Mirth and Woe: Jam
As an 18-year-old, you grow to hate people-who-are-having-sex.
They may have been your best mate at school, but the moment they start having oh-so-earnest sex with their significant other, leaving you to wait, patiently downstairs, you soon learn to hate their guts.
So, when your best mate turns up at your eighteenth birthday party with long-standing girlfriend on arm, announcing that their sole target for the evening is to have sex, then you are doomed to surrender your bed.
And no, you are not invited.
And yes, we are stuffing the keyhole with tissue paper.
It gets much worse.
You are downstairs, strutting your fancy stuff, and trying your hardest to gets into the knickers of a certain young lady whose brother is in the RAF Regiment, and will never, ever sleep with you, no matter how many mix tapes you send.
There, at the back of your mind, is the thought of your best friend and his new best friend, hammering away between YOUR sheets.
And when the music runs out, the steady a-rump-a-rump-a-rump-a-rump-a coming upstairs that tells you they've been at it, solidly, for two hours.
A door opens, and your former best friend sheepishly descends the stairs wearing YOUR dressing gown, and heads to the kitchen.
Liquid refreshment? No.
A handful of the finest party snacks known to man? No.
With furtive guile, he opens and closes a few cupboards, until he finds his goal.
A jar of your mother's finest strawberry jam.
"Just borrowing this."
"Wait… what? No!"
"It's Julie. She's always wanted to… you know"
"No. No I don't."
He spelled out, what, exactly, Julie wanted to do. Mostly involving the pink oboe, and a vow to have the jar sterilised after the act.
Alas, things didn't go as smoothly as planned.
There was, as the collected hordes in the living room listened intently, much giggling, a groan of pleasure followed by a deathly scream.
"GaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahHHHH!" my former best friend went, as I smiled with a certain satisfaction.
"Oh GOD! Sorry!" screamed a female voice.
Then the terrible sound of glass shattering against wall and the words that all men dread:
"There's seeds! Seeds up my bell-end"
Of course, with the house echoing to The Worst Thing Ever, a rescue party was sent to intervene.
And what a sight.
The bedroom was jam.
He was covered head-to-toe.
As was poor, naked Julie.
As was the bed.
And my attaché case containing a priceless collection of Razzle Pile-Ups.
"You… you… you… FUCKER!"
"Yeah, sorry mate."
And downstairs, the sound that any host of a teen party fears the most: The sound of the front door opening and parental voices saying "Just popped in to see how you're getting on…"
Only one thing for it. "It wasn't us. Bigger boys came."