Wednesday, 3 February 2010

It won't even go when I hit it with a metal spoon

Those of you who are kind enough (and, let's be honest, privileged enough) to follow me on Twitter may have noticed me make reference to the proud trouser tower I woke with yesterday morning.

Well, the fucking thing is still with me.

Now don't get me wrong - there's nothing I enjoy more than having a full and unrepentant biffer, but this has gone from being mildly amusing to downright fucking career-threatening.

The morning wasn't so bad because I remembered I had it. (Just tucked it under the old waistband and made adjustments every time I sat down or stood up.) But lunch came and so did a very vigorous strategising session at the Dog & Hog with Big Alan Cockson and his mate, The Piddler (it's a long story), and I clean forgot I was carrying a gun in my pocket. (A big one, girls, like a Magnum or something - not a snub-nosed .38, alright?)

So, I walked back into the office, strolled over to Mandy Fookes's desk to see if she'd done everything I'd delegated at her that morning - and tapped her on the back of the head with it. She turned quickly to see what was going on, it poked her in the cheek, knocked her glasses off, got caught in her hair and eventually came to rest on her shoulder. It took some time to coax her out of the stationery cupboard.

I thought I'd just hide in my office for the rest of the day, but Big Andy Poleman was doing a tour with a woman from the parent company in Germany. (She was International Head of Something. Logistics? Logs? Lego? Fuck knows.) In he burst, I jumped up in surprise, caught the fucking thing on my desk, fell over in a substantial amount of pain, and stood up to shake hands with our lady visitor.

Only she didn't shake my hand.

I don't think she really noticed anything. Maybe. Or she might have done. It was hard to tell through the tears.

(Poleman wasn't pleased. He came bollocking in after she'd gone and called me 'a speck of shit on the end of a turd on a mound of crap in a bucket of shit'. He also called me a 'cunt-spacker', which even I thought was unnecessary.)

Finally, I got it stuck in my car door. Which hurt more than the desk.

I've tried everything. I've had more wanks in the last 36 hours than when I was 15 - and at that age, it was widely agreed in medical circles that I had a serious psycho-sexual problem. It can't take any more. The last few times ended with nothing more than a little puff of dust.

I've even tried whacking it with a metal spoon. (I read somewhere that's what boarding school matrons did. Fuck knows - I'll try anything.)

Anyone got any bright ideas? For once, Dave Knockles is stumped! (Though it ain't no stump, girls, alright?) Cure me and I'll be forever grateful - and so will Mandy Fookes.

Come on, team! We can solve this problem together! Let's grab hold of it with both hands!

Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!


  1. Have you met Nurse Myra ?

    I'll have a word on your behalf. She may be able to help.

  2. Perhaps if you lowered the dosage.....

  3. you have been to amsterdam a while back, havent you? did you bring anything substantial home from your trip?

  4. Look, folks - I've never so much as crushed up a viagra and snorted it off a lapdancer's back. I don't know what all this talk of dosage is.

    And as for Amsterdam, I thought we'd agreed to put that episode behind us / me. The only thing I brought home was a headache, some pills and a tattoo I can't remember getting.

  5. ...a tattoo I can't remember getting...

    Not on your todger I hope.

    It won't mean a thing when you finally get it down.