I think you would remember. If you really can't remember then someone else will because that sort of thing is not easily forgotten.
Nope. I've put all sorts of shit on here before - there was a thread a while back where we did this and I can't remember if I put it on there or on some other forum somewhere. I genuinely can't remember - I've told that story to a few people before (generally gets wheeled out on my first night out with a new workplace)
For many years, I have had the 'ability' to make street lights turn off as I approach them. (Not all the lights; some). I have noticed that when this happens, I have been deep in thought and in an emotional, stressed state. When I have passed the light that has gone out, it comes on again. On occasion I have retraced my steps and the light has gone off again. This 'ability' troubled me for ages, but I have become used to it and when the thing occurs I just shrug my shoulders and smile. I saw a chap working on a street light in my road and spoke of my experience, enquiring if he had heard about such a thing. 'Oh yes', he said. 'You can read about it online'. I did so, and found out that the phenomenon is not uncommon. An academic author, Mr. Hilary Evans, who lived at Blackheath, wrote a paper about it. He had received testimony from numerous people, in various countries. Some described having an affect on radio and TV reception. Evans coined the term 'Street Light Interference' (SLI) and those who were affected became known as 'SLI-ders'. Is anyone else on Charlton Life a SLI-der? https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Street_light_interference_phenomenon
I get this all the time at the same sets of street lights in Eltham. Think it's probably more the lights than me though.
Not sure if I've put this on here before - I seem to remember posting it, but could be wrong. Anyway.
When I first split up with the wife a few years ago I basically reverted to being a teenager. Rented a massive flat far too big for me, bought a load of shit I didn't need, and - most pertinently to this story - went on an absolute rampage with the ladies. PoF and Tinder were my friends, and I wasn't discriminatory. There were some good looking girls, some average looking girls and some not so good looking girls - all at varying levels of crazy. Being a man who's always harboured an (ahem) 'experimental' side in the bedroom, but having been in an extremely vanilla marriage for years, I quickly discovered that The Internet was awash with like-minded filthy ladies, and set about on a voyage of sexual discovery the likes of which haven't been seen before or since.
Amongst other things, I ended up doing insane things with a Canadian lass I fell very hard for, banging a woman who let her dog in from outside to watch us go at it, being basically abused for ten hours at the hands of a dominatrix - but the ultimate occurred as a result of a random encounter on PoF with a girl who wanted to be seen-to whilst she pretended she was dead. Bit weird, I thought - but being the up-for-it kind of chap I am, I was game. Met her in a pub in Camden a few days before and she was actually really nice - seemed quite normal on the surface - a little bit gothy (which I quite like anyway), into similar music etc etc. Only whilst we were discussing The Deed did it start to dawn on me that she didn't just want to lie there, she wanted the whole nine yards. Like - proper spooky stuff. The longer the conversation went on, the weirder it got. She rationalised it all in her head - apparently it's quite a common fetish, has to do with taking being dominated to the next level or some such psychobabble.
Anyway, Christ knows why I did it, but I agreed that I was onboard and turned up to an arranged rendezvous on the evening in question, opened the door with her spare key and entered her flat. Just like herself, it had the facade of being completely normal, but the back room (an old converted scullery) was - quite literally - a morgue. It had a lino floor, white tiled walls, a flickering blue fluorescent striplight, was freezing fucking cold... and (not an exaggeration here) a morgue slab in the middle of the room. (I think) it was a big heavy-duty narrow wooden table, but it had been fitted with an aluminium sheet. There she lay, in all her glory. Stock fucking still and stark bollock naked. Freezing cold - she must have been laying there for hours. I won't divulge full details - suffice it to say that I performed (and she literally lay there and made no sound at all throughout) and left.
She messaged me whilst I was on the train home and said it was great, and she'd thoroughly enjoyed it (obviously, up to that point I had no idea whether she had or not) and would I be up for it again. She seemed positively disappointed when I said it wasn't really my thing, but good luck for the future and all that.
C'est la vie (or C'est la mort, in her case)
Im sure i speak on behalf of all CL posters when i say, we really want full details Leroy.
He definitely did her up the shitter!
Id be wiping my smelly bridge on her nose. Really test how serious she is about it all.
Not sure if I've put this on here before - I seem to remember posting it, but could be wrong. Anyway.
When I first split up with the wife a few years ago I basically reverted to being a teenager. Rented a massive flat far too big for me, bought a load of shit I didn't need, and - most pertinently to this story - went on an absolute rampage with the ladies. PoF and Tinder were my friends, and I wasn't discriminatory. There were some good looking girls, some average looking girls and some not so good looking girls - all at varying levels of crazy. Being a man who's always harboured an (ahem) 'experimental' side in the bedroom, but having been in an extremely vanilla marriage for years, I quickly discovered that The Internet was awash with like-minded filthy ladies, and set about on a voyage of sexual discovery the likes of which haven't been seen before or since.
Amongst other things, I ended up doing insane things with a Canadian lass I fell very hard for, banging a woman who let her dog in from outside to watch us go at it, being basically abused for ten hours at the hands of a dominatrix - but the ultimate occurred as a result of a random encounter on PoF with a girl who wanted to be seen-to whilst she pretended she was dead. Bit weird, I thought - but being the up-for-it kind of chap I am, I was game. Met her in a pub in Camden a few days before and she was actually really nice - seemed quite normal on the surface - a little bit gothy (which I quite like anyway), into similar music etc etc. Only whilst we were discussing The Deed did it start to dawn on me that she didn't just want to lie there, she wanted the whole nine yards. Like - proper spooky stuff. The longer the conversation went on, the weirder it got. She rationalised it all in her head - apparently it's quite a common fetish, has to do with taking being dominated to the next level or some such psychobabble.
Anyway, Christ knows why I did it, but I agreed that I was onboard and turned up to an arranged rendezvous on the evening in question, opened the door with her spare key and entered her flat. Just like herself, it had the facade of being completely normal, but the back room (an old converted scullery) was - quite literally - a morgue. It had a lino floor, white tiled walls, a flickering blue fluorescent striplight, was freezing fucking cold... and (not an exaggeration here) a morgue slab in the middle of the room. (I think) it was a big heavy-duty narrow wooden table, but it had been fitted with an aluminium sheet. There she lay, in all her glory. Stock fucking still and stark bollock naked. Freezing cold - she must have been laying there for hours. I won't divulge full details - suffice it to say that I performed (and she literally lay there and made no sound at all throughout) and left.
She messaged me whilst I was on the train home and said it was great, and she'd thoroughly enjoyed it (obviously, up to that point I had no idea whether she had or not) and would I be up for it again. She seemed positively disappointed when I said it wasn't really my thing, but good luck for the future and all that.
C'est la vie (or C'est la mort, in her case)
Im sure i speak on behalf of all CL posters when i say, we really want full details Leroy.
He definitely did her up the shitter!
Id be wiping my smelly bridge on her nose. Really test how serious she is about it all.
Hahahahaha proper laughing in the office and getting a few weird looks from my colleagues.
For many years, I have had the 'ability' to make street lights turn off as I approach them. (Not all the lights; some). I have noticed that when this happens, I have been deep in thought and in an emotional, stressed state. When I have passed the light that has gone out, it comes on again. On occasion I have retraced my steps and the light has gone off again. This 'ability' troubled me for ages, but I have become used to it and when the thing occurs I just shrug my shoulders and smile. I saw a chap working on a street light in my road and spoke of my experience, enquiring if he had heard about such a thing. 'Oh yes', he said. 'You can read about it online'. I did so, and found out that the phenomenon is not uncommon. An academic author, Mr. Hilary Evans, who lived at Blackheath, wrote a paper about it. He had received testimony from numerous people, in various countries. Some described having an affect on radio and TV reception. Evans coined the term 'Street Light Interference' (SLI) and those who were affected became known as 'SLI-ders'. Is anyone else on Charlton Life a SLI-der? https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Street_light_interference_phenomenon
happens to me all the time, same street lights, no matter what time of night (they have to be on, and they go out, they don't come on during the day) to the point where if I'm walking home with my girlfriend I tell her to put the flash on her phone as we approach said lights. First time it happened she thought it was coincidence, but when it then happened every night for about 3 weeks, and didn't happen if she walked past alone, she started to believe I truly was a frutloop.
My weird (ok terrifying) story happened a couple of years ago on the Thames Path near Woolwich Dockyard, I lived in the area and was out on a late night walk at about 11.30 when I noticed a strange noise coming from a bench ahead of me.
There was a mobile ringing, no-one anywhere to be seen.
I tentatively walked up to it, and saw there was 31 missed calls, all from a woman, and they were ringing again.
I answered the call
Spoke to the lady, who was in absolute hysterics, tried to tell her I just found this phone on a bench, and at first she was having none of it, finally got through to her, it was her boyfriend's phone and he had been drinking all day after losing his job, had threatened to kill himself and stormed off, she had been trying to get hold of him ever since.
I didn't want to, but I told her where I found the phone, with a horrible sense of dread suddenly clutching at my insides.
Turns out they only live a 10 minute walk or so, and she asked me to stay put whilst she hurried down.
As she hung up, I sat on the bench, horrible thoughts going through my head, how I am suddenly caught up in a possible tragic suicide story, how was I going to deal with this woman face to face etc.
She had rung the police and told them too, and they sent a couple of men down to the riverside, and they turned up a minute or so before she did.
Told them the story, where I found the phone etc. She unlocked it and the police told her to look for a note or something he may have left behind on the phone, but there was nothing. I am already welling up looking at this woman, only a couple of years older than me, had 2 young children, it made me sick to the pit of my stomach.
We decided to spread out, see if we could find something, anything, that hinted at the whereabouts of this man.
15 agonising, painstaking minutes later and we found him, passed out laying on the edge of a planter, face plastered in his own sick, but he was alive. They got him an ambulance and fortunately for him and his family he made a full recovery.
The weird part is 18 months after this story, whilst I am on holiday in the Algarve, a man came up to me when I was in the restaurant and said 'I feel like I know you, but I don't know where from' I looked up, and immediately recognised him, I mean that view of him half dead on the Thames Path is forever etched into my memory, and told him where I knew him from.
He had never seen a picture of me, only has the story of that night from his partner, who wasn't there in the restaurant with him at the time, yet something in his mind was telling him he knew me and needed to come and say something to me.
For many years, I have had the 'ability' to make street lights turn off as I approach them. (Not all the lights; some). I have noticed that when this happens, I have been deep in thought and in an emotional, stressed state. When I have passed the light that has gone out, it comes on again. On occasion I have retraced my steps and the light has gone off again. This 'ability' troubled me for ages, but I have become used to it and when the thing occurs I just shrug my shoulders and smile. I saw a chap working on a street light in my road and spoke of my experience, enquiring if he had heard about such a thing. 'Oh yes', he said. 'You can read about it online'. I did so, and found out that the phenomenon is not uncommon. An academic author, Mr. Hilary Evans, who lived at Blackheath, wrote a paper about it. He had received testimony from numerous people, in various countries. Some described having an affect on radio and TV reception. Evans coined the term 'Street Light Interference' (SLI) and those who were affected became known as 'SLI-ders'. Is anyone else on Charlton Life a SLI-der? https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Street_light_interference_phenomenon
This thread is really coming to life and warming up nicely....unlike Leroy's wannabe corpse Have to say Leroy my favourite bit in your brilliant story is the line " Anyway, Christ knows why I did it.." I think we have all probably had one of those moments Thank you for sharing that
For many years, I have had the 'ability' to make street lights turn off as I approach them. (Not all the lights; some). I have noticed that when this happens, I have been deep in thought and in an emotional, stressed state. When I have passed the light that has gone out, it comes on again. On occasion I have retraced my steps and the light has gone off again. This 'ability' troubled me for ages, but I have become used to it and when the thing occurs I just shrug my shoulders and smile. I saw a chap working on a street light in my road and spoke of my experience, enquiring if he had heard about such a thing. 'Oh yes', he said. 'You can read about it online'. I did so, and found out that the phenomenon is not uncommon. An academic author, Mr. Hilary Evans, who lived at Blackheath, wrote a paper about it. He had received testimony from numerous people, in various countries. Some described having an affect on radio and TV reception. Evans coined the term 'Street Light Interference' (SLI) and those who were affected became known as 'SLI-ders'. Is anyone else on Charlton Life a SLI-der? https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Street_light_interference_phenomenon
happens to me all the time, same street lights, no matter what time of night (they have to be on, and they go out, they don't come on during the day) to the point where if I'm walking home with my girlfriend I tell her to put the flash on her phone as we approach said lights. First time it happened she thought it was coincidence, but when it then happened every night for about 3 weeks, and didn't happen if she walked past alone, she started to believe I truly was a frutloop.
My weird (ok terrifying) story happened a couple of years ago on the Thames Path near Woolwich Dockyard, I lived in the area and was out on a late night walk at about 11.30 when I noticed a strange noise coming from a bench ahead of me.
There was a mobile ringing, no-one anywhere to be seen.
I tentatively walked up to it, and saw there was 31 missed calls, all from a woman, and they were ringing again.
I answered the call
Spoke to the lady, who was in absolute hysterics, tried to tell her I just found this phone on a bench, and at first she was having none of it, finally got through to her, it was her boyfriend's phone and he had been drinking all day after losing his job, had threatened to kill himself and stormed off, she had been trying to get hold of him ever since.
I didn't want to, but I told her where I found the phone, with a horrible sense of dread suddenly clutching at my insides.
Turns out they only live a 10 minute walk or so, and she asked me to stay put whilst she hurried down.
As she hung up, I sat on the bench, horrible thoughts going through my head, how I am suddenly caught up in a possible tragic suicide story, how was I going to deal with this woman face to face etc.
She had rung the police and told them too, and they sent a couple of men down to the riverside, and they turned up a minute or so before she did.
Told them the story, where I found the phone etc. She unlocked it and the police told her to look for a note or something he may have left behind on the phone, but there was nothing. I am already welling up looking at this woman, only a couple of years older than me, had 2 young children, it made me sick to the pit of my stomach.
We decided to spread out, see if we could find something, anything, that hinted at the whereabouts of this man.
15 agonising, painstaking minutes later and we found him, passed out laying on the edge of a planter, face plastered in his own sick, but he was alive. They got him an ambulance and fortunately for him and his family he made a full recovery.
The weird part is 18 months after this story, whilst I am on holiday in the Algarve, a man came up to me when I was in the restaurant and said 'I feel like I know you, but I don't know where from' I looked up, and immediately recognised him, I mean that view of him half dead on the Thames Path is forever etched into my memory, and told him where I knew him from.
He had never seen a picture of me, only has the story of that night from his partner, who wasn't there in the restaurant with him at the time, yet something in his mind was telling him he knew me and needed to come and say something to me.
Not sure if I've put this on here before - I seem to remember posting it, but could be wrong. Anyway.
When I first split up with the wife a few years ago I basically reverted to being a teenager. Rented a massive flat far too big for me, bought a load of shit I didn't need, and - most pertinently to this story - went on an absolute rampage with the ladies. PoF and Tinder were my friends, and I wasn't discriminatory. There were some good looking girls, some average looking girls and some not so good looking girls - all at varying levels of crazy. Being a man who's always harboured an (ahem) 'experimental' side in the bedroom, but having been in an extremely vanilla marriage for years, I quickly discovered that The Internet was awash with like-minded filthy ladies, and set about on a voyage of sexual discovery the likes of which haven't been seen before or since.
Amongst other things, I ended up doing insane things with a Canadian lass I fell very hard for, banging a woman who let her dog in from outside to watch us go at it, being basically abused for ten hours at the hands of a dominatrix - but the ultimate occurred as a result of a random encounter on PoF with a girl who wanted to be seen-to whilst she pretended she was dead. Bit weird, I thought - but being the up-for-it kind of chap I am, I was game. Met her in a pub in Camden a few days before and she was actually really nice - seemed quite normal on the surface - a little bit gothy (which I quite like anyway), into similar music etc etc. Only whilst we were discussing The Deed did it start to dawn on me that she didn't just want to lie there, she wanted the whole nine yards. Like - proper spooky stuff. The longer the conversation went on, the weirder it got. She rationalised it all in her head - apparently it's quite a common fetish, has to do with taking being dominated to the next level or some such psychobabble.
Anyway, Christ knows why I did it, but I agreed that I was onboard and turned up to an arranged rendezvous on the evening in question, opened the door with her spare key and entered her flat. Just like herself, it had the facade of being completely normal, but the back room (an old converted scullery) was - quite literally - a morgue. It had a lino floor, white tiled walls, a flickering blue fluorescent striplight, was freezing fucking cold... and (not an exaggeration here) a morgue slab in the middle of the room. (I think) it was a big heavy-duty narrow wooden table, but it had been fitted with an aluminium sheet. There she lay, in all her glory. Stock fucking still and stark bollock naked. Freezing cold - she must have been laying there for hours. I won't divulge full details - suffice it to say that I performed (and she literally lay there and made no sound at all throughout) and left.
She messaged me whilst I was on the train home and said it was great, and she'd thoroughly enjoyed it (obviously, up to that point I had no idea whether she had or not) and would I be up for it again. She seemed positively disappointed when I said it wasn't really my thing, but good luck for the future and all that.
C'est la vie (or C'est la mort, in her case)
In the voice of Brent
Women. are. dirty.
You sound like a player I need some of what you got. The dead thing sounds weird and off-putting.
Not sure if I've put this on here before - I seem to remember posting it, but could be wrong. Anyway.
When I first split up with the wife a few years ago I basically reverted to being a teenager. Rented a massive flat far too big for me, bought a load of shit I didn't need, and - most pertinently to this story - went on an absolute rampage with the ladies. PoF and Tinder were my friends, and I wasn't discriminatory. There were some good looking girls, some average looking girls and some not so good looking girls - all at varying levels of crazy. Being a man who's always harboured an (ahem) 'experimental' side in the bedroom, but having been in an extremely vanilla marriage for years, I quickly discovered that The Internet was awash with like-minded filthy ladies, and set about on a voyage of sexual discovery the likes of which haven't been seen before or since.
Amongst other things, I ended up doing insane things with a Canadian lass I fell very hard for, banging a woman who let her dog in from outside to watch us go at it, being basically abused for ten hours at the hands of a dominatrix - but the ultimate occurred as a result of a random encounter on PoF with a girl who wanted to be seen-to whilst she pretended she was dead. Bit weird, I thought - but being the up-for-it kind of chap I am, I was game. Met her in a pub in Camden a few days before and she was actually really nice - seemed quite normal on the surface - a little bit gothy (which I quite like anyway), into similar music etc etc. Only whilst we were discussing The Deed did it start to dawn on me that she didn't just want to lie there, she wanted the whole nine yards. Like - proper spooky stuff. The longer the conversation went on, the weirder it got. She rationalised it all in her head - apparently it's quite a common fetish, has to do with taking being dominated to the next level or some such psychobabble.
Anyway, Christ knows why I did it, but I agreed that I was onboard and turned up to an arranged rendezvous on the evening in question, opened the door with her spare key and entered her flat. Just like herself, it had the facade of being completely normal, but the back room (an old converted scullery) was - quite literally - a morgue. It had a lino floor, white tiled walls, a flickering blue fluorescent striplight, was freezing fucking cold... and (not an exaggeration here) a morgue slab in the middle of the room. (I think) it was a big heavy-duty narrow wooden table, but it had been fitted with an aluminium sheet. There she lay, in all her glory. Stock fucking still and stark bollock naked. Freezing cold - she must have been laying there for hours. I won't divulge full details - suffice it to say that I performed (and she literally lay there and made no sound at all throughout) and left.
She messaged me whilst I was on the train home and said it was great, and she'd thoroughly enjoyed it (obviously, up to that point I had no idea whether she had or not) and would I be up for it again. She seemed positively disappointed when I said it wasn't really my thing, but good luck for the future and all that.
C'est la vie (or C'est la mort, in her case)
Missed this first time around... Needs a bump hahahahhahahha
Not sure if I've put this on here before - I seem to remember posting it, but could be wrong. Anyway.
When I first split up with the wife a few years ago I basically reverted to being a teenager. Rented a massive flat far too big for me, bought a load of shit I didn't need, and - most pertinently to this story - went on an absolute rampage with the ladies. PoF and Tinder were my friends, and I wasn't discriminatory. There were some good looking girls, some average looking girls and some not so good looking girls - all at varying levels of crazy. Being a man who's always harboured an (ahem) 'experimental' side in the bedroom, but having been in an extremely vanilla marriage for years, I quickly discovered that The Internet was awash with like-minded filthy ladies, and set about on a voyage of sexual discovery the likes of which haven't been seen before or since.
Amongst other things, I ended up doing insane things with a Canadian lass I fell very hard for, banging a woman who let her dog in from outside to watch us go at it, being basically abused for ten hours at the hands of a dominatrix - but the ultimate occurred as a result of a random encounter on PoF with a girl who wanted to be seen-to whilst she pretended she was dead. Bit weird, I thought - but being the up-for-it kind of chap I am, I was game. Met her in a pub in Camden a few days before and she was actually really nice - seemed quite normal on the surface - a little bit gothy (which I quite like anyway), into similar music etc etc. Only whilst we were discussing The Deed did it start to dawn on me that she didn't just want to lie there, she wanted the whole nine yards. Like - proper spooky stuff. The longer the conversation went on, the weirder it got. She rationalised it all in her head - apparently it's quite a common fetish, has to do with taking being dominated to the next level or some such psychobabble.
Anyway, Christ knows why I did it, but I agreed that I was onboard and turned up to an arranged rendezvous on the evening in question, opened the door with her spare key and entered her flat. Just like herself, it had the facade of being completely normal, but the back room (an old converted scullery) was - quite literally - a morgue. It had a lino floor, white tiled walls, a flickering blue fluorescent striplight, was freezing fucking cold... and (not an exaggeration here) a morgue slab in the middle of the room. (I think) it was a big heavy-duty narrow wooden table, but it had been fitted with an aluminium sheet. There she lay, in all her glory. Stock fucking still and stark bollock naked. Freezing cold - she must have been laying there for hours. I won't divulge full details - suffice it to say that I performed (and she literally lay there and made no sound at all throughout) and left.
She messaged me whilst I was on the train home and said it was great, and she'd thoroughly enjoyed it (obviously, up to that point I had no idea whether she had or not) and would I be up for it again. She seemed positively disappointed when I said it wasn't really my thing, but good luck for the future and all that.
C'est la vie (or C'est la mort, in her case)
Im sure i speak on behalf of all CL posters when i say, we really want full details Leroy.
He definitely did her up the shitter!
Id be wiping my smelly bridge on her nose. Really test how serious she is about it all.
Describing strange things that have happened. The purpose of this thread.
I have one. Weirder things have happened but this just sort of stands out for some reason.
"Weird" I find the word to not really be a solid reliable one as not all people think alike. What might be considered weird to one person from a different country, might just be the norm to someone else. Obviously.
It was Christmas time ish 2015.
Was in Canada looking for a place to live as I wanted to move out from where I was staying at that time.
I used a website called kijiji to find a room I could rent.
I rang a woman up who had a place advertised. It looked quite nice and was relatively affordable. Judging by the sound of her voice, she sounded more like an elderly person. Sounded genuine though.
The day arrived for me to view the place.
As I was getting close to walking on the road I could potentially end up living within, a rather eerie feeling crept it. I thought it was just nerves. It was, but was also a scenic area that reminded me of the film Texas chainsaw massacre. It was horrible. Nerves, I kept reminding myself.
The road of houses actually overlooked a lake. A freshwater beach.
The atmosphere of the surrounding area was dreadful. Scary. Nerves I kept saying.
Anyway. I got there, knocked on the door.
Before i knew it, a family of freaks in the most smelly small uncomfortable cramped house were all interrogating me asking about what kind of a person I am. Very aggressively.
It's hard to describe... I can handle myself but I was trembling and trying to contain my true thoughts. Already I knew I wasn't going to live there and i straight away just wanted to leave. It was also in the middle of nowhere.
All the members of this family were rather old. I think the youngest might have been 40 odd. Perhaps.
It was almost like a random collection of people. The interior design of this place was awful. The kitchen actually looked more like a cupboard.
So, the woman that i spoke to on the phone, her even older and rather fat sister, who was also wearing a bandana, (maybe she was ill wont hold that against her) took me upstairs to show me where I would be sleeping and possibly living.
We would be sharing the same living space. Was a living room upstairs and our bedrooms were directly opposite each other. The walls were thin.
A white anorexic cat also occupied this living space.
This woman made it clear to me that the cat was a well respected senior figure of this family and that I would need to get its approval over time.I would be welcomed but would be officially beneath the importance of a cat. That was just an impression I got. She didn't actually say that....
By this time I'm looking forward to leaving. I was just polite being nice.... seeing it out.
She then sat me down and said "David" (said my name in a way that you would if you've known someone for years)
She put her hand on my knee, briefly, not sexually.
"David there's something you should know, sometimes I like to er I have people up here and I .......entertain men"
There was a little silence. I was sort of inbetween looking at the floor and looking at her foot at this point.
I just said OK yeh being social and stuff, that's nice. Then I looked away.
She just said "well you know noise and stuff. Your going to hear. You need to be alright with the er company"
That conversation was pushed along by myself and I was using a manor to nicely suggest OK I've seen everything now, let me go home and think about it.
I was then stopped.
Oh you haven't seen the lake yet. My nephew will show you.
"Brendan" took me outside to the lake where he then proceeded to tell me his life story within 5mins, all the really crappie things that have happened to him and got a little emotional in the short space of time we was looking at the view. Nothing against that. It's just a random thing where you don't quite know how to react to someone being that open with someone they've only just met. Instant trust. Too much.
"Sometimes I just come out here look at the stars and think about life"
There was a slience while he was looking into the distance....perhaps with a growing tear in his eye.
OK....I said. Thanks.
I then abruptly said cheers and goodbye. The woman waved at me through the window...indication of a belief that I'd be moving in.
I then sort of started jogging.
Got far away as possible.
Weirder things have happened but I'd be interested to read stories where lifers want to share things that could either be considered weird or interesting.
A really good "what the f*ck was that all about" story.
Over to you.
What film script did you lift that from? If not you could flog it to Hollwood!
Last year I went out to see one of our friends 8 year old son play rugby league on a Saturday morning in Auckland. One of the players on the opposing team was massive, especially compared to all the other players (check out the guy in the yellow shirt).
Later on Saturday night, I went to watch NZ Warriors v Manly Sea Eagles at Mt Smart Stadium. At half time, I told a mate about this big boy, that I had seen earlier that day and I showed him the photo on my phone. He laughed and pointed to the field where there was half time entertainment and asked: ‘That guy?'
Went to the M&S petrol station at Crown Woods today, stuck a random amount of fuel in my car and picked up a couple of food items in the shop. Put them on the counter and the bloke said Any fuel? I said yes No.6. He rang up the items and asked me to put my card in the reader. As I went to put in my PIN I glanced up at the till and the amount due was MY PIN NUMBER! Freaked my out for a second or two, was the card machine linked to the display on the till? Obviously just a coincidence but I found it really wierd. I've told quite a few people about it today and hardly anyone batted an eyelid!
Before I had my sex change, I used to be a women, kinda Gothy type. I developed this fetish for having sex while pretending to be dead. Anyway I met this one guy in Camden.....................
Went to the M&S petrol station at Crown Woods today, stuck a random amount of fuel in my car and picked up a couple of food items in the shop. Put them on the counter and the bloke said Any fuel? I said yes No.6. He rang up the items and asked me to put my card in the reader. As I went to put in my PIN I glanced up at the till and the amount due was MY PIN NUMBER! Freaked my out for a second or two, was the card machine linked to the display on the till? Obviously just a coincidence but I found it really wierd. I've told quite a few people about it today and hardly anyones battered an eyelid!
Went to the M&S petrol station at Crown Woods today, stuck a random amount of fuel in my car and picked up a couple of food items in the shop. Put them on the counter and the bloke said Any fuel? I said yes No.6. He rang up the items and asked me to put my card in the reader. As I went to put in my PIN I glanced up at the till and the amount due was MY PIN NUMBER! Freaked my out for a second or two, was the card machine linked to the display on the till? Obviously just a coincidence but I found it really wierd. I've told quite a few people about it today and hardly anyone batted an eyelid!
Not sure if this is a particularly weird story but just remembered it this evening while walking the dog and it brought a smile to my face and somewhere else too.
One Saturday when using the back roads to get to the supermarket, a young women ran across in front of the car, causing me to slam on the brakes.
As if, perhaps to say thanks, she turned to face me, lifted her top and displayed her nicely formed bare breasts, stood there for a moment and then ran off.
I immediately drove into a tree, nargh didn’t really hit a tree but did smile all the way to the supermarket.
Weird unique or plain boring I don't mind but I thought I'd pop this on here, back in 09 I was in a lengthy coma, lots of family and friends visiting saying come on Jon you ol' prick you can make it, you get the picture, fast forward to now I mentioned something at a game to a friend, 'by the way, when you visit someone in a coma try and help, don't say by the way Charlton went down'. He has got over the shock fairly well.
Some of you may recall the rather odd story involving a break-in at my house in 2015. There is a small follow-up that goes with it, which is a bit odd.
(Long story short - maniacs break into my house at night and terrorise me and my GF as we lie in bed, eventually they realise they have the wrong house and break into next door instead, before then running away. They apologised to me, which was nice).
A few weeks after the break-in, my girlfriend of the time has gone to stay at her parents'. My drug dealer neighbour (let's call him "Andy", cos that's his name), has been off the grid (he broke his foot jumping out a window when he ran away from the invaders).
I came home from work and heard his weasel voice. "Jimmy85. Jimmy85. Come here. Jimmy85."
I looked around, I realised his garage was open and he's inside, beckoning me in.
"What's up?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
"I wanna know why you ain't talking to me and Sally."
I walked into his garage. It was disturbingly well organised. All the shelves were perfectly adorned with an incredible assortment of items, from sparky equipment to stargazing or weather-tracking paraphernalia. Andy was hopping from one foot to the other. He has an enormous amount of pent-up energy. As usual, he had a blunt on the go but, sadly, no amount of grade-A skunk can slow down his manic brain.
He's a slight little fellow, about 5'8", probably weights about 9 or 10 stone, with approximately zero percent body fat. Loos a bit like the TV presenter, Ben Shepherd. His clothing, as bizarre as it is to me, is always well-planned - colours that compliment, belt buckle always central, gold chains delicately resting over his chest.
"What have we done? why ain't you talking to me?" he asked, aggressively.
"Well, you know... we had five masked men break into our house because of you so..."
"You think that was my fault? Do ya? Fucking hell do ya? I'm a victim too!" he explained, angrily.
"Well, if you move in such circles, you're going to attract this stuff." was the essence of my point. It took a good 5-10 minutes for me to land it. He was furious for us in any way blaming him. I knew it was pointless to discuss it with him.
Eventually, he said "I gave the cops a fortnight, I told em, you got a fortnight, and if you ain't caught them I'll get them," for it seemed Andy had a pretty good idea who the culprits were.
"And they've had three weeks, so I sorted it myself."
"What do you....erm...mean?"
"I caught them innit. The main fella. I caught him. Put him in a box didn't I? We're the men of the house Jimmy85, we have to look after our women. You want that, don't ya?"
"Yeah... I am ok with the police dealing with it to be honest."
"I've put people in the ground for less!" he declares. "Look at this!"
He tries to show me a video on his phone, I presume, of him doing unpleasant things to a guy in a box. I decline looking at it, and then realise, he's shut the garage door. I just want to leave. But Andy won't stop, he's obsessed with me being his friend, something I am very keen to avoid, and he REALLY wants me to watch this video.
Eventually, someone bangs on the garage door. Two guys are out there. both of them 6' plus. And this is the bit that concerned me - he shouted at them, these two hulking men, and they apologised and went to wait in the road. They were scared of the little guy. Up to this point I'd presumed Andy was more bark than bite, but the reaction of these two, who were no snowflakes, was not what I expected.
Eventually I left the garage, and went back to my life. I've not spoken to him since. These days he spends his evening outside in a Rocky dressing gown, playing hockey with his dog, stargazing or using his speedbag/ punchbag (he has it out front so he can talk to people while he boxes). He holds court out there. He's always in my life. his voice, nagging away about whatever (he rarely leaves the house, fuck knows what he has to care about), or the smell of his weed wafting up through my window. He's always just... there.
We've sold the house, and move out this month. Suffice to say, I hope I never, ever see him again.
Some of you may recall the rather odd story involving a break-in at my house in 2015. There is a small follow-up that goes with it, which is a bit odd.
(Long story short - maniacs break into my house at night and terrorise me and my GF as we lie in bed, eventually they realise they have the wrong house and break into next door instead, before then running away. They apologised to me, which was nice).
A few weeks after the break-in, my girlfriend of the time has gone to stay at her parents'. My drug dealer neighbour (let's call him "Andy", cos that's his name), has been off the grid (he broke his foot jumping out a window when he ran away from the invaders).
I came home from work and heard his weasel voice. "Jimmy85. Jimmy85. Come here. Jimmy85."
I looked around, I realised his garage was open and he's inside, beckoning me in.
"What's up?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
"I wanna know why you ain't talking to me and Sally."
I walked into his garage. It was disturbingly well organised. All the shelves were perfectly adorned with an incredible assortment of items, from sparky equipment to stargazing or weather-tracking paraphernalia. Andy was hopping from one foot to the other. He has an enormous amount of pent-up energy. As usual, he had a blunt on the go but, sadly, no amount of grade-A skunk can slow down his manic brain.
He's a slight little fellow, about 5'8", probably weights about 9 or 10 stone, with approximately zero percent body fat. Loos a bit like the TV presenter, Ben Shepherd. His clothing, as bizarre as it is to me, is always well-planned - colours that compliment, belt buckle always central, gold chains delicately resting over his chest.
"What have we done? why ain't you talking to me?" he asked, aggressively.
"Well, you know... we had five masked men break into our house because of you so..."
"You think that was my fault? Do ya? Fucking hell do ya? I'm a victim too!" he explained, angrily.
"Well, if you move in such circles, you're going to attract this stuff." was the essence of my point. It took a good 5-10 minutes for me to land it. He was furious for us in any way blaming him. I knew it was pointless to discuss it with him.
Eventually, he said "I gave the cops a fortnight, I told em, you got a fortnight, and if you ain't caught them I'll get them," for it seemed Andy had a pretty good idea who the culprits were.
"And they've had three weeks, so I sorted it myself."
"What do you....erm...mean?"
"I caught them innit. The main fella. I caught him. Put him in a box didn't I? We're the men of the house Jimmy85, we have to look after our women. You want that, don't ya?"
"Yeah... I am ok with the police dealing with it to be honest."
"I've put people in the ground for less!" he declares. "Look at this!"
He tries to show me a video on his phone, I presume, of him doing unpleasant things to a guy in a box. I decline looking at it, and then realise, he's shut the garage door. I just want to leave. But Andy won't stop, he's obsessed with me being his friend, something I am very keen to avoid, and he REALLY wants me to watch this video.
Eventually, someone bangs on the garage door. Two guys are out there. both of them 6' plus. And this is the bit that concerned me - he shouted at them, these two hulking men, and they apologised and went to wait in the road. They were scared of the little guy. Up to this point I'd presumed Andy was more bark than bite, but the reaction of these two, who were no snowflakes, was not what I expected.
Eventually I left the garage, and went back to my life. I've not spoken to him since. These days he spends his evening outside in a Rocky dressing gown, playing hockey with his dog, stargazing or using his speedbag/ punchbag (he has it out front so he can talk to people while he boxes). He holds court out there. He's always in my life. his voice, nagging away about whatever (he rarely leaves the house, fuck knows what he has to care about), or the smell of his weed wafting up through my window. He's always just... there.
We've sold the house, and move out this month. Suffice to say, I hope I never, ever see him again.
Some of you may recall the rather odd story involving a break-in at my house in 2015. There is a small follow-up that goes with it, which is a bit odd.
(Long story short - maniacs break into my house at night and terrorise me and my GF as we lie in bed, eventually they realise they have the wrong house and break into next door instead, before then running away. They apologised to me, which was nice).
A few weeks after the break-in, my girlfriend of the time has gone to stay at her parents'. My drug dealer neighbour (let's call him "Andy", cos that's his name), has been off the grid (he broke his foot jumping out a window when he ran away from the invaders).
I came home from work and heard his weasel voice. "Jimmy85. Jimmy85. Come here. Jimmy85."
I looked around, I realised his garage was open and he's inside, beckoning me in.
"What's up?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
"I wanna know why you ain't talking to me and Sally."
I walked into his garage. It was disturbingly well organised. All the shelves were perfectly adorned with an incredible assortment of items, from sparky equipment to stargazing or weather-tracking paraphernalia. Andy was hopping from one foot to the other. He has an enormous amount of pent-up energy. As usual, he had a blunt on the go but, sadly, no amount of grade-A skunk can slow down his manic brain.
He's a slight little fellow, about 5'8", probably weights about 9 or 10 stone, with approximately zero percent body fat. Loos a bit like the TV presenter, Ben Shepherd. His clothing, as bizarre as it is to me, is always well-planned - colours that compliment, belt buckle always central, gold chains delicately resting over his chest.
"What have we done? why ain't you talking to me?" he asked, aggressively.
"Well, you know... we had five masked men break into our house because of you so..."
"You think that was my fault? Do ya? Fucking hell do ya? I'm a victim too!" he explained, angrily.
"Well, if you move in such circles, you're going to attract this stuff." was the essence of my point. It took a good 5-10 minutes for me to land it. He was furious for us in any way blaming him. I knew it was pointless to discuss it with him.
Eventually, he said "I gave the cops a fortnight, I told em, you got a fortnight, and if you ain't caught them I'll get them," for it seemed Andy had a pretty good idea who the culprits were.
"And they've had three weeks, so I sorted it myself."
"What do you....erm...mean?"
"I caught them innit. The main fella. I caught him. Put him in a box didn't I? We're the men of the house Jimmy85, we have to look after our women. You want that, don't ya?"
"Yeah... I am ok with the police dealing with it to be honest."
"I've put people in the ground for less!" he declares. "Look at this!"
He tries to show me a video on his phone, I presume, of him doing unpleasant things to a guy in a box. I decline looking at it, and then realise, he's shut the garage door. I just want to leave. But Andy won't stop, he's obsessed with me being his friend, something I am very keen to avoid, and he REALLY wants me to watch this video.
Eventually, someone bangs on the garage door. Two guys are out there. both of them 6' plus. And this is the bit that concerned me - he shouted at them, these two hulking men, and they apologised and went to wait in the road. They were scared of the little guy. Up to this point I'd presumed Andy was more bark than bite, but the reaction of these two, who were no snowflakes, was not what I expected.
Eventually I left the garage, and went back to my life. I've not spoken to him since. These days he spends his evening outside in a Rocky dressing gown, playing hockey with his dog, stargazing or using his speedbag/ punchbag (he has it out front so he can talk to people while he boxes). He holds court out there. He's always in my life. his voice, nagging away about whatever (he rarely leaves the house, fuck knows what he has to care about), or the smell of his weed wafting up through my window. He's always just... there.
We've sold the house, and move out this month. Suffice to say, I hope I never, ever see him again.
If you ever want a job at my place, pm me Jimbo 85...
Some of you may recall the rather odd story involving a break-in at my house in 2015. There is a small follow-up that goes with it, which is a bit odd.
(Long story short - maniacs break into my house at night and terrorise me and my GF as we lie in bed, eventually they realise they have the wrong house and break into next door instead, before then running away. They apologised to me, which was nice).
A few weeks after the break-in, my girlfriend of the time has gone to stay at her parents'. My drug dealer neighbour (let's call him "Andy", cos that's his name), has been off the grid (he broke his foot jumping out a window when he ran away from the invaders).
I came home from work and heard his weasel voice. "Jimmy85. Jimmy85. Come here. Jimmy85."
I looked around, I realised his garage was open and he's inside, beckoning me in.
"What's up?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
"I wanna know why you ain't talking to me and Sally."
I walked into his garage. It was disturbingly well organised. All the shelves were perfectly adorned with an incredible assortment of items, from sparky equipment to stargazing or weather-tracking paraphernalia. Andy was hopping from one foot to the other. He has an enormous amount of pent-up energy. As usual, he had a blunt on the go but, sadly, no amount of grade-A skunk can slow down his manic brain.
He's a slight little fellow, about 5'8", probably weights about 9 or 10 stone, with approximately zero percent body fat. Loos a bit like the TV presenter, Ben Shepherd. His clothing, as bizarre as it is to me, is always well-planned - colours that compliment, belt buckle always central, gold chains delicately resting over his chest.
"What have we done? why ain't you talking to me?" he asked, aggressively.
"Well, you know... we had five masked men break into our house because of you so..."
"You think that was my fault? Do ya? Fucking hell do ya? I'm a victim too!" he explained, angrily.
"Well, if you move in such circles, you're going to attract this stuff." was the essence of my point. It took a good 5-10 minutes for me to land it. He was furious for us in any way blaming him. I knew it was pointless to discuss it with him.
Eventually, he said "I gave the cops a fortnight, I told em, you got a fortnight, and if you ain't caught them I'll get them," for it seemed Andy had a pretty good idea who the culprits were.
"And they've had three weeks, so I sorted it myself."
"What do you....erm...mean?"
"I caught them innit. The main fella. I caught him. Put him in a box didn't I? We're the men of the house Jimmy85, we have to look after our women. You want that, don't ya?"
"Yeah... I am ok with the police dealing with it to be honest."
"I've put people in the ground for less!" he declares. "Look at this!"
He tries to show me a video on his phone, I presume, of him doing unpleasant things to a guy in a box. I decline looking at it, and then realise, he's shut the garage door. I just want to leave. But Andy won't stop, he's obsessed with me being his friend, something I am very keen to avoid, and he REALLY wants me to watch this video.
Eventually, someone bangs on the garage door. Two guys are out there. both of them 6' plus. And this is the bit that concerned me - he shouted at them, these two hulking men, and they apologised and went to wait in the road. They were scared of the little guy. Up to this point I'd presumed Andy was more bark than bite, but the reaction of these two, who were no snowflakes, was not what I expected.
Eventually I left the garage, and went back to my life. I've not spoken to him since. These days he spends his evening outside in a Rocky dressing gown, playing hockey with his dog, stargazing or using his speedbag/ punchbag (he has it out front so he can talk to people while he boxes). He holds court out there. He's always in my life. his voice, nagging away about whatever (he rarely leaves the house, fuck knows what he has to care about), or the smell of his weed wafting up through my window. He's always just... there.
We've sold the house, and move out this month. Suffice to say, I hope I never, ever see him again.
They didn't ask. We did detail the break in on a form. I don't blame the previous owner for lumping us with that neighbour. It wasn't their responsibility to tell us - we should've asked around if we wanted to know more.
Not sure if I've put this on here before - I seem to remember posting it, but could be wrong. Anyway.
When I first split up with the wife a few years ago I basically reverted to being a teenager. Rented a massive flat far too big for me, bought a load of shit I didn't need, and - most pertinently to this story - went on an absolute rampage with the ladies. PoF and Tinder were my friends, and I wasn't discriminatory. There were some good looking girls, some average looking girls and some not so good looking girls - all at varying levels of crazy. Being a man who's always harboured an (ahem) 'experimental' side in the bedroom, but having been in an extremely vanilla marriage for years, I quickly discovered that The Internet was awash with like-minded filthy ladies, and set about on a voyage of sexual discovery the likes of which haven't been seen before or since.
Amongst other things, I ended up doing insane things with a Canadian lass I fell very hard for, banging a woman who let her dog in from outside to watch us go at it, being basically abused for ten hours at the hands of a dominatrix - but the ultimate occurred as a result of a random encounter on PoF with a girl who wanted to be seen-to whilst she pretended she was dead. Bit weird, I thought - but being the up-for-it kind of chap I am, I was game. Met her in a pub in Camden a few days before and she was actually really nice - seemed quite normal on the surface - a little bit gothy (which I quite like anyway), into similar music etc etc. Only whilst we were discussing The Deed did it start to dawn on me that she didn't just want to lie there, she wanted the whole nine yards. Like - proper spooky stuff. The longer the conversation went on, the weirder it got. She rationalised it all in her head - apparently it's quite a common fetish, has to do with taking being dominated to the next level or some such psychobabble.
Anyway, Christ knows why I did it, but I agreed that I was onboard and turned up to an arranged rendezvous on the evening in question, opened the door with her spare key and entered her flat. Just like herself, it had the facade of being completely normal, but the back room (an old converted scullery) was - quite literally - a morgue. It had a lino floor, white tiled walls, a flickering blue fluorescent striplight, was freezing fucking cold... and (not an exaggeration here) a morgue slab in the middle of the room. (I think) it was a big heavy-duty narrow wooden table, but it had been fitted with an aluminium sheet. There she lay, in all her glory. Stock fucking still and stark bollock naked. Freezing cold - she must have been laying there for hours. I won't divulge full details - suffice it to say that I performed (and she literally lay there and made no sound at all throughout) and left.
She messaged me whilst I was on the train home and said it was great, and she'd thoroughly enjoyed it (obviously, up to that point I had no idea whether she had or not) and would I be up for it again. She seemed positively disappointed when I said it wasn't really my thing, but good luck for the future and all that.
C'est la vie (or C'est la mort, in her case)
Im sure i speak on behalf of all CL posters when i say, we really want full details Leroy.
He definitely did her up the shitter!
Id be wiping my smelly bridge on her nose. Really test how serious she is about it all.
First time reading this thread and not a lot makes me laugh out loud but that was damn funny.
Comments
And no, it weren't up the Gary
@Leroy Ambrose I salute you sir. @ValleyGary I'm still laughing...
My weird (ok terrifying) story happened a couple of years ago on the Thames Path near Woolwich Dockyard, I lived in the area and was out on a late night walk at about 11.30 when I noticed a strange noise coming from a bench ahead of me.
There was a mobile ringing, no-one anywhere to be seen.
I tentatively walked up to it, and saw there was 31 missed calls, all from a woman, and they were ringing again.
I answered the call
Spoke to the lady, who was in absolute hysterics, tried to tell her I just found this phone on a bench, and at first she was having none of it, finally got through to her, it was her boyfriend's phone and he had been drinking all day after losing his job, had threatened to kill himself and stormed off, she had been trying to get hold of him ever since.
I didn't want to, but I told her where I found the phone, with a horrible sense of dread suddenly clutching at my insides.
Turns out they only live a 10 minute walk or so, and she asked me to stay put whilst she hurried down.
As she hung up, I sat on the bench, horrible thoughts going through my head, how I am suddenly caught up in a possible tragic suicide story, how was I going to deal with this woman face to face etc.
She had rung the police and told them too, and they sent a couple of men down to the riverside, and they turned up a minute or so before she did.
Told them the story, where I found the phone etc. She unlocked it and the police told her to look for a note or something he may have left behind on the phone, but there was nothing. I am already welling up looking at this woman, only a couple of years older than me, had 2 young children, it made me sick to the pit of my stomach.
We decided to spread out, see if we could find something, anything, that hinted at the whereabouts of this man.
15 agonising, painstaking minutes later and we found him, passed out laying on the edge of a planter, face plastered in his own sick, but he was alive. They got him an ambulance and fortunately for him and his family he made a full recovery.
The weird part is 18 months after this story, whilst I am on holiday in the Algarve, a man came up to me when I was in the restaurant and said 'I feel like I know you, but I don't know where from' I looked up, and immediately recognised him, I mean that view of him half dead on the Thames Path is forever etched into my memory, and told him where I knew him from.
He had never seen a picture of me, only has the story of that night from his partner, who wasn't there in the restaurant with him at the time, yet something in his mind was telling him he knew me and needed to come and say something to me.
Freaky as hell
Have to say Leroy my favourite bit in your brilliant story is the line " Anyway, Christ knows why I did it.."
I think we have all probably had one of those moments
Thank you for sharing that
Sad story. Also quite nice too.
Women. are. dirty.
You sound like a player I need some of what you got. The dead thing sounds weird and off-putting.
Weird but sounds quite strangely convenient
One of the players on the opposing team was massive, especially compared to all the other players (check out the guy in the yellow shirt).
Later on Saturday night, I went to watch NZ Warriors v Manly Sea Eagles at Mt Smart Stadium.
At half time, I told a mate about this big boy, that I had seen earlier that day and I showed him the photo on my phone.
He laughed and pointed to the field where there was half time entertainment and asked:
‘That guy?'
I've told quite a few people about it today and hardly anyone batted an eyelid!
One Saturday when using the back roads to get to the supermarket, a young women ran across in front of the car, causing me to slam on the brakes.
As if, perhaps to say thanks, she turned to face me, lifted her top and displayed her nicely formed bare breasts, stood there for a moment and then ran off.
I immediately drove into a tree, nargh didn’t really hit a tree but did smile all the way to the supermarket.
(Long story short - maniacs break into my house at night and terrorise me and my GF as we lie in bed, eventually they realise they have the wrong house and break into next door instead, before then running away. They apologised to me, which was nice).
A few weeks after the break-in, my girlfriend of the time has gone to stay at her parents'. My drug dealer neighbour (let's call him "Andy", cos that's his name), has been off the grid (he broke his foot jumping out a window when he ran away from the invaders).
I came home from work and heard his weasel voice. "Jimmy85. Jimmy85. Come here. Jimmy85."
I looked around, I realised his garage was open and he's inside, beckoning me in.
"What's up?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
"I wanna know why you ain't talking to me and Sally."
I walked into his garage. It was disturbingly well organised. All the shelves were perfectly adorned with an incredible assortment of items, from sparky equipment to stargazing or weather-tracking paraphernalia. Andy was hopping from one foot to the other. He has an enormous amount of pent-up energy. As usual, he had a blunt on the go but, sadly, no amount of grade-A skunk can slow down his manic brain.
He's a slight little fellow, about 5'8", probably weights about 9 or 10 stone, with approximately zero percent body fat. Loos a bit like the TV presenter, Ben Shepherd. His clothing, as bizarre as it is to me, is always well-planned - colours that compliment, belt buckle always central, gold chains delicately resting over his chest.
"What have we done? why ain't you talking to me?" he asked, aggressively.
"Well, you know... we had five masked men break into our house because of you so..."
"You think that was my fault? Do ya? Fucking hell do ya? I'm a victim too!" he explained, angrily.
"Well, if you move in such circles, you're going to attract this stuff." was the essence of my point. It took a good 5-10 minutes for me to land it. He was furious for us in any way blaming him. I knew it was pointless to discuss it with him.
Eventually, he said "I gave the cops a fortnight, I told em, you got a fortnight, and if you ain't caught them I'll get them," for it seemed Andy had a pretty good idea who the culprits were.
"And they've had three weeks, so I sorted it myself."
"What do you....erm...mean?"
"I caught them innit. The main fella. I caught him. Put him in a box didn't I? We're the men of the house Jimmy85, we have to look after our women. You want that, don't ya?"
"Yeah... I am ok with the police dealing with it to be honest."
"I've put people in the ground for less!" he declares. "Look at this!"
He tries to show me a video on his phone, I presume, of him doing unpleasant things to a guy in a box. I decline looking at it, and then realise, he's shut the garage door. I just want to leave. But Andy won't stop, he's obsessed with me being his friend, something I am very keen to avoid, and he REALLY wants me to watch this video.
Eventually, someone bangs on the garage door. Two guys are out there. both of them 6' plus. And this is the bit that concerned me - he shouted at them, these two hulking men, and they apologised and went to wait in the road. They were scared of the little guy. Up to this point I'd presumed Andy was more bark than bite, but the reaction of these two, who were no snowflakes, was not what I expected.
Eventually I left the garage, and went back to my life. I've not spoken to him since. These days he spends his evening outside in a Rocky dressing gown, playing hockey with his dog, stargazing or using his speedbag/ punchbag (he has it out front so he can talk to people while he boxes). He holds court out there. He's always in my life. his voice, nagging away about whatever (he rarely leaves the house, fuck knows what he has to care about), or the smell of his weed wafting up through my window. He's always just... there.
We've sold the house, and move out this month. Suffice to say, I hope I never, ever see him again.