GOOD WITH HIS HANDS

The beginning (My first job)

Liverpool in the 50’s and early1960’s prior to the Mersey sound explosion and in particular the emergence of The Beatles was a typical working class British city famous only for its football clubs, docklands and ferry’s that crossed the Mersey into Birkenhead and the Wirral. Growing up in these times was the same for all young men and women living in industrial cities across the nation, war had been over for 5 plus years rationing was on the way out but jobs were scarce and there was unrest amongst the so called ‘Baby Boomers’. Teddy Boys were desperate to hang on to their identity as a new wave of delinquents were emerging from the new sounds beginning to filter through from the bowels of a cellar in the heart of Liverpool called The Cavern. I mention the Cavern and of cause the Beatles as I suppose this is where my journey starts, were my memories truly begin to take shape and where the foundation stones of my life were laid.

My first day at school aged 5.

I soon got over my first day nerves and became quite impressed with the offer of free gifts (a mini bottle of milk) bestowed upon me by the school every day, I soon learnt it was not just me that received this daily gift and that milk was given to all children attending school across the U.K.. In Post War Britain school milk, a third of a pint per child, was introduced in schools to supplement the child’s diet which in most cases was lacking.
I realized that not only was milk good for me but it could also be the answer to the mundane routine of the school day, attached to this nutritious supplement was the most sought after and prestigious position of ‘Milk Monitor’. A job everybody wanted as the privilege’s that came with it were immense, firstly you were allowed to leave class early to distribute the merchandise and most importantly to test the product for contamination which allowed you to drink as much carefully selected milk as your heart desired. Quality control was of high importance as the milk was always delivered early in the morning well before the school day began and often left for hours soaking up the morning sun during the summer months. This obviously had a negative effect on the quality of the product being consumed as curdled milk was not good to taste besides having quite devastating reactions on young underdeveloped tummies and causing outbreaks of diarrhea throughout the school. Also the other issue faced which has to be said was more prevalent was the winter months which in the north west of England seemed to last forever, when bottles would freeze and the expanding milk would blow the silver tops off leaving the frozen contents susceptible to contamination.
Amazingly I somehow was selected for the role of ‘Milk Monitor’, the school had seen some quality in me they thought could fill the position and excitedly I accepted and was as proud as punch to wear the coveted ‘milk Monitors’ badge after all this job was the envy of all my peers. Sadly the role was taken off me after just one term as I had not reached the potential and high standards the school required and I was stripped of my ‘Milk Monitors’ badge and stood down in disgrace, failure in my first job at such a young age was devastating. Apparently it was determined that my lack of due diligence and commitment to the role by supplying contaminated milk had caused an outbreak of food poisoning which hospitalized 14 students. Although it was a short tenure I did for a period at least enjoyed the freedom and excessive supply of selected milk and to be honest I soon got over my disappointment as I soon became part of school folk law as the boy who crippled a school.
We would also have regular visits from the school nurse which would again break up the boredom of the daily routine. The Nit nurse (aka Nitty Nora) used to make regular visits to check for head lice and we would line up to be examined cringing at the thought of Nitty Nora dragging her Nit comb through our curly locks to see if there was any infestation and most of the time the comb could have walked out the room by itself as head lice was rife and I remember sitting behind many a student in class over the years and being fascinated by the activity in the back of the heads that faced me. There were also routine eye and hearing tests as well as visits from the school Dentist (I still to this day have issues about visiting the Dentist from those early encounters).
There was also the polio vaccine, given at school to every child on a sugar lump. Measles and Mumps were not vaccinated against and I remember most children contracted these diseases as part of growing up and it was encouraged for kids to contract them as soon as possible by being encourage to play with other affected kids by their parents, “but mum jimmy’s got spots” always fell on deaf ears.

My early childhood memories of attending junior school were quite uneventful and I managed to survive Nitty Nora and her cohorts without major incident, well apart from the day I shit my pants in class which put a strain on my relationship with my resentful sibling who before being called in by my teacher and asked to escort me home was actually starting to become quite civil with Just the occasional smack across the back of the head and dig in the ribs to confirm were in the pecking order I fitted, but the shitting of my pants was a definite set back with the humiliation of dragging me around the neighborhood with the back of my legs dripping in yesterday’s mushy peas. Now as an adult I truly understand how frustrating it must have been for him having to drag me along to many a function while my parents were working or more to the point having to babysit me while they went to the pub, many a fight and many a broken window resulted in his childcare methodologies. But there was one special moment one memory and I do have the pictures to prove it (which is pretty rare for the times) that resulted in being present the day John Lennon met Paul McCartney.



Chapter 2
The Quarrymen and Secondary School

Saturday July 6th 1957 turned out to be quite an historic day not that we had any idea as to how important it would be and how this day would change the world forever. We had been taken to an auntie’s house (not a real auntie, but good family friends of mum and dad whom we called aunty and uncle) they lived just off Menlove Avenue Woolton and as it turned out opposite John Lennon’s aunt Mimi. As usual the parents who were socializing (drinking and adult chat, not for little impressionable ears) had decided that Bobby should take me to the Woolton fete for the afternoon at St Peters church. Reluctantly and with bribery (2 shillings) we headed to St Peters. After paying our 3d each to enter we strode around fascinated by the events and in particular the Liverpool Police Dog Display, it was turning out to be a great afternoon, ice cream sideshows and the crowning of the Rose Queen. Best of all I hadn't had a crack across the head or a Chinese burn since we arrived, things were on the up. Then it happened there was a Skiffle group playing, John Lennon was fronting the Quarrymen and we both where drawn like moths to a flame rushing over to get a better view and if I stood any closer I'd have been in the group, standing a yard away and staring up at John like a rabbit who had been caught in the headlights. This turned out to be the day that Paul McCartney was introduced to John, a day that truly changed the world and I was there, I was within 3 foot of John Winston Lennon and the event was captured on camera for the world to view, Bobby, me and the late great John Lennon truly a day I'll never forget.

Back in the 50’s and 60’s in the UK the education system in its infinite wisdom had decided that all school children finishing primary school must sit for exams called the eleven plus which would define the educational path you entered into, success (passing) meant winning the ‘Golden Ticket’ and yes this statement is meant to be a reference to ‘Willy Wonka’ as the stupidity of the system resembles a fairy story and failure (not passing) meant mediocrity in education. Successful students moved into the College system providing a pathway to university and beyond, sadly failure meant secondary school an inferior mode of education aimed at herding students through and out into the world of manual labour or the trades if you were lucky at the age of 15. So at the age of 11 and your ability to pass an exam would be instrumental and the key to your future, how absolutely absurd and thank God this archaic system is well and truly defunct and today’s generation has equal opportunities to move on academically whenever they feel ready.

I unfortunately became a casualty of the system having fell at the 11 plus hurdle and was eventually thrust into the secondary school caldron and labeled along with everyone else a waste of space, a failure and a total loser. Secondary schools housed mainly non achievers either through the misfortune of failing a one off exam or more often than not a load of thick pricks who hated the world and considered education a waste of time, the 3 R’s were not as important to them as having enough Brylcreme to keep their Elvis Presley hair styles in place. Sadly the school that I attended falls into the latter and day one of my attendance at this institute of learning (tongue in cheek) saw me man handled by the older boys who like Vultures survived on the rich pickings of fresh meat that happened to walk into the school grounds. I was duly set upon and dragged across the schoolyard before being deposited down the coke chute and into the bowels of the furnace room where I remained for the first lesson of the day with ripped trousers and a face as black as Louis Armstrong’s bottom.
It goes without saying that my senior school years were not and I stress not my favorite times apart from playing football (where the kicking’s were at least controlled) I spent most of my school attendance trying not to be beaten up or have my dinner money stolen. I found having to pay protection money to some spotty moron who thought a Caesarean Section was a district in Rome didn't help my educational aspirations and my thoughts were like those of a prisoner chalking out the days, weeks, months and years of his sentence on his cell wall till it was time to be released. The sheer Joy I felt when I turned 15 having reached the end of my sentence and the education custodians had seen fit to release me out into the real world, was overwhelming and my time had been served I had become a free man, poorly educated, no qualifications but free.

Now I know my parents loved me and had nothing but good intentions for my future and wanted me to make a success of my life. My dad was a hard working Bricklayer with fingers cracked and split like over cooked pork sausages from handling rough bricks and wet cement day in and day out. Working through the harsh conditions of a British winter (and most of the time a harsh summer) his touch always felt like I was being stroked by a sheet of sandpaper, Mum apart from being a housewife and mother also worked evening in factories as a packer, she was constantly on the go baking and preparing meals which she meticulously placed in order in the oven each evening before heading off to work, Dad's on the top shelf, Bobby's on the middle shelf and mine on the bottom rack (meals set out in pecking order) to be consumed on our return after the day’s activities. Sunday's were the only day of the week when we sat down together and ate a meal as a family, how I loved our Sunday roast, steaming potatoes (roasted and mashed), sizzling roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, two veg and lashings of Oxo gravy all to be mopped up with slices of bread.

Now having explained that my parents did everything they thought right for the family’s wellbeing to the best of their ability, there was one area they failed in and I must stress not intentionally and definitely without malice. Having told you earlier about my failings in my education it should be said that although I failed the eleven plus and ended up in hell my older brother passed his exams and progressed on into the world of blazers and caps and gaining entry into college. Which made my parents very proud and rightly so, it was also obvious that my parents were slightly disappointed regarding my endeavors which followed my successful sibling’s achievements. But were this situation really takes effect is when being introduced to new visitors to the house or meeting while out and about with strangers was the method of introduction with which my mother would greet people, "hello have you met the boy's? This is Bobby, he's very clever and goes to college and this is Roy, he's good with his hands" bloody hell mother good with my hands, thank you very much for that apparently I'm thick as a brick but can knock up a shelf, but as I stated earlier it was never said with malice but just the lack of tact by my mother but it played havoc with my self-esteem for many years.




Chapter 3
Work (paid)

Now we have established that I'm good with my hands it will come as no surprise to you that after leaving school my transition into the world of manual labor came via an apprenticeship in the building trade and in the winter of 1964 I found myself entering the gates of C. &G.L. Desoers Ltd Master Builders based at 2-4 Marathon Street Liverpool 6, armed with my brew (sugar and tea wrapped in newspaper) and cheese sandwiches ready to start my life as an apprentice Joiner.

Although deep down I was shaking like a jelly outwardly I was trying to portray a confidence that was befitting of an experienced man of the world I quickly learned that my bravado never fooled anyone. Within an hour of meeting my work colleagues I soon came to realize where in the food chain of the workplace I actually fitted and if I thought my first day at school was bad enough I never could have imagined what this so called mature adult world had in store for me. Having been informed by the foreman that my role was to be a runner for the tradesmen and to keep my mouth closed and my ears open and that my duties would include going to the shop with the orders (usually the chippy) and to brew the Joiners individual cans of tea in readiness for lunch.

So having a clear understanding of what was expected of me I decided to show initiative and with my note paper and pencil in hand I started to take orders from each individual hoping to impress with my keenness, there were 6 Joiners, 2 Machinists and 2 general laborers and 1 Foreman and my first ever lunch order was as follows:

Joiner Fred, 1 six of chips, 1 fish, 20 woodies (cigarettes) and a pint of pigeons milk
Machinist Bill, (call in to ironmongers next to chippy) get 1 elastic tape measure and a tin of striped paint (black & white)
Joiner Bob, (while at the ironmongers) 1 large tin of blue fog
Laborer Tom, bag of chips and curry sauce (while at ironmongers) 1 packet of fanny crack filler (large)
Foreman Mr. Hughes, on the way back call into the office and ask Mr. Desoer (the owner) for a Long Stand.

So having humiliated myself at the ironmongers and being told to wait outside the office by my employer (which lasted 1 hour) before being sent back to the workshop in shame and having to listen to the howls of laughter from my so called work colleagues on the shop floor I couldn't imagine my life being any worse than that moment, but how wrong I was. That afternoon when all the lunchtime activities had settled down and I was brushing up the shavings and preparing the workshop in readiness for home time when my nightmare began, what happened next put being placed down a school yard coke chute into insignificance? I was duly set upon by the 2 laborers pinned to workshop floor and had my trousers dragged below my knees, my underpants pulled down followed by my genitals being smeared in fish glue which in turn was showered in wood shavings. I had been well and truly initiated and apparently this was an accepted ritual for all new apprentices throughout the building industry, and totally endorsed by employers and employees alike and I thought school was bad.

But revenge can sometimes be sweet, very sweet indeed and it was some weeks later that I began to reap my reward (I suppose that should be plural as my revenge lasted for the whole year) and to this day I'm sure my devious exploits have gone undetected which still brings a wry smile to my face as I share this with you. As I stated earlier my duties as a first year apprentice included preparing and making my work colleagues 'cans of tea' in readiness for their lunch which in turn meant cleaning out the cans from the mornings break.

Being a dedicated 'Can Lad' and keen apprentice I took these duties very seriously and had decided that the only way to keep these Cans' clean and free from tea stains was to piss in them and did I piss in them, every working day for the rest of the year I performed my duties with diligence and a great deal of hot steamy piss. My initiation may have been humiliating but after all it was only one day of barbaric and archaic behavior and my sweet revenge was calculated, lasting and extremely pleasurable to watch those nasty bastards sipping their lunchtime cuppa's while I sat watching, eating my cheese butties and occasionally giggling to myself while enquiring 'how's your tea?'

Three years into my apprenticeship and things had settled down, I had become a true member of the team and my joinery skills were improving day by day, the demons of the past had truly faded along with the glue stains that had engulfed my juvenile testicles. I was happy with my lot after all I had moved on from my initial pay slip of 2 pound 16 shillings and eight pence a week as a 15 year old to earning over 8 pounds a week at 17, which in 1966 to me was a small fortune. My mum would take 2 pound for housekeeping and I had the princely sum of a fiver ever week to spend as I liked, my life couldn't have been better after all 1 pound ten shillings could buy you 8 pints of lager, a packet of 20 woodies and a curry. Things could not have been better when out of the blue the worse possible news was delivered to me one bright sunny August morning as I entered the gates to start another working day, when I was greeted by Jack (Mr. Hughes the foreman) and led into the office to be told that my apprenticeship was to be suspended as Desoers Building Contractors were going into receivership and my employment would be terminated effective immediately. Mr. Desoer himself apologized for the situation he found himself and promised to do everything in his power to have my apprenticeship transferred to another builder for completion.

True to his word within two days I received news that my apprenticeship would be taken over and continued with a London based company called Trollope and Colls who were one of the main contractors on the massive building project in the city Centre of Liverpool I was to finish serving my time on the largest building site the north of England had seen at the time. I would spend the next 3 years working on one of Liverpool’s most iconic features, the amazing St Johns shopping precinct and I had the opportunity and good fortune to have played my part in the construction of Liverpool’s tallest building (including the antenna) the St Johns Beacon (now known as the Radio City Tower) which is one of the cities great skyline features and stands proud along with the two amazing Cathedrals.
Radio City Tower is a radio and observation tower (formally a restaurant) built in 1969 and opened by Queen Elizabeth II It was designed by James A. Roberts Associates in Birmingham. It is 138 meters (452 ft.) tall, and is the second tallest free-standing building in Liverpool and the 32nd tallest in the United Kingdom.

When considering the height of the building, however, it has a 10m long antenna on the roof, making it the highest structure in Liverpool (including antennas). So my claim of working on Liverpool’s tallest building still remains true to this day.




Chapter 4
Boobs, Bra’s and virginity

From the age of 14 my thoughts were totally consumed with sex, my hormones had hi-jacked my body and I had lost control and not only in my waking hours there was no relief in sleep either. I spent these early adolescent years harboring what seemed a permanent erection a stiffy that would not subside and woke most mornings finding my underpants bathed in a sticky residue after experiencing another erotic dream.
Everything turned me on and I had absolutely no control to the point where I even struggled travelling on the bus and on many occasion I had to stay on past my stop in fear of alighting with an obvious erection protruding from my trousers. The bouncing of the bus especially travelling over railway tracks would spark a reaction and it would often take 2 or 3 stops past my destination and some serious concentration, usually reciting my seven times table in my head (I always had trouble with my seven times table) before my condition had subsided enough allowing me to stand and vacate the bus.
Playboy magazines and in particular ‘Playmate of the Month’ became my study material beautifully formed and surgically enhanced women dominated my reading library and I swear I used to believe that all women had staples in their belly buttons after all I had never seen a real live women naked. I’d been pleasing myself over glossy fantasy models for ages even after deciding to continue at the risk of going blind. I was forever being told blindness was a bi-product of too much self-gratification by school friends who believed the myths and old wives tales fed to them by elders wanting to curb their evil ways by instilling the fear of God into them.
Although I had not entered into the real world of female nakedness at this point in my life and my only experience of actually touching the female form had been restricted to a glancing brush of a breast while engaged in some heavy petting with a local girl behind the bike shed. She was the sister of a friend of mine and a year older and it was she who instigated our after school activities and as these petting sessions became more frequent it was becoming more and more obvious that things were about to move into the next phase. It was during one of these bike shed liaisons that she just blurted out “do you like my tits” and like a trembling fool I mumbled “fuck yes, oh yes they are beautiful” and before I could continue she proceeded to unbutton her blouse, lift up her bra and expose the most perfectly rounded succulent breasts for me to view, although trembling I just did what any pimply hormone induced 15 year old sex addict would do, yes I dived in head first burying my face in between them and muffling out the surrounding sounds. The excitement was too much for me and to be honest I’m not sure how long I was submerged between them but when I eventually came up for air I was smiling like a Cheshire cat, my hearing had returned to normal and my underwear once again had become awash in a wet sticky mess. We continued to see each other twice a week over the next 6 months and as the months rolled by I had become a master of unclipping and removing a ladies bra with one hand while keeping the other free and available for further body exploration.


They say you always remember the first time you have sex no matter how long ago or how many partners you may had since and this is certainly the case for me. Although my bike shed exploits had long ceased and I was now into my 16th year I still had not actually progressed passed boob manipulation but that was all about to change when 2 weeks before my 17th birthday I eventually lost my virginity. Yes it was memorable and I will never forget it but sadly for all the wrong reasons, to say it was a disappointment would be an understatement it was in fact traumatic and definitely not what I had imagined my first time to be like.
The evening began as most Friday nights did with myself and a group of friends sneaking into one of the less reputable public houses where we would be guaranteed to be served. Liverpool had many Pubs that turned a blind eye to the age laws and we took full advantage of these watering holes and accepted their hospitality wholeheartedly. Eventually we would end up in a night club rather worse for wear after consuming large quantities of Lager. As the night progressed and my new found self-imposed Dutch courage took over I approached a really beautiful girl who was displaying all the signs of actually liking me, we chatted and danced for hours and eventually I offered to take her home which she accepted.
Arriving at her front door we started to kiss then tongues got involved and my new found skills took over releasing the clasp of her bra with one hand while the other roamed around fondling the rest of her body. We were now into some heavy petting and both enjoying the moment when she whispered “You can come in, but be quiet my mum and dad are in bed upstairs”. Well this was a typical 2 up 2 down terrace house and the walls were paper thin and definitely the kind of accommodation you couldn’t swing a hamster in never mind a cat, but this was an opportunity I was not going to miss. We crept along the hallway and into the lounge and purposely not turning on any lights we lay on the floor in silence and continued our sexual exploits, kissing biting and shedding clothing. When we heard a creek, we both froze for a second and listened “shhh don’t make a sound she whispered into my ear” at this point I think my heart stopped, but after a few seconds all was quiet again and our exploits continued where we left off. Trousers and undies off, shirt off, bra and panties discarded and as quietly as I could while laying on top of her I began to enter her, my head was awash with a thoughts of my seven times table “one seven is seven 2 sevens are 14 etc etc” I didn’t want to ruin this moment with an uncontrolled premature embarrassing release. Then suddenly as I continued to thrust there was a huge smack on my bottom, ‘whack’ a big wet smack hit me across my backside, this time I was sure I was about to die and as I turned around expecting to see an angry parent standing over me I realized I was being mounted by the biggest fucking dog I’d ever seen. There I was as naked as the day I was born being molested by a horny bloody Labrador.
Well to say the episode was over would be an understatement there now was movement from the upstairs, footsteps could be heard and like a true hero I was up dressed and heading for the bus before things could get any worse after all I wasn’t about to hang around to meet anymore of her family. Although it was an absolute none romantic episode a total disaster which had probably left me with a permanent heart defect at least I was no longer a virgin, although penetration was minimal it was penetration and therefore in the eyes of the law legally I had lost my virginity.
Having left in rather a hurry that evening and without exchanging contact details we never saw each other again but there will always be a special place in my heart for that young lady a special place I’ve labelled ‘Cherry Popper’ and she will never be forgotten. I have often wondered if she ever found a secret place in her heart to remember me by and if she ever did I’m sure she filed it away under the title of ‘Wanker’.


Chapter 5
The Bottle

Now I know we have all heard it before that 15 year old boy’s think of nothing else but sex, obsessed my mum called it ‘they should make the little buggers wear boxing gloves till their 21’ she would tell my dad every Wednesday night at dinner. Not sure why it was always Wednesday’s but I think it had something to do with it being washing day. She would rave on about the state of the bedding and how she wished she had a girl. I personally don’t see what difference a girl would make, unless she slept on top of the covers or under the bed. My dad would lean towards me and whisper “don’t try and make sense of it, you will never work women out”. He reckons they have something done to them at birth that makes them the way they are, and with his tongue firmly embedded in his cheek and out of earshot of my irate mother he would mutter under his breath “they have their sense of direction cell removed and replaced with a fart detection micron” now eat your dinner.

But in all reality my mother was right, sex was all I ever thought about it consumed me, it ate away at my thoughts I was struggling to function as my concentration would be distracted from my everyday activities and my penis became my obsession all I cared about at such an impressionable age was, is it big enough? They say size doesn’t matter, but believe me every man wants to have a bigger penis and yes it is a status symbol, yes it is about impressing other men first when you are young you have a belief that your status is determined by the size of your member, in all reality I was a mess. I had a close friend who told me that the reason his manhood was so big was because he used to ‘Vacuum’ it. Apparently he would light a match and drop it into a milk bottle, then put his member inside the bottle while getting an erection the match would burn up the oxygen and his stiffening dick would be drawn deep into the bottle. He actually told me that the bubble on the end of a condom was not there to catch the sperm but was for stepping on so you could pull the fucker off. He might have been lying about the condom but there was no hiding the fact he had the biggest piece of meat and two veg hanging between his legs you are ever likely to see. I quickly came to the conclusion he had to be doing something more than masturbating, because if that’s all it took mine would be dangling down like an Elephants trunk. So vacuuming it has to be and this Friday night was ‘D’ day ‘D’ for dick day. Hopefully by Saturday morning I will have a bell-end hanging off me like Noddy’s hat.
My parents went out early on Friday night apparently there was a knees up at the British Legion which meant they wouldn’t be home till the wee hours. I had cleaned out a milk bottle and bought a box of matches earlier in the day, so the scene was set, the moment of truth had arrived. I had decided that my bedroom would be the best place to perform the operation and had a couple of practice runs first. Lighting and dropping a match into the bottle and sticking my thumb into the neck to see if it would work and sure enough as the match burnt my thumb was being drawn into the bottle. The difficult part for me would be “could I get a stiffy quickly enough to seal the neck of the bottle?” There was only one way to find out and that was to do it, so after a few flicks to get the old fella angry I struck a match, dropped it into the bottle and proceeded to stick my manhood into the glass vagina. Immediately my cock swelled to seal the neck and as the air was drained from within I could feel my member being sucked into the bottle. Just as I was beginning to enjoy the sensation my excitement turned to agony as the fucking match continued to flicker and as it continued to burn it scorched the end of my dick. Screaming in pain I tried in vain to remove my willy from the bottle but it wouldn’t shift. My penis was throbbing and as I stood there in shock, bare arsed and with a milk bottle dangling from my old fella I could feel a blister developing on my bell end which left me with no alternative but to smash the bottle against the bedroom wall.
The tears began to roll down my cheeks as I gently cradled my disfigured member in the palm of my hand; it was lying there limp and glowing like Rudolph’s nose. “I’ve killed it” I thought to myself I’m never going to be able to bring it out in public again”. Just as I was contemplating suicide there was a knock on the front door “who the fuck’s that?” I wondered as I dragged my war torn body to the window, peering out between the crack in the curtains to discover to my delight it was Macca, my best mate standing there and not my parents arriving home early. “I’ll be down in a minute” I informed him “I’m getting changed” It seemed like an eternity before I managed to navigate the stairs and open the front door to let him in. “Where’s your horse?” Macca inquired, as I stood in the doorway, obviously amused by my stance, which I must admit was a little peculiar “you either want a shit or you’re doing a poor impersonation of John Wayne” he continued as we shuffled along the hall to the living room. I proceeded to explain what I’d done and how much agony I was in and I dropped my pants to show him the damage. “Fucking hell you need to go to hospital with that, you could lose it if you don’t get treatment” which was not what I wanted to hear. “What the hell am I going to tell them at the hospital?” I screamed “I stuck my knob into a bottle with a lit match, they’ll think I’m some sort of pervert”. The truth of the matter was I had to do something, Macca was right I needed treatment I would just have to think of some excuse when I get there.
It took about an hour for us to reach the Hospital, which would normally be a twenty-minute walk, and on arrival we were amazed at how busy it was, we hadn’t realised it was a Friday night the place looked like a shopping mall on a Saturday afternoon. There were people crying and moaning everywhere, I thought war had been declared but it was only full of the casualties of alcohol, men with bloody noses and black eyes swearing under their breath at the lack of service. We sat waiting for what seemed an eternity before being beckoned to the reception desk and asked to part with the most intimate details of my short life. Name, address, date of birth, religion “they must think I’m going to die,” I thought as the question I dreaded most was asked. “What seems to be the trouble?” As I looked the nurse who was asking the questions in the face my legs turned to jelly and my brow began erupting in beads of sweat. Before I could utter a word I collapsed like a bag of potatos to the ground and in all the confusion I could hear voices of concern as the nursing staff discussed my condition. As I lay on the trolley in the middle of reception with a doctor listening to my heart through a stethoscope I could hear one voice above everybody else’s, it was at this point that I decided I wanted to die. That voice belonged to Macca declaring to the world “It’s his dick, he’s burnt his dick” the sound of dozens of drunken hairy arsed yobbo’s laughing as they wheeled me away will stay in my memory forever.
The next morning I woke to the sound of chinking teacups as tea was being served in H ward, apparently I had passed out again when the doctor examined my genitals in casualty and he had decided to admit me for observation. As I peeked beneath the covers to inspect my privates my heart sank, for hanging limp in all its naked glory was the most pathetic specimen of the male genitalia you would ever likely to see. The end of my Willie had gauze wrapped around it with just the head showing through to allow me to wee, all it needed was a feather hanging out and it would look like a miniature red Indian, with a hole in his head. I called the nurse to inquire about my condition and when I would be going home. “The doctor will be round to see you at ten” she informed me as she handed me a bottle. “You may need this, just give me a call should you require any assistance” indicating to the buzzer hanging off the head of the bed before proceeding down the ward to check on some old codger coughing his guts up. “If you think I’m going to stick my dick inside that contraption after what I’ve just gone through you’ve got another think coming” I muttered to myself as I tossed the bottle off the end of the bed. I spent the next two hours waiting for the doctor to arrive trying to think up plausible excuses for burning my dick. Everything from spilling a cup of hot tea into my lap to jumping into a hot bath, none of which filled me with confidence after all why was it only the tip of my dick that blistered? Let’s face it no one tests the temperature of bath water by dipping their old fella in before proceeding to bathe.
As I lay there in deep thought I began to glance around the ward, nodding acknowledgment at people as our eyes made contact. Everybody looked old and the room stank of stale piss, people just lay there with blank expressions on their faces staring into space as if they were waiting to die (I found out later they were actually only waiting for breakfast). The only sound to be heard was coughing and the occasional fart as stale air escaped from uncontrollable bowels, this was not a place I wanted to be and the thought of escape was beginning to cross my mind when all hell broke loose. The ward doors flew open and what seemed like an army of doctors entered engulfing each patient like a giant white cloud as they swarmed around each bed poking and prodding its occupant. As they made their way along the ward towards my bed my heart began to pound “Christ, I’ve got half the hospital staff coming to inspect my dick” I thought. I could feel the blood draining from my face as they landed around my bed like seagulls descending on a chip.
“Good morning, I’m Doctor Kemp, now let’s see what we have here” he mumbled as he pulled the covers back to reveal my manhood for the world to see. He continued to inform me that this was a training hospital and his entourage was all student doctors observing him on his round. As I lay there staring at the ceiling tiles and humming under my breath the words to ‘Do Wa Diddy Diddy’ the flock of seagulls attacked my chip. Tugging and flicking at it while talking in mumbo jumbo medical terms which meant absolutely nothing to me, eventually they informed me that I could leave the hospital at 4pm before moving on to attack the poor sod in the next bed.
As the white tornado eventually disappeared from the ward, leaving confusion and mayhem in its wake. I thought I would take advantage of the opportunity to spend the rest of the day in bed by reading some football magazines. Which would also allow me not to have to swap horror stories with the old fart in the next bed, who keeps trying to describe in graphic detail how he had his haemorrhoids removed. I had no sooner started to read an article when a bell went off and the ward doors flew open again admitting a stampede of visitors carrying bunches of flowers and bags of grapes, within seconds each bed was turned into a replica of Carmen Miranda’s headdress. There’s something typically British about grapes, the only time you ever see fruit is when someone is ill and it’s always grapes. God knows why, I’m not really sure what goes through people’s minds but it’s a typical mentality “oh, how’s Joe? Cancer oh dear better get him some grapes then” and sure enough standing there looking lost was my mum and dad clutching a large brown paper bag.“Ello son thought you would like some fruit” they informed me as they sat next to my bed and deposited enough grapes into my hands to start a winery. After the usual “how are you feeling and what happened?” questions I thought I would come clean took a big breath and proceeded to tell them a pack of lies. I told them I had tried to light a cigarette and dropped the match while still lit into my lap, which proceeded to burn my privates. I knew their dislike for smoking would distract them from the real reason for my condition and thought a lecture on the dangers of smoking was easier to take than explaining to them that their son was some sort of kinky bastard. So after enduring an ear bashing for half an hour from my father while my mother demolished the entire contents of the brown paper bag the visitors bell rang again and as quickly as the ward filled up it emptied. I lay there completely exhausted as my parents were ushered from the ward leaving behind them a tray full of grape pips. It occurred to me that the ritual of bringing sick people grapes was a totally selfish gesture, for as I glanced around the ward it became obvious that half the residents couldn’t draw breath never mind peel a grape. However the place was littered with the woody remnants of the vine. The old codger in the next bed was right when he mumbled across to me “fucking grapes, I’ll give them fucking grapes I’ve just had a bunch ripped out my arse and they bring me fucking grapes insensitive bastards” before falling back to sleep.
As I watched the minutes tick away my mind began to wander and thoughts of un-clad women filled my head. As I lay there day dreaming I was suddenly disturbed by the ward sister shaking me by the shoulder “wake up, wake up” it’s time for you to go home” “is it four o’clock already? “ I asked still half asleep. She informed me I had a friend waiting for me in reception, although she never said whom I guessed it would be Macca and sure enough as I left the ward there he was sitting in reception reading a magazine. “Come to take me home” I said as I walked gingerly towards him, “thought you might need a lift with that dick of yours,” he replied as he handed me a parcel. “It’s from your mum” he informed me, “she reckons it will make you feel better”. As I ripped open the tightly packaged parcel in excited anticipation my mouth dropped lower than my damaged privates as out of the wrapping paper fell a pair of bright red boxing gloves and a note which read “These should help you to stop smoking” Love Mum x



Chapter 6
Cunnilingus


I had no clue what the word Cunnilingus meant and although I had heard the word from time to time it became quite a shock to find out it meant ‘to perform oral sex on a woman’ I had never associated it with the more common phrase of muff diving also the same can be said of fellatio, I always thought he was a famous Mariner from way back, which just goes to show the benefit of having a good education.
Growing up in the 50’s and 60’s sex education was non-existent boys were told nothing about their responsibilities of participating in sexual activities and girls were told they could get pregnant if they sat on a boys lap and the best form of contraception was to place a phone directory on the boys lap prior to partaking in any physical contact. There was no formal sex education classes at the school I attended and all information was gained through the school yard experts who actually knew less than I did, so called ‘sexperts’ who gained their knowledge from a friend who knows a friend who knew someone who had actually done it.
Sadly it was no better at home never once was I sat down and informed about safe sex or any kind of sex safe or not, totally left in the dark regarding the correct terminology for my own body parts let alone a females so the father/son chat regarding the birds and the bees was never instigated leaving me totally oblivious about the consequences of indulging in my sexual urges, it was assumed that this essential information would magically appear and manifest itself into my underdeveloped psyche. So I grew up not aware that a prick, dick or cock was actually a penis and a fanny, minge or cunt was really a vagina and that each month a woman had periods apparently known as her menstrual cycle which should not to be confused with a one wheeled bicycle, these things were not open for discussion, so the chances of me knowing the real terms for blow job and muff diving was extremely unlikely if not impossible.
In life we all have to experience things for the first time such as your first kiss, your first encounter with a bare breast and of cause your first time you have full blown sex these are life changing encounters that will stay with you forever whether they were good or indeed bad experiences they will forever be etched into your memory. In earlier chapters I discussed some of these special moments in my life and in this chapter I will share my first encounter with cunnilingus or for the less educated of you the day I went muff diving.

I was now in my seventeenth year and having left home seeking my independence I found myself living in a one roomed semi furnished bedsit which composed of a single bed, an armchair a 2 bar electric fire sitting in the open Victorian fireplace and a sink in the corner equipped with a 2 ringed electric camp stove. It was to say the least basic but as long as I kept paying the rent and kept feeding the extremely hungry electric meter with silver shillings it was mine, although it was just one room of many in a large 100 year old house it had its own front door and I could come and go as I pleased and more importantly I could invite whoever I liked to come and stay.
The bathroom and toilet were on the first floor landing and was shared by the tenants from the other bedsits as the first two floors had been converted and the whole of the top floor was occupied by the landlord, which to be honest was not ideal as not everyone had the same idea on hygiene as myself, a wet toilet seat and floor plus the occasional floater hovering about the filthy toilet bowl was common place so spending more time than was necessary to have a bath was out of the question, a quick upper body rub with the face flannel was about as much as my sensitive nostrils could handle.
My visits back home which my mother insisted I do weekly were designed firstly to make sure I was still alive and secondly to get my clothes washed, have a bath and escape my pathetic diet of fish and chips and thirdly to receive a home cooked meal was essential.
It felt strange at first living on my own and not having the luxuries that a family life offers but the freedom my ‘grotty’ accommodation offered me was too much to resist, yes I had to pay rent, yes I would occasionally freeze as I ran out of queens silver shillings to feed the meter and yes my diet was shite but as a 17 year old who’s hormones had a life of their own it was heaven and to me it was the Playboy mansion. Now over the next few months as I settled in to my new found freedom quite a few Bunnies came and went but on this one special evening to my delight I found myself head first entrenched between the thighs of this rather delicious young lady who was determined for me to sample the sweetness of her Cherry so there I was fumbling around delving and exploring with my tongue when we were suddenly plunged into total darkness it was at this point that Murphy’s Law raised its ugly head and right on cue the bloody meter ran out of coins, even though it was pitch black I had no intention of stopping, I was having too good a time and was in no mood to start searching for a shilling. We continued enjoying each other even though the music had stopped through the of lack of power and the only sound that now could be heard was the rustling of papers being chewed by the mouse that shared the room with me and my enthusiastic slurping.
As the evening’s activities drew to a close my now hopefully satisfied partner began to search the blackened room for her clothing and after managing to dress she quietly slipped away into the night having kissed my forehead and whispering “I hope you enjoyed the experience”. I was so exhausted after all the activity and was amazed at how tiring it was performing cunnilingus and duly fell asleep only to be woken by the morning sunshine filling the room with its warmth. I felt so pleased with myself and I swear I could still taste remnants of the night’s activities on my lips as I rolled my tongue over them. At this point I began feeling so hungry and thirsty I decided to walk to the shops to get some breakfast and as I couldn’t find that wretched silver coin to feed the meter leaving me no chance of being able to boil the kettle let alone make some toast.
Upon arriving at the café I immediately ordered a full English breakfast and a large mug of tea when I suddenly got this strange feeling as if people were staring at me and I began to feel a little uncomfortable wondering could they tell I had just had a night of sexual discovery so I grabbed a paper found an empty table and sat down. Within 10 minutes my breakfast arrived and as the guy placed it on the table in front of me he asked “are you ok?” confused I replied “never better thanks why?” “Well he said I thought you might have been in a fight by the looks of you, I’d hate to see what the other guy looks like” then he laughed turned around and went back to the kitchen. Intrigued by these remarks I was out of my chair and into the toilets as fast as my legs could get me there only to discover as I viewed myself through the cracks and grime that distorted my image my face and T shirt were covered in blood stains I looked like I had just ripped out the throat of a lamb with my teeth and made an offering to Satan.
This experience highlighted the importance of everyone receiving good reliable sex education and how important it is for schools and parents to make sure their charges have access to all the right information about male and female bodies, how they work and the correct biological names for their parts and most importantly not forgetting to always keep some spare silver shilling pieces at hand as failure to do so can leave you languishing in the dark and heading into the more mature years with a rather nasty taste in your mouth.


Ends.