and was about to get totally off his face.

The reason he looked so dejected afterwards, and the reason for the god awful smell, was they had sold him an OXO cube.

The time I first drank a Long Island Iced Tea

Hope is a cruel mistress.
Hope is a destructive human emotion that pushes us to commit futile and painful and inefficient acts because, maybe this time, things will be different.
Hope pulls us up, then knocks us down twice as hard and three times further, leaving us saying "at least I tried" as though that's any comfort whatsoever.

You must crush hope wherever you see it rear its siren head. Kill it dead.

This is a story about a time I shot hope down. It's not as bleak as all that.

As stories like this inevitably begin, I was going out with a girl. She was blonde and gorgeous and called Jenna and significantly younger than me. Young enough to polarise my friends between high fiving me and having serious talks with me.
It didn't last long, though. Jenna dumped me.

The following night I went out with my best friend, Arwel Griffith, to drown my sorrows.
We ended up in a jazz bar on Oldham Street in Manchester - Matt & Phreds. It was dark, loud and cool. We sat and drank and talked.
Sometime into our second drink, who should walk in but Jenna and her best mate. Both looked drop dead stunning. Better than I'd ever seen them looking.
Jenna looked amazing, single, available and totally over me.
They saw us, came over and sat down.
Arwel had not met Jenna, and had presumed I was sharking in for a rebound on these two stone cold foxes. When I told him who they were he did what every good friend should do in such circumstances. He took me to the bar and said "whatever you want".

The barman, a painfully cool and attractive chap (because Matt & Phreds only employ painfully cool and attractive people) asked me what I would like to drink.
"I've just split up with my girlfriend," I explained, "and she's just come in, looking a million dollars and is clearly over me. What would you recommend?"
"A Long Island Iced Tea" he said, and began mixing.
Matt & Phreds bar doesn't use measures, and free pours instead. Generously. The barman was more generous than usual, and passed us both a sweet brown drink in an oversized tumbler.

Halfway down, and I couldn't feel my face anymore.
This was good news. Now I could talk to Jenna, and everything would be ok.
I'd talk to her, she'd see what a stand up good bloke I am, and we'd get back together.

This was hope talking, and hope is a liar and a tease.

It soon became clear that I was delusional, that I was clinging into the last threads if hope, desperately trying not to fall into that abyss beneath me. I needed to cut the strings and tumble down.

So I got a second Long Island Iced Tea. The barman made this one stronger, and added some ginger ale for extra kick.
Best decision ever.
It was marvellous. As Arwel and I descended into inebriation we double teamed them like pro's.
He'd distract her friend whilst I poured my heart out like curdeled milk onto the floor, then when she couldn't take any more from me, he swooped in and told her just what a great guy I was and how much he could tell I liked her.
She didn't get a moments peace.
Even when they left, we gallantly walked them to the taxi rank, when I revealed my master plan to Jenna.

"I still have hope," I told her. "I still think we could get back together. And we won't. So I have to kill that hope. Kill it dead. I need to wake up tomorrow morning and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I have fucked up any chance I ever had of getting you back."
She just stared at me.

The next morning I woke up and replayed the events of the previous night through my head.
Oh no! Did I...? I didn't..? I did...? Fuuuuck!
It worked. We didn't get back together, and I knew we wouldn't. In fact, she barely spoke to me again.
Result?

So now, when I have a Long Island Iced Tea, I am raising a glass to a night of catharsis and to the best anti-wingman ever, Arwel.

The time I got Chump Dumped and met Spandau Ballet's biggest fan

This story is all Yasmin's fault. She's one of my oldest friends, who will hopefully be outraged that I've just implied that she's old (36, ladies and gents).
Yas and I used to hang out a lot. So much, in fact, that one of my girlfriends justified getting off with a random bloke in a club with "well you're clearly fucking Yasmin!"
Ha! No. We entertained each other greatly, but nothing ever happened.

Anyways, this story isn't about Jenny or how she thought I was cheating on her.
No, it's about how Yas' once threw me to the wolves to save herself.
She's clearly a value added friend.

The story starts at The Cockpit, an Indie Rock night at the Cock of the North in Leeds. Yasmin and I were there, like we were every week (as well as the Poly Stomp, Bash Street and various pubs in Headingly).
This one time, as we walked near the bar, Yas said "Shit, it's Span!" and suddenly she was gone.
It's almost as though she'd thrown a smoke bomb down in front of her and fallen through a trapdoor like a cheap stage magician.
In my confusion I found myself stood in front of an odd man.
I can only remember two main points about him.
1. His pronounced estuary accent.
2. The massive ear to ear scar across his neck. More on that later.

This man made eye contact with me, and started talking. A continuous stream of information spewed out from him, trapping me in the inescapable thick treacle of this man's life.
He had been to Spain. He loved it. More than words can express. I know this because he tried to use many many words to express his love for Spain. (years later I visited his house, unintentionally, and he was painting a wall with the exact gradient of blues - light at the top, deeper blue at the bottom - of the Spanish horizon, using dozens of photographs as a reference point. He once again took the opportunity to explain how beautiful the country is, and failed).
He was a strong proponent of nuclear disarmament, and had been involved in a great number of demonstrations and events. This fact was somehow linked to Spain, but the logic made my brain hurt. Anyway, he was passionate about living in a nuclear free world.
That passion was evident in everything he did, apparently. He didn't like things, he loved them.
He loved Spandau Ballet. He loved them so much, people called him 'Span', which is how he introduced himself to me. To this day, I do not know if he has any other name.
Finally, he likes talking. He freely admitted this. He then indicated the scar on his neck. His old flatmate had told him "If you don't shut up, I'm going to get this knife and cut your throat."
That story pretty much told itself. Span spelt it out to me anyway. "So he cut my fucking throat".
He then paused, for dramatic effect, and I was able to get a word in edge ways.

The time my penis exploded

There are a number of things I have done that I regret. One of them is a girl called Kirsty at University.
We were only intimate twice, and the second time was ... awkward.

There's no delicate way (that I can think of) to say this, so I'll just be blunt.

As we started, I felt, nay heard, a 'pttch', and there was a momentary sensation.
So I stopped and looked.

I was bleeding all over her. Bleeding heavily.

For those who don't know, the penis enlarges itself by pumping itself full of blood and increasing the local blood pressure significantly. It's like a sexy, dirty, blood filled balloon.
(Yes, I realise that I'm talking about my penis in the third person, like it's a cognizant, aware entity that acts without my direction. That's because it is)

So, to recap. I'm naked. This girl is naked. I have an erection that's spurting blood all over her, and probably mentally scarring her for life.
But enough of her, let's talk about me....

My immediate thought was "shit, I'm going to bleed to death! Out of my penis! I have to lose this erection, right now!"
Under the circumstances, I think I did what anybody would do. I filled the sink with ice cold water and plunged my penis into it's freezing depths.
The plan was that the cold would instantly cause my penis to wilt, and the danger would be over.
However, my penis, having a mind of its own, decided that ice water is actually a turn on, and maintained its rigidity.

This was becoming quite a worry. How would they tell my mum?
"It seems your son bled out through his penis whilst engaged in sexual misadventure"
"It's how he would have wanted to go"

Also, you might expect that the shrill, horrified screams of the girl might be a turn off. No. They didn't even register. All I could think of was my erection and the possibility that I would become a campus legend. An urban myth.
"Did you hear about the guy who bled to death ... from his knob! That was his room. They had to replace the carpet, repaint the walls and replaster the ceiling in the room below."

I think it was this flight of fancy that saved me. Luckily I don't find urban legends sexy. Cool, yes, but not sexy.

For the next week I was genuinely scared of getting an erection, in case I had a red stain spreading over my crotch.

The time I freaked out a speeding girl at my Dad's 50th

My parents are pretty unique, so when my Dad turned 50 he decided to celebrate by throwing a party with bar, DJ and live bands in a run down warehouse in a red light district in Bradford.
I went there with Simon Lloyd, one of my best friends.
In all honesty we had no idea what we were letting ourselves in for.
It started well. The bands were good and the room was chock full of family and friends.
Most of these people were intent on performing some obscene dionysian ritual to reclaim their lost youth and party like they did 25 years ago.
There was a lot of drink and a lot of drugs flying around. Mostly up or out of peoples noses.
The overall result of this was Simon and I incredulously bouncing between drunken groups and tweaked out weirdos.
One guy I spoke to was Steve. Steve was a friend of my parents, and worked in the same field - furniture and antiques. Steve was in an excitably cheerful mood, and spent our conversation telling me about how he'd stopped working and passed his business over to his kids, how they were making a real go of it, doing better than he ever did, and gushing about how proud of them he was. It was quite a pleasant catch up.
As the night wore on, more people arrived, and I found myself talking to a pretty blonde with pupils big as saucers. Apparently she'd been taking methamphetamine by the bag and hadn't slept for over three days.
This was her conversational opener.
I cannot remember her name for the life of me, but I remember the conversation....
We did that thing you do at parties, and tried to work out if we knew each other, or if we knew people in common.
"I'm Steve's daughter," she said. "Do you know Steve Wood n Stuff?"
"Oh yes. I know him. I was just talking to him earlier."
"What?" Confused face. "You can't have."
"No, I did. Earlier tonight. He's here," I stood on my tip toes, looking for Steve in the crowd. "You're running his business now?"
"Yes..."
"He was telling me that you've taken over his business now, and how proud he is of you."
The girl's eyes had gotten bigger now, if that were possible.
"He died last year..."

Turns out that Steve is a fairly common name. Who knew?

The time I was told that I have no soul

This story is about the Leeds Lights - the city's Christmas decorations that spring up almost immediately after the August bank holiday.
I am a firm believer in tradition, and one of my traditions is to complain about how early decorations are put up.
One year, as I walked through Leeds indulging in this fine tradition with a friend, I was stopped by an old lady who had been following us and listening to our conversation.
"I was on a bus the other day," she said "and two Asian gentlemen were sat in front of me talking about what you can see from space."
"'There are two man made structures that you can see from space' one of the men had said," the serial eavesdropper explained "'and one of them is the Leeds Lights!'"
She then turned directly to me, pointed her wizened, bony index finger right at my heart and said, triumphantly "and you, sir, have no soul!"
Then, her piece said, she turned around and walked off.