Rubbish excuses

Rubbish excuses

I know what you lot are thinking, you manky devils. But no, I deny it totally. You may be surprised, and perhaps somewhat disgusted to learn that I have never been caught giving myself a hand shandy. This good fortune is a result of excellent planning and a high quality, vibration-free technique of which I am justly proud.

Others, alas, are not so lucky. Many is the time (OK, twice, tops - it's not like I make a habit of it) have I caught friends at the height of their vinegar strokes, and only once have I seen fit to throw a bucket of water over them.

For these people, and many other unfortunates like them whose relationship with the discoverer of their secret, not to mention rather vocal, lust for one "Sophie" will never be the same again, they have but one alleyway into which to flee. That of the rubbish excuse.

When caught masturbating, the only valid rubbish excuse that may be used is "I was cleaning it". Unfortunately, this may then lead to the challenge:

"Oh yes, and what's this crusty sock I found under your bed?"

"I ...err... trod in milk."

And thereby all parties are satisfied.

It needn't be an uncovered act of bishop bashing, as this post is not entirely about the act of self-pleasure and the consequences of its untimely discovery. Oh no! It is about man's inability to (ahem) come clean when caught in a compromising situation.

My own fall from grace came one leery night down the pub, when I was dragged from a momentary trance by the voice of an otherwise charming young lady, directing her ire in my direction. To whit:

"Ere you! You! Stop staring at my tits!"

I was, I am afraid, bang to rights, but I blundered onwards, trying in vain to cover my tracks.

Putting on a faux Ulster accent, I countered this mountain of woman with the first thing that came into my head.

"Dere's a little spider. It's crawling across yer blouse. If yer careful, you might get it off."

Top quality thinking-on-your-feet, I thought, but no. And coming across as Jimmy Cricket probably didn't help.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Get it off. The spider. Not …err… your blouse."

"You... you disgust me."

If I wasn't the barman and in a position to give out free Babychams, things might well have got a lot worse from there.

They did. She kicked me in the shins when I emerged to collect the empty glasses.

What rubbish excuses have you given? Eh? EH?


Tomorrow: Oh Lordy, it appeares to be ye timely returne of Samuel Pepys FRS, MP. Bryng bottle & bird.