A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe

Greatness is there for all to achieve.

And it's not a case of "i can", "i believe".

Do it or not, or sit down and probe,

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

Every thing's there and you can take part.

Every new skill can be honed to an art.

Whatever you do, be sure to absorb

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

Beautiful comfort you'll craft in your nest.

Surrounding materials that suit you the best.

Except for the smell that stifles your robe.

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

And then you'll find love; the warmest of mood.

You'll want to do all sorts of things in the nude.

And eat with her/him the greatest food on the globe;

A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe.

This month revealed a strange title that's resulted in a strange post from myself. Out of the four contributors of this blog i am the most likely to actually eat A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. But alas, i haven't. I have eaten a slice or two of pizza that shouldn't have been touched due to old age. I've eaten a mars bar that i found in the innards of a couch. (Which one contributor enjoys bringing up at social gatherings.) I am the inspiration of a game titled "What's this i put in your mouth" wherein i close my eyes, open my mouth and anticipate while my surrounding friends have a party. The worst was french mustard or a spice that i cant remember the name of. I haven't, however, got a story that involves me eating, or even having A mouldy bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So i couldn't really tell you about my experience of it.

I wrote you a poem instead.

(I did eat a rabbit shit sandwich for a dare, though)

*****

Rather an odd one for you this week but, my gosh, where are my manners. Hello and welcome to another slice of blog pie, the only pie to taste of soggy blobs (disgusting). Now, you’re probably looking at the title and thinking to yourselves (unless you’re psychic and are thinking to someone else) “That title seems rather straight forward. I wonder how he’s going to misinterpret that.”  It’s a fair point I suppose. I do have a history of taking words apart and re-coding them for my own purpose. But not today. This will be a run of the mill explanation about a bag of sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. So buckle your helmets and don your best jodhpurs because we are going for a ride (on a horse apparently).

I had recently moved in to a new house with my parents. They had asked me to go in to the shed at the bottom of the garden and clear some of the mess that was in it. Being a child (of some description) I grunted some kind of accord and went about starting the arduous task that was clearly meant for those adult types. I began to have fun once I got into it, finding old treasures of the people who had lived here before us (in the house, not the shed). There was an old music player that had a giant brass horn for a speaker, all covered in dust. I wondered how majestic it would have looked in someone’s drawing room a long time ago (then smashed it up because I am a child). In one of the corners was a wardrobe on its side, leaving one of those dark triangular spaces behind it. Not daring to look at what was there I decided to stick my hand in and have a feel around. Immediately I was sick. Then I was sick again. Whatever it was that I had felt was one of two things. Either a mouldy bag of sandwiches or a ladies vagina. It was soft and furry and it felt warm from where the sun had been on it throughout the day. 

Sorry. I’ve just remembered that the story I started telling was Skellig by David Almond. Strange how you sometimes mistake your own memories with children’s novels. Anyway, here is my story about the long titley thing.

The garment lay fresh and new in a box upon the bed. Its velvet reds and silk greens gleamed as the sun glanced across it from the tall window on the east wall. The master had given it as a gift to commemorate my first day of service. Everyone starting their new post had to wear one but I was sure that I would look better than them all (especially that prick, Herman). I went to the mirror and put it on. It fit perfect in all the right places. Just as every chef looks forward to the day he earns his jacket I had looked forward to this day. The day I got my Wardrobe. To be the ward of a nobleman was no small thing (unlike myself) and was a feat that none in my family had ever achieved. I was now entitled to go on hunts with the master to carry his gun and other equipment. This robe was going to be the beginning of a new life.

The first task I was charged with was to go to the next village and procure for my liege a packed lunch. I was a little surprised by this request as we had people within our own village more than capable of making a sandwich. I was told, however, that the town of Derry Li was only two miles down the road and they dealt solely in lunchables (this is how fantasy works, you work with what you got). I began the short, agonising journey the following morning, my wardrobe still gleaming and lint free, with a bag on my back. I would have need of it to bring back my bounty (not the chocolate, coconut hadn’t been invented yet). I found the village rather quickly, if I’m being honest, what with the giant cow sigil above the gate. You couldn’t really miss it. It was a very busy village and the markets were so full of food I could have fed my family (for a change). I got the sandwiches and had a sneaky cheese triangle before starting on the return journey.

This task was not so easy. My village, the village of No Frills, had no large sign or significant feature that made it easy to see from a distance. It didn’t take long for me to become completely lost. Then one day, some two months later, my remains were found about a hundred yards from Derry Li. There was nothing left of my body. They say I was eaten by Dunkers. All that was left was a bag of mouldy sandwiches at the back of my wardrobe. My master took on smarter, less blind wards from that point on and soon forgot about me (except for when his tummy grumbled and he wondered where his sandwiches were). So I write this now, in the present, as a warning lest anyone repeat my folly.

If you don’t believe that story you really won’t believe anything. There was real world references in that to keep you grounded in truth. But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I used to have packed lunch in school. I never liked cheese spread sandwiches but rather than tell my mother I used to hide my uneaten sandwiches at the back of the wardrobe. One day, during a clear out my mother discovered the bag of mouldy sandwiches and almost vomited. So basically, both Skellig and the other story are true accounts of the same tale. Good Night!

*****

Dafydd Evans

Luke Sampson

How beer saved my life

I was supposed to submit this on the 28th of August, however on that day i took my father to the doctors surgery as he needed some attention. My dad is a functional alcoholic and im annoyed about it. So that day i was a little dramatic and chose not to write about it.

I soon got over my little dramatic hump and put my mind to the title and found a little anecdote that synchronizes perfectly with the title. 

In my second year of university i moved there with a few of my friends. A bunch of single guys, ready to party, live it up and indulge in some healthy shenanigans.

I soon realised that i was a little less reserved than my friends after some tasty alcoholic yumyum juice. Once night during freshers week, a traffic light party i believe it was, i accelerated onto the road of blurry vision and low inhibitions. 

I wore green which means "come at me!". I saw a lady wearing green and i knew what that meant and so i attempted it. 

I cant remember much but waking up the next day and i saw the lady that i brought home with me. Something struck my fragile, hungover, puny brain when i noticed that she was wearing different clothes. When i asked her about it which sounded like "Uuughh, umm chain?" she replied "Yeah i've been home to freshen up and i thought i'd get changed while i was there.". Bless her for understanding the query of a caveman but i couldn't get past that she wore the reddest clothes she had.

We agreed to give each other a day and maybe hookup the next time we were out. But i couldnt get the giant red warning light out of my head. everything about her told me that she wanted a relationship and i had JUST moved into a house. I didn't want anything more than a bit of fun. I was 18/19 and little to no skills with relationships, other than "be childish".

throughout the next day and a half i worried and got teased by my friends but mainly tried to feorget about it all by immersing myself in my new brilliant environment that had a big tv, 3 game consoles and lots of booze.

One night there was a house party at my new place and it was filled with relatively close friends. we're were all merry, laughing and joking and competing on our videogames when the door knocked. We were warned by the landlord that our neighbor was an elderly, cantankerous man so we geared for a minor argument. A lady guest answered the door as she was welcome to. I was in the kitchen and i heared the door knocker venomously inquire "Who are you? Is Dafydd in?".

I had two choices. Bail: Run out the back door, jump over the wall and keep running, or Face the problem head on: Go and see her, talk to her and get her hostile sounding self out of the party.

I know what you think i did, but i was drunk and would've been sick if i did all that running. So i went with option 2 and left the house with her, after downing 3 shots and a can. A friend of mine joined me as he was mildly taken with her friend.

Now i cant remember a thing after leaving her house. i woke up in my own bed with  no one to talk to, just two or 3 text on my phone, all asking "how are you feeling?" I phoned the last person i knew was with me and he told me what i did.

"You were hilarious, butt. She clearly wanted you to stay with her and you clearly didn't want to be, like, tied down. You told her that in the park but you were like "We could just have fun together tonight" haha. She was like"It's cold out here, let's see how we feel in my house." So we went to her house and i was kinda chuffed because i was about to get it on too but we got in her house and i knew that was off the cards. Something happened to you. You didn't react well to the pressure she was putting on you"

"Oh shit, i didn't upset or hurt anyone did i?"

"You didn't say or do anything nasty, dont worry, hahaha, you did something so much more creative. you went to the kitchen and insisted on some water because you felt drunk. You poured the water on your head, the floor and the ceiling!"

"What?"

"Yeah, so then you felt bad about that, stopped laughing and decided the mop the ceiling. They didn't even know that they had a mop but you found one! Anyway her housemates made them make you leave. Then ***** was like let's go to yours and you said "No i need to be by myself. I'll see you around." and then you ran! Last night was the stupidest night i've had, looking after you."

"Sorry butt"

"It was a pleasure man dont worry. Get a bacon sandwich down you, buddy, ill see u later."

"bye, buddy"

I never heard off her since. I didn't have the diplomatic, mature, relationship skills to deal with her appropriately but beer made her go away. 

And that's how beer saved my life. 

I have grown up now. Honest.

*****

Both in appearance and in demeanour my father was a repulsive creature, so from the off: beer saved my life.  In this instance it was the twelve pints of Caernarfon Golden Earthy that my mother plunged ecstatically down the naive funnel of her gullet.  My father, you see, if one were to become drunk in his presence, would be struck by the misleading, but very persuasive, sensation that his company was enjoyable.  Upon waking morning next, the reckless imbiber would be privy to a snap realisation that this was emphatically not the case.

It is well documented that the night was one of rabid debauchery.  The story ran for several days in the front half of a moderately reputable newspaper, and was covered again in a special commemorative pull-out section the following spring.  The hoteliers reserved for the event a far colder place in their recollections.

“I have never seen the like before or since!” bawled the landlady as she appeared for a half a second as a talking head on a BBC retrospective many years later.  A shiny graphic undulated on-screen, attempting to depict what experts believe they have pieced together of the night from the available forensic evidence.  Nobody was any the wiser, and the entire production resulted only in a further spread of old fashioned VD.

As long as I knew him, my father walked with a limp but, when queried, his old school pals assure me that he was of near-Olympian fitness in his youth.  That’s the sort of woman my mother was.  A beauty worth tearing your cruciate ligaments over.

I am Maximilian Willoughby, and this is how beer saved my life the second time, and took my mother from me.

It was a cruise liner of incomparable splendour; a sleek, pure-white jet of ambition-in-steel, cleaving its way through the North Atlantic Ocean.  If you had binoculars and a taste for that kind of thing, you could see Norway out to the East, but I had no mind for that.  Of course, given my time aboard again, I would dearly love to see Norway, but such activities numbered not among my priorities in those days.  Why squint about for the old Viking homeland when such magnificent pleasures lay aboard ship?  If I should like to see barbarians in their barbarous natural environs I should be the type who is regularly seen ‘in town’.  I must most effusively assure you that I do not carouse with the rough classes.  I carouse only with gentlemen and ladies, of the kind who now populated the ship.

Ah, yes.  The ship.  The H.M.S. Alabas Nana, so called in reference to her alabaster hue, and due to her looking like a banana.  Of course, she looked less like a banana whilst she was afloat, but when seen from beneath the ocean, it became easier to appreciate the apposite naming.  I was a red-blooded young buck at the time, I am told that I brought to mind the image of a powerful and dynamic elk, ready to clash antlers with any and all rivals, to gore in order for the right to gore whomsoever I chose.  I was very impressed with the triumph that was the Alabas Nana, but I was more engrossed in matters of the purple banana.

The most ravishing beauties in all the Empire were all around me.  All varieties were present.  Some festooned the deck in scanty waterwear consisting of as few strands of material as was possible.  Those few lengths were as thin as would hold without causing them to shred the wearer like superheated piano-wire through an ice-sculpture of a pianist.  Others billowed along the windy rails in flowery dresses, seeming to my eyes - fogged by desire - half-jellyfish, half-beautiful lady.  I must warn all hyperlibidinous youngsters that it is wholly unadvisable to read the works of H.P. Lovecraft at any time.  Though, if you will insist on that course of action, it is advisable to avoid doing such in the following contexts:

1) Around ladies.  They are not in any way interested in the gruesome horrors of a twisted American.

2) At sea.  Much of Lovecraft’s oeuvre involves monstrosities either appearing at or deriving from the sea.  Read about mermaids instead.

3) Around ladies at sea.  Especially if you discover you have some strange, undesired and unexpected, lusty fetish for briny femme fatales.  It can quite destabilise a fellow.

Consider yourself warned.

There was much to feast upon for a passenger who was prepared for a banquet of female flesh.  I was well-equipped, shall we say.  No sooner had I boarded the craft than I mentally readied myself for a journey of variety.  One dusky afternoon I very suddenly had the tap of flowing femininity jerked firmly closed on me.  Her name was Guirana Sashma, but she insisted “you call me Dee-Anna”, and I did.

I was infatuated with her from the off.  I was stuck to her as though I was a puppy she had cable tied to her boot by its face.  I even made the noises.  Her hair roared around her head, a savage mane of sandy blonde, her shocking amber eyes held me in mesmeric awe.  I was the prisoner of her charm, and how I longed to deserve my incarceration.

It was a family holiday.  With my parents and familial entourage aboard, I was seldom free to pursue my dearest Dee-Anna.  My father liked Dee-Anna, my mother less so.  I knew if I was to achieve even a purloined afternoon with my goddess I would have to concoct an ingenious way to keep my dear parents much away from my person.  Like a demented chicken that has had sex with blueprints, I hatched a plan.

I was to meet dearest Dee-Anna on the top deck of the ship.  It was busy that night, an ensemble of Scottish Communists were making a rousing go of water caber toss, to the dismay of all cultured individuals aboard.  Using the celtic roughhousing as cover, we sped across the deck and, clamping our hooks to the railings, we rappelled several feet down the side of the ship.

We kissed, how we kissed!  Spiralling gently with the swing of our descent I felt as though I had been taken to heaven and that I could keep my body.  All the better for the retaining of my natural urges.  Our spinning slowed, and I gazed, enraptured, into her eyes.  Such a deep amber were they that I swear I saw a yellow shark swimming therein.  But the moment was aborted.

With a lurch of my stomach, I realised that the counter-swing had begun.  I glanced up, seeing our ropes intertwined and speedily disentangling themselves.  Panic shot up my leg, and from the spreading warm feeling I was getting, down hers.  There was only the spin and the holding of our breaths, and then the wires came loose.

We flew apart.  She crashed heavily into the craft, and my mouth ‘O’ed in shock as I saw her raised above, her wire being reeled by the burly arms of the Scotch Trotskyites above.  They had been drawn to look because she had been screaming throughout, I now noticed.  Without a pause, they began to haul me in, but with a merciless snap, my wire gave.

Such a plunge I have never felt since, the sensation of my heel longing for my larynx.  Every meal I had ever had was reversing into my mouth.  From above I discerned a descending angel, arched into a textbook classic-style dive.  Majesty beyond compare.  As the figure approached I realised with crushing embarrassment that it was my very own mother.  She crashed into me, taking me in her arms but 10 feet from the Atlantic’s reach.

In a swimming pool it would have been a trophy-winning splash, but it is difficult to impress in the context of a sea.  SPUH-LASH.  It was damn cold, I remember.  I first became acutely aware of how unimpressive splashes are when viewed in the ocean moments later, when a beer keg bombed nearby us.  I later found out it had been a last-ditch effort to save us by the Celts, who I began to feel I’d given slightly short shrift.  Ma-ma and I climbed upon it.

After that trip my mother was indeed lost.  It was a dreadful week of floating and drinking only seawater and eating what seagulls we could grab.  Eventually, we reached Norway.  My mother was entranced by the country, and never returned.  I myself was somewhat shocked by the culture of the place.  You know, they’re quite civilised these days.

*****

Welcome back to the only blog on the internet. Well the only blog I’ve written. Well the only blog I’ve written this year (if I read as often as I wrote I would never have finished a book, which I totally have). Now before we begin with the main body of text that will make up the funny story relating to the heading, there is some admin I must address. It seems that a lot of you were interested in the pasty pen that was mentioned in the last entry. This interested me too as I have no recollection of ever owning or using a pasty pen. Fortunately for you, I am a master genius and have invented a new one. Here is how it is made. First, walk in to your local bakery, or a Greggs if you live in Britain, and ask for a pasty. It has to be one that is big enough to fit a pen (I’ll tell you why in a minute). Say thank you and finish your transaction courteously. Next, go to your local stationary store, or WHSmiths if you live the UK, and ask for a pen. It can be a marker or a ballpoint or even a gel glide but it has to be small enough to fit in a pasty (wait, for fuck sake). Lastly, stick the pen in your pasty so that only the tip is poking out. This way you can do your work and eat your dinner at the same time. Just don’t eat the pen. (Patent Pending 2012). Next week I will explain how you can get your hands on a steak bake iPad.

When it comes to alcohol I’ve never really had a very good relationship. As a teenager I flirted a little with the devils tipple. As a student I came on heavy to Satan’s bevvy. And as an adult I have no taste for it (what rhyming?). But I can say with the greatest respect and gratitude that without alcohol I don’t think I would be alive right now. The story begins back in High School, or Cymer if you are me (which you are not, but I am). I was never very popular outside of my extensive group of friends. Within my group of friends however, I would say that I was the leader, the Boss. They would come to me with problems, presents and prostitutes (ignore the last one). It was a position of power that required my attention around the clock. I had people hanging on the bell all day and never giving me a moments peace. I felt like a hundred and eleven year old hobbit trying to arrange a birthday party. So, on occasion I would allow myself a small alcoholic drink (of immense strength) to relieve some stress. Stress of course being the number one killer of high school kingpins. Or so I thought. As it happens, jealous second-in-commands are the number one killer of high school kingpins and I was about to find that out the hard way (not all the way though or I wouldn’t be writing this, so don’t worry).

I was, as it was customary, taking my Friday morning movements (jogging or shitting, I can’t remember) when the door to the cubicle burst open and in came my best friend. I would have shook his hand all polite but mine were busy with other things. Oh, and he had a knife in his. I sprung up and gave him a clout with the only thing at hand (yes, I was wiping my arse or jogging). Now covered in shit he chased me back to the common room where, due to my awesome speed, I already was. I throw my glass of high octane spirits at the tissue on his face then set the bastard on fire (teach him to interrupt a jog). That was the first time alcohol saved my life (although not beer). There were more attempts on my life in the months that were left in school and somehow they all ended in a similar way. I don’t know if this was a skill I became proficient in or whether the writer was too lazy to think of any more incidents (fourth wall, never!). Shortly after that I left the safety net of private education (or public in American) and became an university student.

Having lost my celebrity status in Uni, I decided to take up golf. Pub golf. This seemed to be a popular way of making friends and having people idolize you. All I needed was an inert ability to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol in as little ‘sips’ as possible. I would have to practice. So I drank and drank and drank each night until I could take down a whole bottle of beer in a single ‘sip’. I worked at it and eventually practice paid off.  I entered the local PGA Tour (Pub Golf Arseholes) and I was all ready to take my place, back in the upper echelons of society when disaster struck. A lighting rig, high above my head, had been wired wrong (some years ago by some cowboy builders but the student union didn’t have the money to put it right) and burst in to flames. The flames subsequently set fire to my drink, just as I was slamming it back. Soon my mouth was ablaze and no one knew what to do. Everyone was apanic (too right it’s a word). I, however, remained calm. Having set many a person’s visage on fire I also knew how much liquid it would take to put it out. Exactly one beer. This was the moment I had been waiting for (in a situation I wouldn’t have imagined). Grabbing a bottle from the bar I chugged the golden nectar back in one almighty swig. The fire subsided and everyone was cheering. The only injury I sustained was a very burned tongue and a retarded mustache growth. That was the time that alcohol, beer specifically, really saved my life.

I am now an adult and as I said earlier I have no taste for alcohol. Well, actually, I have no taste for anything because of the burned tongue thing. I can’t even taste the pasties that I have on my pens (that’s why I forget them, duh!). So until next time, don’t forget to be aware of your drinking (spirits are flammable and beer isn’t).

*****

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

Luke Sampson