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The Peculiar Memories of J. Arthur 

By Bernard Bostik III



'Grab your bag mate we're going to the German Grand prix'

Is how my flat mate woke me on this tequila sodden humungus hung-over morning. I tried to speak but was badly suffering from a 'smoking to many bifters the night before' croaky throat. I grunted and disappeared back under the duvet for warmth and comfort.

'Come on if them two can fuck off to the states to watch the world cup we're going to the Grand Prix' 

 Dave my flat make was back in the room undrawing my curtains. A thick slab of sun light  spanned the room immediately, I shot up in my bed and covered my eyes. When I felt brave enough I opened one eye and took a peek from between two fingers. My eyes first detected all the specks of dust floating about within the slab of light, then through all the dust particles, I spied Dave, stood in his undies holding a piece of paper.

He dropped the paper and walked out of the room shaking his head. I snaked out of my pit and went over and retrieved the discarded paper. After I'd cleared all the sleep out of my eye's and regained my vision from the watery blur from which it once was, I read the note.


Me and Dave had been on a 24 hr bender the day before in the West End and we had neglected our mobiles and only noticed the note the lads had left us the next morning. I dropped the note and went back to lay on my bed. I put my weary head back down on the pillow. I spied my Anna Friel pictures from Loaded, that I had stuck to the wall with tooth paste. It was then I made use of my early morning stiffy.

For the sake of our last minute booking a direct route wasn't available, so our route took us from London to Hamburg, stay the night there then fly to Stuttgart in the morning, watch the Grand Prix at Hokenheim, stay one night in Stuttgart, then fly back to Hamburg before catching our last flight back to London.

So there we were, me & Dave enjoying a Bloody Mary on our way to Hamburg, on board a Lufthansa Airbus. After enjoying the refreshments on offer in the hotel bar we tried it on with a couple of off duty stewardesses, who knocked us two drunken mutants back. The night porter then told us to go to bed and stop harassing the hotel guests. Dave crashed out in his scratcher straight away and was snoring within ten minutes. This allowed me to sneak a quick 'ham shank' in whilst viewing some late night telephone sex adverts on some German TV channel.


Nothing like a stern knock on the door to wake you from your slumber. I sat up severely and surveyed my surroundings, when I noticed I was in a hotel I put my head back down on the pillow. Dave was still dead to the world and snoring his head off. Then the person knocked on the door again and said something in a female German voice. I guessed it was the maid to service the room, so I did what I always do when I've been in similar situations before - fling the sheets back, expose Adonis-like body, whip undies off and lay as still as a statue awaiting the maid to enter the room -  I've done this on numerous occasions and it's funny to gauge some of the maids reactions. You get the ones who on seeing a naked man, apologise straight away and close the door immediately. You get the ones who stand there and have a good look for 30 seconds or so. Or if your lucky you get the plump Glaswegian one from the Holiday Inn in Glasgow, who serviced me then serviced the room.


The door opened and out of my 'pretending to be asleep eyes' I spied the maid poke her head around the door, she then apologised and closed the door rapidly.

We finally arrived in Stuttgart and after dropping our bags off at the hotel we were soon in a Mercedes taxi doing Michael Schumacher like moves on route to the Grand Prix. The weather was scorchio, so as the sun baked down on our lacoste polo clad backs, we traipsed off on the hoof in our Adidas, for the final part of the journey and rather inevitably we bump into a gang of English scalpers about two minutes into our journey. Two cracking briefs were purchased for quite a reasonable bat and within ten minutes we were being escorted across the track to be placed in our seats above the pits.

The crowds in the main grandstand were amazing. Schumacher went past and what would follow him was a Mexican wave of fireworks along the stands (the Germans would produce these starter pistol things that fired out fire crackers and they would be firing like fuck every time they spied the red of Ferrari ).

 I think I was on my second or third bottle of wine when I poked my head over the edge of our balcony and was having a good nosey at what was happening in the Benetton pits below. They were getting ready for a stop, Verstappen was due in next lap. I sensed the edginess of his crew - stood there kicking there toes into the ground and others jumped from one foot to the other. The pit boss gave the call and the driver could be spotted at the top of the pit lane. Within seconds he was up on the jack and was just having his tyres changed, when the the fuel guy never engaged the nossel in the car and sprayed his highly inflammable liquid all over poor Verstappen stuck in his car. It took a split second for it all to ignite and I nearly lost my eye brows.

I turned around and looked at Dave and gave this long drawn out "FUUUUUUUUCKIN' 'EEEELLLLLL"......which started out with me being shocked & surprised and ending with with me giggling.

After the race it was back to the hotel (to get drunk and abuse the guests), then in the morning we caught the flight back to Hamburg for our last nights stay before returning to London the next day. Dave checked in and hit the sack but I fucked off for a bit of a wander on my own. After about ten minutes walk I discovered the red-light district. To say I was happy would be an understatement. I had wedge in my pocket and I was off to satisfy my lustful urges.

I first entered this run down strip joint/brass gaff with some big beefy blonde German woman wrestler type on the door. The place was empty and stunk of sweaty socks and cheese. Blondie followed me in and served me up a beer and I asked her what was on offer. She told me to choose one of four doors at the end of the bar and the 'show girl' would give me a private show. I parted with some Deutschmarks and got ready to see what would face me on the other side. I thought I would be entering some kind of wank booth were I could tickle the little fella too death, watching a wanton woman tickle herself too death, until I ran out of spunk or money depending on which came first. What I was confronted with was a totally different scenario. There was two other men stood either side of me and we were separated by a chain rail and in front of us all was a bored looking German housewife with bruised legs.

A hastily retreat was had and I found myself in a sex shop with video wank booths. So without further a do, I spent the next 30 minutes or so knocking a couple out, sat on a rickety old stool with my shorts around my ankles . I pulled my Nike shorts back up and went for a tour of the shops for the next couple of hours. I then returned to the comatose Dave in the hotel room. Upon entering the room I woke Dave up and walked over to the mini-bar to grab myself a beverage. It was then Dave spotted it.

"What's that on your arse?"

"what do you mean?" I answered

"eeeerrrrggghhh! there on your arse, looks like a dollop of spunk! Ha Ha what have you been up to?" his inquisitive mind questioned me.

It took me about ten minutes trying to explain where the offending 'harry monk'  must've come from.

"Honest Dave it must of come from the floor of the wank booth when I had my shorts around my ankle's" I protested my innocence.










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