Coppus Interruptus(Or, why boys should never show girls their weapons.)
I should point out that the following story is not about a crap shag per-se. The bloke in question was a reasonable lay if a little prone to murmering cheesy sweet nothings, but I digress.
This incident occured on the morning of Friday 13th December 1996, in the halls of residence at Keele University. The previous day my friend Felicity's room had been broken into, occasioning the loss of some CDs, some money, a coat and one or two other items. Understandably, she was pretty upset, so we tried to cheer her up by having a particularly riotous evening out at the local goth night, and getting her, not to mention ourselves, monstrously drunk.
I was accompanied home by a gentleman called Steve, whom I had been vaguely seeing for the past week or two, and, partly out of shag-enthusiasm but mainly out of drunkenness, I neglected both to remove my copious make-up and to make any attempt to tame my hair, which had been backcombed to within an inch of its life. I must have been drunk or the thought of allowing my conquest to see me with morning after face and hair would have been enough to persuade me to sort it out.
We eventually went to sleep at about 6am. Never that comfortable with two of you in a crappy student single bed, especially as neither of us were exactly small and waif like, so actually sleeping at all was something of a luxury, and we were none-too-chuffed to be awoken suddenly about three hours later by a violent banging. At the door.
First instinct told us to ignore it. We hid under the duvet and waited for it to go away, but it didn't, and eventually we heard Felicity's voice.
"I'm really sorry to disturb you..." She began, as we retreated further under the duvet. Felicity was somewhat highly strung and crises prone and we were both fairly convinced that whatever she needed us for could probably wait, at least until we had had time for a coffee and a cigarette.
"...But I've got a really big apology to make to Steve..." she continued. Steve and I exchanged bewildered looks but again, figured that the apology was not really that urgent and kept silent in the hope she'd asssume we'd gone back to Steve's the previous night and weren't in. She wasn't put off.
"...And... er..." Felicity went on "The police are downstairs and they want to talk to him."
The next few minutes were a bit of a blur as we hastilly got up and followed her downstairs, Steve wearing nothing but his trousers from the night before and me in a very cliched black satin dressing gown. It turned out that amongst the items stolen from Felicity's room was a replica gun which Steve, for reasons best known to himself, had seen fit to lend her. The police were afraid that it had been used in a robbery that had taken place the previous night.
While he was describing the gun to them I caught sight of my reflection in the window. My hair, which the night before had been huge enough to make Siouxsie Sioux look like a two-bit drag queen, was now half-flattened and sitting at a rather awkward angle such that I now looked more like a Flock Of Seagulls tribute artist. The elabourate Eye Of Horus (I was young, OK?) which had been painted on my face had smudged beyond recognition across my cheek and worse, over Steve's. The Policemen gave me a withering glance and I decided it'd be better if I waited upstairs.
Funnily enough, that was the last time I ever slept with Steve and indeed, the following evening I first got of with the bloke I went on to spend the next three years with and very nearly married.
This incident occured on the morning of Friday 13th December 1996, in the halls of residence at Keele University. The previous day my friend Felicity's room had been broken into, occasioning the loss of some CDs, some money, a coat and one or two other items. Understandably, she was pretty upset, so we tried to cheer her up by having a particularly riotous evening out at the local goth night, and getting her, not to mention ourselves, monstrously drunk.
I was accompanied home by a gentleman called Steve, whom I had been vaguely seeing for the past week or two, and, partly out of shag-enthusiasm but mainly out of drunkenness, I neglected both to remove my copious make-up and to make any attempt to tame my hair, which had been backcombed to within an inch of its life. I must have been drunk or the thought of allowing my conquest to see me with morning after face and hair would have been enough to persuade me to sort it out.
We eventually went to sleep at about 6am. Never that comfortable with two of you in a crappy student single bed, especially as neither of us were exactly small and waif like, so actually sleeping at all was something of a luxury, and we were none-too-chuffed to be awoken suddenly about three hours later by a violent banging. At the door.
First instinct told us to ignore it. We hid under the duvet and waited for it to go away, but it didn't, and eventually we heard Felicity's voice.
"I'm really sorry to disturb you..." She began, as we retreated further under the duvet. Felicity was somewhat highly strung and crises prone and we were both fairly convinced that whatever she needed us for could probably wait, at least until we had had time for a coffee and a cigarette.
"...But I've got a really big apology to make to Steve..." she continued. Steve and I exchanged bewildered looks but again, figured that the apology was not really that urgent and kept silent in the hope she'd asssume we'd gone back to Steve's the previous night and weren't in. She wasn't put off.
"...And... er..." Felicity went on "The police are downstairs and they want to talk to him."
The next few minutes were a bit of a blur as we hastilly got up and followed her downstairs, Steve wearing nothing but his trousers from the night before and me in a very cliched black satin dressing gown. It turned out that amongst the items stolen from Felicity's room was a replica gun which Steve, for reasons best known to himself, had seen fit to lend her. The police were afraid that it had been used in a robbery that had taken place the previous night.
While he was describing the gun to them I caught sight of my reflection in the window. My hair, which the night before had been huge enough to make Siouxsie Sioux look like a two-bit drag queen, was now half-flattened and sitting at a rather awkward angle such that I now looked more like a Flock Of Seagulls tribute artist. The elabourate Eye Of Horus (I was young, OK?) which had been painted on my face had smudged beyond recognition across my cheek and worse, over Steve's. The Policemen gave me a withering glance and I decided it'd be better if I waited upstairs.
Funnily enough, that was the last time I ever slept with Steve and indeed, the following evening I first got of with the bloke I went on to spend the next three years with and very nearly married.