Jack is back and how are we all? Well after my trip to the Alps I am all refreshed and raring to go with a tale of sex, drugs and frozen chicken.
It all started when my mate got a job on the lorries delivering frozen poultry and my mother was well happy with the free chickens every week.
My mate was delivering as far down as Nottingham and he had a job on that coincided with the start of the 1993/94 season and a trip to Notts County to see Lennie Lawrence's Boro try and get a flying start to the Season.
The only problem was that he would be in and out by Friday night thus dropping us off and no lift back. But at least it meant a night on the lash in Robin Hood's old haunting place before the big kick off. Surprisingly there were only three takers for this chicken delivery Boro game extravaganza.
So Friday morning we jumped into the meat wagon and set off for the joy of Nottingham and to see if this rumour of three birds to every guy is true.
The journey was long and fucking boring to be frank and there is only so much drinking you can do in a van smelling of dead animals before you start to feel sick. So my mate let us read his seemingly endless supply of Razzle and of course this gave young jack the raving horn.
Next stop was a drop off in chesterfield and I headed for the nearest public toilets to engage in some wrist activity of the frenzied kind. But with no luck, as I just couldn't find a suitable toilet for vigorous masturbation.
And don't laugh. I mean who can read stories about Swedish models having lesbian sex on trains with a young English guy joining in without getting the horn of a thousand rhinos on heat?
Funny thing was the same story was in every magazine that I read and it has never happened to me in all my years of rail travel!
Anyway Nottingham arrived and we hit the town after being dropped off at the dirtiest smelliest cesspit of a B&B that reminded me of the posh part of Sunderland actually.
So Friday night out in Nottingham and yes, I was hammered within an hour. I went for it with the ladies and gained instant success. She was well fit. Trouble was I gave her £20 for a round of drinks and I never saw her again.
The night wore on and we went to one of those rave drug type clubs that don't serve booze and everyone is off their fucking head on pills. I pulled again and this time there was no escape for the young lady in question as I sneaked her back to my B&B for her to sample some of Middlesbrough's finest.
Only one slight problem. We had a shared room and my mate had already made it back and performed a Grandslam (all three bodily functions at once while very drunk) in his bed and stunk the already lifting room to high heaven.
So after a night of sex on a freezing fire escape with a girl who seemed to have endless energy, I was well knackered the next day. We made our way to Meadow Lane and took our places and listened to the team news over the loudspeaker. The Boro fans where scratching their heads as our team included two blokes whom we had never heard of before. Alan Moore and Richard Liburd.
Alan Moore was the 1990s version of the 1980s Steven Bell. Lots of natural talent but couldn't be arsed half the time. Richard Liburd was pure shite.
Anyway Mr Moore scored 2 crackers and big Paul Wilkinson got 1 as we won 3-2 in a great game of end-to-end football.
So a good weekend in Nottingham was coming to an end on the Saturday evening. We soon realised our funds had run dry so the choice was either hitch hiking or running the gauntlet of nicking on the train all the way home.
We nicked on the train and spent the money we had left on booze. Mind you, it wasn't easy when we had to change train three times at least but I was pissed and didn't care to be honest.
I hunted the various trains looking for any Swedish models but couldn't find any. Sadly, in my pissed state I decided to chat up the female ticket collector which is not a good idea when you ain't got a fucking ticket.
Needless to say I was chucked off at York and spent a wonderful night chatting to the tramps and low life who hang around train stations at peculiar hours of the night.
Next morning after no sleep again and smelling like a Leeds fan, I nicked on the first train to Boro and hid in the toilets. Needless to say that was a toilet suitable for masturbation.
