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 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 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.