The Polish Incident

I went through a phase some years ago, of being rather fond of Polish girls, which culminated in me getting a special t-shirt printed to aid me in the identification of, and ice-breaking with, these unique creatures.

The Polish T-shirt
Handwoven by Polish virgins…

The t-shirt says simply on the front (in Polish) “POLISH GIRLS ARE THE BEST” and it’s in Polish-flag red and white. It fitted my frame quite neatly for about two months after I bought it but had to be decommissioned when I gained weight and as the t-shirt gained notoriety.

I would wear it to impress the HOT Polish girls at work (i.e. the Polish girls at work) and occasionally out when I fancied my chances using it as an ice-breaker in bars. The following tale is one of several adventures I had with this legendary t-shirt, and this story is the closest the t-shirt got me to any hot Polish action.

I should reiterate, as I’m often asked, this story is actually completely true…

It was a cold winter’s night in Soho and myself and my good friend Bilal decided to pop out after work for a few quick drinks at The White Horse, a local favourite pub. Bill was my wingman as I attempted to make good use of my one-of-a-kind, money-can’t buy, no-fool-would-wear t-shirt. We grabbed a standing table in the middle of the pub and some wine and chatted away. Periodically I would rotate to ensure everyone could see the front of the t-shirt and that any present Polish honeys would have the chance to immediately make themselves known to me and join us. (There was nothing printed on the back you see, although some wisecracking friends did suggest maybe “POLISH BOYS ARE THE BEST” would double my chances).

Insanely quickly we were approached by two girls, who’d just arrived. One hot blonde in her early twenties, and her mate who was probably the same age but looked older, was much fatter and had a sullen joyless face like an abused scrotum.

“Hey, I love your t-shirt. I’m half-Polish. Half-Polish, half-Australian,” the blonde said. Jackpot. The girls plonked their bottle of plonk down on the table and joined us.

Through the power of the t-shirt I started striking up conversation with Laura, the blonde, while Bill took one for the team and kept her friend busy. We were getting on phenomenally well. I was, if there was an international governing body of such things, officially “in”. She told me about her life and what her and her friend did for a living.

Myself and Bill did notice they worked their way through that first bottle of wine very quickly and were most of the way through another, and a few Sambuca shots on, when Bill had to “leave me to it” and go home. I was confident I could see this through on my own; the t-shirt was still exuding power and the poor, no-doubt-lovestruck half-Polish Laura, was defenceless against my charms.

I was already imagining ahead to later that night. More shots arrived. I was imagining ahead to seeing her again, and “going steady” with my first Polish. Another bottle of wine arrived. I was imagining ahead to moving in together, and Laura buying me a dressing gown for Christmas which had “POLISH GIRLS ARE THE BEST” embroidered on it (in Polish). More shots made their way to the table. Visit after visit from her Polish mother bearing gifts of bottles of industrial-strength vodka. Endless love-making “the Polish way”. Whatever that is.

Her friend, whose name I only recently paid full attention to, Suzy, was no doubt feeling as much of a spare tyre as she looked like one.

But in a flash, it was suddenly all over. Laura declared she had had too much to drink and left to go home; didn’t even give me her number. Disaster. I was totally in there. What was worse was she left me with Suzy.

I spent the next ten minutes rapidly trying to finish my wine whilst trying to talk to Suzy, who was also quite drunk by this stage. She was devoid of personality at the start of the evening, so you can imagine how she was towards the end. I couldn’t tear my thoughts away from the endless lovemaking (the Polish way) that I had thought was in my grasp for sure just minutes before.

I was just about to leave (yes, leave Suzy on her own) and go home, when a man came to our table.

“Hi, sorry to bother you, I’m an undercover policeman, do either of you know a Laura?”

I thought “YES! I do, she’s my girlf… she’s my future girlf… yeah I know her!” But after hearing the undercover policeman bit I played it cool. “Um well kind of, just met her really. She’s her friend. She knows her really. I don’t not really.”

The undercover policeman (he was TOTALLY dressed like a normal punter, it was amazing) said to Suzy “Can you come outside and talk to her please?”

I looked at Suzy as she grunted drunkenly, as if her brain reacted with animal noises when presented with a confusing scenario. I realised what I had to do, told the officer I’d take care of it, I’d come out and see Laura. After all, there was refreshed hope of lovemaking (the Polish way).

I followed the camouflaged fuzz outside, and he led me to Laura, who was sat on a doorstep opposite the pub entrance, literally covered in vomit. She hadn’t just been sick, it was like she’d been almost drowned in a swimming pool full of it. I started to sober up. The policeman asked if I knew where she lived, that he hadn’t been able to get any information out of her. I very briefly explained how we’d met only tonight, and subtley zipped up my jacket to cover the t-shirt. But I told him I didn’t really know her, and sat down on the doorstep beside her to try to wake her up a bit and get her to speak. She was just groggily crying her eyes out.

I went to put my arm around her. She had sick on her BACK. On her back! And in her hair. But I looked past the sobbing chow mein covered drunk and tried to think of that hot young nymph the lovemaking was going to involve (the Polish way). She was making no sense and I tried to asked her about where she lived.

By the time I looked back up at the policeman he’d been joined by a SECOND undercover cop, and he was radioing for an ambulance. I stayed with Laura as she fell asleep again and drooled a bit more sick.

I noticed the pub had closed and emptied while I’d been preoccupied with Laura – no sign of Suzy.

The ambulance arrived fairly quickly, and the back doors opened. Out came a paramedic. And a FILM CREW. The paramedic explained they were making a documentary about drunkenness in Soho. There I was sat next to an unconscious girl covered in vomit and there’s a fucking film crew.

The original policeman was having an argument with one of the paramedics and the reporter, something about paperwork. I think he was questioning whether they should be recording this. A third undercover policeman arrived and took over. The original came over to me and asked if I’d gotten anything out of Laura. I said no (should have said “just noodles”) and said he should go and talk to Suzy if she’s still inside. He went in as the paramedics started to lift poor vomit-ridden Laura towards the ambulance.

The officer who went to check on Suzy came back out of the pub shaking his head; “You’ll never guess what she’s done. She’s pissed herself.” So now I was the meat in a piss and vomit sandwich. What started as a nice night out with serious potential had ended up with my prospective sweetheart bundled into an ambulance covered in sick and her friend sat soiled with urine in my local pub.

The cop sent his two back-up mates in to bring out Suzy – she was going in the ambulance too. He said to me “when you were chatting to these girls did they tell you anything, give any indication about where they lived or where they worked?”

“Nope,” I said, “They only told me what they did for a living. Laura is a nurse, and Suzy…” I pointed over at the lump of a woman, legs spread, being hoisted out of the pub entrance by two policeman, “She’s a doctor.”

As Suzy was carried into the ambulance I thought it was over. Then the reporter came out of the back and shouted on the cameraman; “Quick get in here you have to see this!” I also ran round to the back of the ambulance to look in. Suzy was sitting there, her legs wide apart, and an arc of urine was shooting out across to the other side of the ambulance.

Within moments, the ambulance was driving off, the three undercover policeman had left and I was standing there in an empty street, at about half past midnight, in front of an empty pub, having missed my last Tube home. And, of course, wondering what the fuck just happened.

I never found out if the footage was ever used or what it was specifically for, and I don’t think I want to. And with no way of contacting Laura, my half-Polish dreams never came to be – although that’s maybe for the best. I didn’t give up on the t-shirt though, and wore it again. But that’s another story…

Why Do People Hate The Tube, It’s Amazing!

One thing sets me aside from all other Londoners. I love the Tube, sometimes the Tube journey contains the highlights of my day. Sure it’s cramped and stuffy and almost unbearable in summer, but most days it’s like speeding through a comedy goldmine … and it’s how London’s cutest girls get to work.

Where else could you end up pondering whether it’s wrong to fancy a girl who looks like a lion. Not a lioness, but a male lion. Big bushy reddish/brown hair, tanned slightly orange skin, freckles on her cheeks, big brown eyes, sunglasses (well it’s very sunny in Africa). She was even wearing a zebra-patterned jacket, as if she’d just killed one and made it herself. But she was so so cute. Never saw her again though, maybe she went back home.

Getting on the Sub-Saharan Line.
Getting on the Sub-Saharan Line.

A few months ago, I was standing beside a woman who was entertaining her kids, making sure they were OK, holding on to them and playing with them on what seemed like a rare Tube journey. She was making such a noise with them she was bordering on becoming annoying but at least the kids seemed to be behaving and enjoying themselves. Five or so stops later, the doors opened and the woman left, alone. A bunch of us on the Tube seemed to be thinking the same thing “Oh my God that woman has abandoned her kids”. Turned out they weren’t even hers, she had just met them on the train before I got on and started chatting to them. Their real mum was sitting down reading a book.

But the Tube is such an easy mode of transport I’m sure the kids would have been fine on their own. One time the doors opened and a pigeon walked on. He stood by the door impatiently as it closed and the train set off. Stop after stop, the doors would open and he’d just stand on his spot, occasionally shuffling over to let people on – he clearly saw the sign not to obstruct the doors. Eventually we got to Clapham North, the doors opened, and he just jumped off and walked off down the platform towards the exit. It was genuinely as if he was commuting, he seemed to know exactly where he needed to go. All he needed was a briefcase, an iPod and a mini copy of the Metro newspaper under his wing. (God-damn it why can’t I think of a hilarious bird-related newspaper pun).

In the summer on the Underground we have the constant fear of wasps. Now everyone knows wasps are inherently evil, and their only purpose in the insect kingdom is to wander around threatening and bullying people. Bees on the other hand, are funny, sociable and fluffy, always good-humoured and generally charitable. Especially the fat bee I saw in my garden this summer, who was so overweight his little wings could only manage to hold him about 10cm off the ground. Oh and of course, everyone knows bees make flowers and are mainly responsible for sunshine and fun times.

One day, one such happy-go-lucky cuddly bee wandered into the Tube train I was in. It was a little after 9 am, so not packed, all seats taken but only a few people standing.  The bee had injured itself (or more likely was attacked by a gang of mother-fucker wasps) and was crawling around on the ground. A man was trying to help – I knew him from somewhere, he was definitely some kind of D-list celebrity, a stand-up comic or a bit part actor in some comedy. He was quite bulky (maybe a bit fat but more stocky – basically kind of just wide) and had greying hair and beard. He was bending over as the Tube was moving, trying to pick up the helpless little cute bee, but the Tube moving and the fact he was bending right over pretty much touching the floor was playing havoc with his balance, so he was stumbling around trying to coordinate his chubby hands on this little bee.

Another stop, and he got bumped out of the way by a couple of new passengers, clearly as late for work as I was, but his massive frame, still hunched over, meant the bee was protected from trampling. As the train set off, he still hadn’t picked up the bee. A couple of minutes more of him stumbling around hunched over, like a drunk with a bad back, and finally he got a purchase on the bee and clasped his hands around him (or her, do they have female bees, of course yes, queen bees, but what kind of queen would let herself get in that state (only in Soho)).

The moderately famous man was exhausted, his cheeks bright red, gasping for air after his honorable ordeal to rescue Mr Bee from almost certain trampling, or impaling on the high heel of one of the Northern Line’s many mutton-dressed-as-lamb suited office trollops. Seconds later, the doors opened at the next station and with relief he turned and threw the bee off the train onto the platform…

…right down some poor blonde girl’s top. There was some squealing, some flapping, the odd giggle, and the doors closed again and off we went, safe in the knowledge the bee was in a better place. A bee in a D-cup you could say.

I wondered, why go to all that trouble to rescue the bee just to throw him off the train onto the platform, where he’d encounter all the same risk (although at least there’s an escalator to help him get home). Surely one of the pigeon communters would have been happy to take him under his wing and help him get home or get to work.

I haven’t figured out how to edit these posts yet, otherwise I would go back and big-up this guy as being a bit more famous so he could be a Bee-list celebrity. That’s the kind of forward thinking comedy you get on other blogs.

The Woman With A Trolley For Her Tits

You see a lot of strange things in Soho.

In my usual smoking spot in Ramillies Place around the corner from work the traffic is always fascinating. In this one small street we have a beauty school, a gay gym and a casting agency.

A lot of weird shit here for such a small street.
A lot of weird shit here for such a small street.

The beauty school – girls in little white jackets and grey trousers walking around talking about hair and make-up, most of them clearly thinking going to beauty school makes you beautiful. Notable for the day one of the girls decided not to wear trousers, just the white jacket which stretches just past the waist, and bare legs. As she walked past me it became clear she was wearing no underwear, and had clearly dropped out of the intimate waxing module on her course.

The gay gym – notable for the frequency that we see ambulances pulling up outside. What ARE they doing in there? And why is it called Sweat Box? The staff walk around in red t-shirts (I’ve seen them outside) which say HOMOSUPERIOR. Nothing like ramming it down people’s throats … which incidentally is the tagline for the gym.

The casting agency – for a tiny street Ramillies is extremely confusing, with the exception of the neon-lit gay gym it’s very hard to tell what any of the buildings are. So when you get a girl with legs like skyscrapers walking up to you with a curious look on her face, chances are she’s looking for the casting place. You find yourself judging people. A girl will come up caked in make-up, showing off as much flesh as possible to distract from a manly, assymetrical face and a lazy eye; when she asks for directions you want to say “oh honey, really, if I tell you where the casting agency is I’ll feel partly responsible for your disappointment”. CSI (yes that’s what it’s called) is most notable for the day I noticed a girl outside wearing a ZOO magazine-branded t-shirt and a pair of bikini bottoms, only to see her remove the t-shirt and spend 20 minutes getting her photo taken in the skimpiest bikini I have ever seen. A LOT of boys came out and had several cigarettes that afternoon.

Today was one of the strangest sights.

I was having a smokey with my friend Matt and we saw a woman hobble past down the middle of the road, about 60-65, very short, but quite hefty and hunched over one of those little tartan-patterned trolleys old women use for their shopping.

She had certain noticeable bulges hanging down from her hunched body, which at first seemed like an overhanging gut, or perhaps one of those issues some old people have lower down later in life.


But upon closer examination, you could see the lace of a bra surrounding these extremities, and I realised what I was seeing was actually her breasts. The were LITERALLY swinging just inches above her knees. She clearly was hunched over because of the weight of them. It took her several minutes to make her way down Ramillies Street, everyone around was looking anywhere to avoid seeming to stare, but every so often, EVERYONE stared.

Matt wondered if maybe in her younger days she was famous for them, perhaps as a porn star, I wondered maybe if she still was, just in a slightly more niche genre.

As the turned the corner (slowly, to avoid damaging the masonry of our building) I wondered why she didn’t just use the trolley to carry her tits; it would have been so much easier for her, although to be honest if she did have them in there, there wouldn’t have been room for as much as a bag of grapes from her shopping trip.

Matt said “you’d think doctors would have done something about that by now?”

What was most strange, was that 2 hours later, as I left work to go home and passed the London Palladium, just 30 seconds or so along the road from the earlier sighting, she was sitting on a step, looking exhausted – 2 hours later! I was tempted to ask her if I could get her a cab, but then thought that maybe the driver would insist she put her “baggage” in the boot.

What The Fuck Is This Shit?

Hello, welcome to my blog. A few people have suggested I should write down the comedy happenings which seem to occur everyday in my life, and most likely, those few people will be the only people who read this – really it would be quicker to phone them up each day and tell them over the phone. But maybe if I write everything down, I could one day adapt everything into a book, as a couple of people have asked. Again, those couple of people would be the only ones who’d buy it, and since they’re mates I’d probably give them a free copy, so…. yeah I haven’t really thought any of this through have I. I’m 100 words into my first post and I’m already feeling like a minority of needy friends whose lives are lacking comedy are leeching my life away.

I haven’t decided whether to stick to just funny things, or use to express other thoughts. My only other previous blog – Sarajevo Rose, about my voyage around the former Yugoslavia – had a mixture of both and many (yes, MANY) readers said it made them laugh, cry, and even inspired them to visit those countries, including my beloved Bosnia & Hercegovina.

I will of course have to be careful what I post (esp. after discovering my Sarajevo blog was recently getting 3000 hits per month even though I never advertised it and only told friends about it). I’ll have to unfortunately omit my many great anecdotes about senior PlayStation management 🙁 mainly because I love my job and don’t want to be found dead somewhere with a PSP-branded umbrella handle sticking out of my arse.

Post comments if you read something you like, or even don’t like. If you can be bothered doing it on my Facebook page, there’s no excuse here.

I even made a logo, only took three years.