Will This Compromise my Place in Heaven?

Apparently 1 in 10 men have paid for sex, I know I have...

Before you call the the police, or even worse my mother allow me to clarify. We were in Prague for a long weekend and on the Sunday had arranged to play Pub Golf - hence the ridiculous garments.

For those of you unfamiliar with the game taken from the rules of Golf, each drink has a par which you must try to keep under. So for examples a pint of beer is a par 3 and an alcopop is a par 2. The name of the game is to down each drink in as few attempts as possible, with the winner the individual that consumes their sum beverages in the lowest number of swigs.

As you may know the British do not have a great reputation abroad. In days of empire we simply tried to seize foreign land and possessions for our own. Now days we are graceful enough to let them keep their country as long as we can urinate and vomit all over it when we visit.

In light of this it is understandable that the Pragayan locals had some preconceptions when 10 British Gentleman dressed like bastards entered their bar. There is no doubt that my friends and I are idiots, but battling against the stereotype we are actually all pretty decent people. As soon as the locals realised that we had no desire to rape and pillage, them warmed to us, slightly.
A good time was being had by all, aided by the vast alcohol intake demanded by the game. However, as it was a Sunday the bars were to close early. The majority of my friends called it a night, but four of us vowed to persevere and jumped into a taxi in search of pastures new.

The taxi driver didn't speak English and at this point in the night neither did we so communication was a problem. Our attempt to explain that we were in pursuit of an open public house was further impeded my one of my friends who when drunk appears to suffer from some form of tourettes and was shouting out profanities.

Against the odds our heroic driver had seemed to come up trumps as he dropped us off at a bar which still had its light on. We approached the bouncer at the door and informed him of our desire to enter. He ushered us to a colleague issuing tickets who in broken English said, 'Beer & Sex' 50 Krona's'. I thanked him for his kind offer, but explained that we were only interested in the beer. He repeated 'Beer and Sex 50 Krona's'.

Very well I thought, I will just pay the good fellow 50 Krona's for each of us and simply not partake in any of the 'sex' that was inclusive in the package. As chief negotiator my friends behind me were oblivious to what was going on as we walked into the adjoining room.

The room was circular in shape, but was more notable for the many prostitutes that lined it's circumference. All sitting on bar stools there must have been about 15 ladies, all differing in body size and race to cater to the sexual desires of a variety of clientele.

Apart for the barman we were the only other people in there and we were feeling very awkward. We were becoming increasingly aware of how ridiculous we looked and none of us wanted to engage in intercourse with these ladies.

We huddled closely for strength in numbers. 'What do we do' I asked, to which one of my friends replied 'Act natural'. Act natural, we were in a whore house, dressed in 'hilarious' golf gear and this idiot wanted us to act natural.

Still it was the best idea we had, so trying to look cool casual we strolled over to the bar and ordered four beers. We chatted amongst us, football, cars, boobs you know the usual stuff, while the prostitutes looked on in utter bemusement.

They whispered to each other and you could tell they were thinking, who are these morons and why have they just paid their equivalent of a months wages NOT to have sex with us?

The executive decision was to order one more round of beer, as to leave after just one would portray the perception that we were uncomfortable. We drank that, quickly, dothed our caps to the ladies and thanked the barman for his service.

So to surmise, I have never slept with a prostitute, but technically I have paid for sex and should a future wife make me take the Trisha lie detector test I would fail.

Recent Moments of Idiocy

Some short Snippets for those worried that I might actually have grown up and matured...

Do you believe in Dejavu?

A recent Thursday a workmate and I decided that it was a lovely sunny day and that a quick pint after work would allow us to capitalise on these fine conditions.

Seven hours later I was to end up in the basement of some bar. Memories are vague but I had met a young lady and knowing that time was getting on I asked for her number so that we could meet again. She promptly explained that she had given me her number 5 minutes ago and proceeded to go through my phone book to point this out to me. She was not impressed and based on this reaction I felt that perhaps it was best that I did not get in touch after all.

London Can be Expensive

It was Friday night but I had planned to head straight to my parents home for the weekend after work. A colleague suggested we just head out for a quick pint, a few other people were going and a quick drink couldn't hurt.

So I grabbed my stuff and headed along. After getting drawn into a complicated round system I had drunk more than was on the original agenda and was up for a proper night out. Luckily so were my colleagues. I had no idea that we would still be out at 9:00 am the following morning.

It was inevitable on this horrendous impromptu binge that I would at some point lose my bag and sure enough the following morning/afternoon when I woke it was nowhere to be seen. I turned detective and checked my trouser pockets for where we had gone. My hand was stamped with the letters 'P.T.T.N' the same letters were to be found on a flyer in my pocket. Worse was to follow, having read the flyer properly it transpired that 'P.T.T.N' stood for Penetration, a bar in Farringdon that is only open from 5:00 am to 11:00 am.

My desire to retrieve my property somewhat diminished on this revelation. So on top of the £200 night I had funded with my credit card I had also lost approximately £150 in personal possessions.

I wouldn't have minded so much but I had only lost my last gym bag the other month.

A Warm Round of Applause

Early Monday morning at work a few female colleagues were berating me for shaving my head, saying that I looked much better sporting a slightly longer fuzzy look. In a guarded defence I stated that it was good enough for a young lady to want to take me back to her place that weekend.

Background: It was general knowledge that I had previously gone through a six month 'drought' and on hearing this news the colleagues in my team broke into rapturous applause. The applause was infectious and within seconds all 80 members of staff in the open plan office were clapping like crazy, oblivious to the reason for doing so.

At the very same second my manager comes walking into the office and as I work in sales naturally assumes that I had just closed a major deal. His face filled with excitement as he asked what all the commotion was about. I was too red and embarrassed to answer, but luckily the colleague sat next to me quickly chimed in with, 'Cornford got laid this weekend'. 'Oh', said my manager, 'oh'...

Time and Some Fine Work by Trained Medical Staff Heals All Wounds

I am 24 and bald. Well technically just balding, but it is only a matter of time. Whilst the fringe folicals at the front line remain strong, the same cannot be said for the top centre of my increasingly exposed cranium. Think Zinidine Zidane, but without the football skills, money, model wife, well the list goes on.

So what can you do, I either attempt a Bobby Charlton style comb over, with the unique twist being that rather than sweeping the hair from left to right, I would instead be attempting some kind of mafia like front to back coverage, or shave it all off and try and make it look like it was my decision.

I chose the latter of these options.

Now there are two problems with having a shaved head. Firstly the facial features become horribly exposed, with any 'irregularities' becoming far more prominent and secondly you have to walk around permanently looking like a Nazi, or indeed one of the BNP's latest candidates.

This second flaw becomes increasingly problematic, as I have two scars on my head further inhancing my thuggish persona.

The first scar was a completely harmless affair and can be put down simply to childhood innocence and naivity, seeing as I was only ten at the time. My associates and I were at the local swimming pool and were all trying to out do each other with 'spectacular' dives and flips into the pool.

One kid did a bomb, another a backflip. Desperate to upstage them all I announced my intentions to pull off a backwards flip bomb. Yes ladies and gentleman, I was going to propel by body backwards whilst at the same time tucking my legs and arms in tightly in the classic 'bomb' stance.

As my friends looked on in anticipation I readied myself and got into position at the edge of the pool. Brimming with confidence I sprang with cat like agility and swiftly proceeded to twat my head on the iron support bar that lined the edge of the pool.

As I floated to the surface of the pool, blood streamed from my head discolouring the water around me. It was at this point that I realised that I had not quite been successful in performing this spectacular feat.

One of my friends who had managed to contain his laughter, swiftly alerted my mother to my mishap and being the good woman that she is we swiftly made our way to the hospital.

I required eight stiches in the back of my head and they did of course have to shave a substantial bald patch around the exposed area. This was not a good look for a 10 year old, it was the early 90's after all, an era where the 'step' and 'undercut' hair styles ruled supreme.

If this wasn't bad enough, to ensure that the wound did not get infected, I had to wear some sort of hair net when out in public for the next two weeks, once again this was not a good look.

Still my mother was very forgiving and although I had been a 'silly boy' for trying to pull off a stunt that I would later find out could only be performed by a trained acrobat, she was just happy that I was safe. The same could not be said for the next time she would have to take me to the hospital...aged 21.

Everyone has their 'thing' when they are drunk. Some start fights, others feel compelled to get completely naked, I for some reason liked to climb infrastucture - and I was good at it too.

Having supped upon a few sherries, I was walking down Guildford high street with two of my companions, I simply notes that I felt that it was within my capabilities to scale the local Argos and strut along the 'cat walkesque' roof. One friend claimed that he thought I could not and therefore insulted my prowess as a climber.

I instantly rose to the challenge and instructed each of them to provide me with a 'leg up', it was about 15 feet high so I knew I would require some assistance - I'm not an idiot.

So with their help I sprung up and desperatedly tried to grip the end of the ledge. Unfortunately some worthless architect has designed it with a rounded edge, making it incredibly difficult to get purchase. Desperately trying to hold on, my efforts were futile and I plummeted to the floor in a heap, much to the amusements of my friends.

My ego (and body) bruised I was not to be defeated and instructed them to assist for a second time, unfortunately with the same tragic outcome. It was not over, one of my friends was short in stature and therefore could not provide me with the required boost to reach my objective, so I cut him from the team flagged down a stranger to be his replacement.

A strapping lad, all six foot of him and with his kind assistance it would surely be third time lucky. So with the boost I scaled and dam was I close, but not close enough.

My third fall was to be the decider. On landing I had cut my right eye brow and almost certainly broken both wrists, so we went to the Kebab House.

Some Chav implored that I 'Mate, listen mate, seriously mate, I'm not joking mate, you need to go to the hospital'. This was probably the only sensible thing this man has ever said, but I was not to listen to him. It was late and I was tired from all the climbing, so instead my friends and I got a taxi home.

Being the good friends that they are they insisted on staying round my place that night in case I was concussed. Being the idiots that they are, they stayed downstairs, so even if I did pass out in my room they would not have known anything about it.

Instead the next morning, with two broken wrists I had to drive them both round to their houses...my car was a manual, this hurt a lot.

Having done this, I then had to explain to my mother why there was a gaping wound above my right eye. She knew I had been out drinking, so I thought it would be best to modify the truth and explained that the injury was a result of trying to leap frog a letter box. I thought this would be slightly less distressing than regailing how I fell trying to climb Argos, three times.

So there we were in A&E again. My mother was not so understanding on this occassion and I felt her embarassment when sitting next to me as I explaining to the nurse how the injuries occurred. Another eight stitches needed above the right eye, a fractured wrist that they put in a cast, but good news the other wrist was only sprained.

So people in the street, when you do see me, there is no need for concern I am simply a balding idiot and the only person who I pose a threat to is myself.