Let me take you back to the year 1992.
Denmark had just won the Euros, Barcelona hosted the Olympics and Right Said Fred had just knocked Shakespeares Sister's "Stay" off the number one spot with their lyrical masterpiece "Deeply Dippy"
T'was around this time when my weekend drinking was spent in a pub called Maxwells in Shawlands. It's no there anymore. They fucking ruined it and shut it doon and merged it with the Corona years ago. Wankers.
I was in there one Friday night in 1992 and some wee lassie that used to be the year above me in school started giving me the glad eye. I didnae really like the look of her as she was wee, skinny and looked a quite like Michael Bolton. I like my birds to have a wee bit of weight on them, you know, not obese or fuck all but I want to know I'm holding a woman in bed and not a wee skelf. And if I'm honest I'm more a Curtis Stigers kinda man anaw. Michael's a bit horsey.
Anyway to cut a long story slightly less longer I took her back to my wee Bachelor pad in Kennishead.
Kennishead's bowfin. It's 5 tower blocks famous for people deciding enough's enough and lobbing themselves oot the window but it was my first wee flat. It was a wee 1 apartment. My living room was my bedroom too. It was an awright wee first flat I suppose.
We were lying in bed naked with the lights out and she was annoying me. She was too skinny and wee and she had nae tits. I had to keep making her talk so it didn't feel like I was in bed wae a wee boy. It was pure messing with my brain. Anyway I needed a crap.
After the really bad crap (more liquid than solid) I reached round for the toilet roll and there was none. I was like "aw fuck man". I couldnae even stand up, it would have ran doon my leg. My brain raced about and I thought fuck it I'll need to wipe my arse with a towel and plank the towel then lob the towel out in the morning. You see, if you walk out the toilet yer straight back in the living room. I couldnae just walk in with a folded towel of shite so I just planked it behind the lavvy pan till the morning. I also took the light bulb out and planked that too so she wouldn't see it if she got up to use the toilet.
I came back through to the living room and went to sleep. Couldnae be arsed even trying to have sex with her. She was a pest.
In the morning I got up bright and early and told her I had to go over to my maws. She stayed on the same route so I said I would walk her home. She said 'gimme 2 minutes' and went to the toilet.
I waited 2 minutes
I waited 5 minutes
After 7 minutes I was like "Aw naw she's dried her face with my shitey towel hasn't she?"
After 14 minutes I was like "FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK"
Out she comes after about 17 minutes looking traumatised but trying to hide it. I was like "right, yae right? Let's go hen"
I stayed 18 up and that lift down to the bottom felt like about 30 minutes. Total silence. Me trying to look sideways and see if I can see any shite on her face. I could smell it, it was definitely my shite I could smell. Everytime I looked at her face she would try stare at me so I would dart my eyes away.
We got to the bottom of the block and walked through the Boydstone park to Carnwadric. Not a word got said. What the fuck was I meant to say? I mean for fuck sake why the fuck did she have to go scouring for a hidden towel anyway? It was well hid and it was dark in that toilet.
As I was walking my brain was like "what yae daing mate? Fucking bolt...bolt fae Michael Bolton, it's poetic. She disnae know yae really, it's no like she's gonny tell her mates she wiped her face wae your shite so fucking bolt"
So without a word of warning I just fucking bolted.
I wonder what was going on in her head as she watched me run away through the park without any warning. I bet she was like "First he disnae shag me, then I wipe his shite on my face, now I stand here alone in a park at 8am watching him disappear from view after just running away without warning". I dare say she felt a bit suicidal.
I never heard much more about Wee Michael Bolton Shitey Face other than a guy I know coming into the pub weeks later boasting that he'd shagged her. He was bragging away about how good a ride she was and how he was 30 and she was only 21 and he still had the gift of the gab etc and I said "Her? I took her back to mine and she wiped my shite all over her face". A couple of my mates beside me nodding to the guy as if to say "aye he's no even kidding mate, your conquest wore his shite the other week there"
That telt him eh?
I do realise this is now the second blog I've written about my shite btw. I'm not that kinda guy. I hate toilet humour and stories about shite. This is weird that I've decided to blog about it twice.
but anyway it's written now. Aye wee Michael Bolton Shitey Face.
That'll teach her
I bet when my wee brother was on the telly and everyone from my scheme was going "oh that's Brian Limond fae Cruachan street" she was reminded of my shite.
Shite that was on her wee Bolton shitey face.