I came home after football practice – or “soccer” – to those who give a shit about it. I was tired, sweaty and had one shin badly raked by spikes in a tight tackle gone wrong. Don’t fret; I absolutely hammed the fucker who did it to me about 15 minutes later.
I half limped over to the fridge to see what I might snack for supper. Nothing worth eating, perhaps a takeaway curry later? We’ll see, not too hungry at the moment anyway. Nothing on the telly either, and my girlfriend has been away visiting her mother in Cardiff. Slightly bored, I was, so what was a 21 year old feller to do? As I hadn’t had any action (other than footy) for days, an answer to this burning question was not very far away.
I peeled off my guernsey, lay on the bed and fired up my laptop. You know what I had in mind just as well as I did.