Christmas Stories

[thaibebop]

We all know every year Christmas breeds a horse load of moral tales to entertain kiddies and sometimes adults with. And while these prefab, extended Hallmark cards can be nice from time to time, nothing comes close to a real life Christmas story. SO, I invite any one to tell us something special about this time of year, even if the story is only loosly tied to the holiday, because I know many living in LOS might have something fun to share that could or could not be Christmas. So, please, knock yourself out, because I certainly haven't got one tell.

Merry Christmas all!

[thaibebop]

Nobody here has one good Christmas story?

OH, that's fcking sad.

[khall64au]

Nobody here has one good Christmas story?

OH, that's fcking sad.

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

Well, I don't know if I'd call it good but it was certainly one of my more memorable Christmas Day's.

Way back in the '80's, I was away from my family for Christmas (which become the norm over the years) and was invited to a neighbourhood lawn party. I took along some nice treats like pate, brie cheese, crackers and dried fruits.

Enjoying myself immensely, I sat crosslegged on a picnic blanket with a glass of champagne resting between my thighs and soaked up the Ozzie afternoon. The champers was going to my head in the summer heat. I was feeling good and a little whoozy

A neighbour dropped in to say g'day.... on his Harley Davidson. He rode onto the picnic and stopped his Hog right next to me. "How ya goin' ladies? Merry fkcing Christmas," he slurred. At that, the drunken twit fell over - bike and all - on top of ME!!

After a struggle, our neighbourly mates heaved the fat yobbo slob and his very heavy Harley off my crumpled self. It was then I realised that the sticky wetness I felt all over my lower half was not champagne... but blood oozing out of a gash in my thigh where the champers glass was still embedded.

I spent the rest of that Christmas afternoon at the local hospital being stitched up and fed candy and painkillers by the kindly nurses.

[mittheimp]

About 12 years ago ( i was 19) I was in my local pub on Christmas eve night, having a merry time, very drunk. During the evening I made a very minor insult to some chubby girl who responded by giving me a fairly soft punch in the stomach. Didn't really hurt, and we both laughed about it. I continued getting drunk and having a generally nice time. When it came to staggering home I discovered I had a bit of stomach ache, in fact this got worse and worse as I walked home. After some pain and many stops I finally arrived home. I then just lay on the floor in the living room ( now about 1am Christmas day). My parents presumed it was the effects of too much alcohol, in fact I did too!. Eventually I crawled to bed. Only then did I discover my problem. As I got undressed, to my horror, I discovered my right testicle was now about 4 times bigger than it should have been!!!! What to do, should I try and get to sleep and hope everything will be alright when I wake up (i considered this for a good while) or should i try and get medical help! Eventually I knocked on my parents bedroom and asked to see my Dad (not my mother!!) and broke the news! Off to casualty I went, A very pretty nurse came to inspect my deformity, did i detect a little smirk!! A twisted testicle was the verdict and an emergency operation was the the outcome. I had to wait a few hours for the alcohol to wear off before going under the knife. Operation was fortunately a success but I spent the whole of Christmas day on a hospital bed and the next few weeks walking very gingerly.

And the moral of the story, not sure, perhaps don't make fun of fat sensitive girls on christmas eve!!

[khall64au]

I've got another !!!

Many moons ago, on a backbacking trip around the world, I found myself (with the other half at the time time) in Burma at Christmas. Back then, it really was called Burma and a one week tourist visa was the maximum stay. Hoping to make the most of our 7 days, we left the stifling heat and most of our belongings in Rangoon.

All the flights north were fully booked so we opted for the next obvious choice. Taking an overnight train to Mandalay, we were squished into the economy class carriage with all the usual pigs and goats and other local paraphernalia that goes with third world travel. I swore off train journeys forever - until the next time.

The journey continued up the beaten track, high into the mountains, in an old jeep with a dozen or so intrepid souls hanging on for dear life. But that's all part of the adventure, of course. We reached destination Maymo in one piece. A former British hill station, it was slightly cooler than the capital city.

Being Christmas Eve, we splurged on a room at a splendid tudor-style mansion named Kericraig - if I recall correctly. As late afternoon turned to night, I briskly wondered why I'd left all my trekking clothes behind in Rangoon. It was freezing up there and my light cotton clothes just didn't cut it. There was no hot water in the mansion that night, or the night after ... or the night after that!

Christmas morning we placed our order for the promised English dinner that evening. I couldn't wait. After all that dahl and rice I'd consumed the month before in Nepal, I so looked forward to a hot roast dinner. A pleasant day relaxing in the botanic gardens and local market led us back to the mansion for a leisurely freezing shower and, wearing all the clothes I owned, sat down to Christmas dinner.

There were a dozen of us, all strangers, at the Christmas table that eve. First course was a single prawn cocktail on a lettuce leaf. The waiter proudly proclaimed the prawns had been flown in from Rangoon especially for our dinner. "That's the bast*rd that had my seat," shouted a Pommy who'd spent the night with us on the train to Mandalay. Ice broken, we laughed til we cried, scoffed our prawn and cracked a bottle of local fruit wine.

The rest of our special dinner was as cold as the shower and the outside air but we had a merry party going on. By the time the pudding arrived, nobody cared that it was week old stale sponge cake. We were all old mates by the last of the fruity liquor.

Suddenly, the sound of angels filled the night. On the front porch, a group of locals had gathered to sing to us some Christmas carols. This was one of the most beautiful sounds I'd ever heard. My eyes weren't the only to fill with happiness at the sight of these simple village folk who'd come to bring a little joy to the hearts of their foreign visitors....

That's one special Christmas I'll never forget!!!

[thaibebop]

2nd story very cool, Khall!

As for the first two, maybe I should rename the thread X-mas injuries?

[khall64au]

2nd story very cool, Khall!

As for the first two, maybe I should rename the thread X-mas injuries?

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

Well, I could have made the full story a lot more exciting with imbibement tales of popular party substances, but I wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression of my innocent, errant youth. I am now an upstanding, respectable TV member you know And that was then.....

My whole world changed when I discovered ... the joys of travel!

[thaibebop]

2nd story very cool, Khall!

As for the first two, maybe I should rename the thread X-mas injuries?

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

Well, I could have made the full story a lot more exciting with imbibement tales of popular party substances, but I wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression of my innocent, errant youth. I am now an upstanding, respectable TV member I didn't think we could be both?

you know And that was then.....

My whole world changed when I discovered ... the joys of travel!

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

[lampard10]

Nobody here has one good Christmas story?

OH, that's fcking sad.

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

Just wait till next week. What the 100 bookings don't know is that they've only got a couple of Pla and some bread rolls. And if I can't repeat my previous trick, all they got to drink is water. Jeez................they'll crucify me when they find out.

[thaibebop]

Nobody here has one good Christmas story?

OH, that's fcking sad.

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

Just wait till next week. What the 100 bookings don't know is that they've only got a couple of Pla and some bread rolls. And if I can't repeat my previous trick, all they got to drink is water. Jeez................they'll crucify me when they find out.

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

I can't wait!

[lovejoy]

Christmas day 1985 (I was 11) was the day I had my first ever hangover.

My parent’s had gone to a Christmas Eve party, and my brother thought he would distribute his babysitting duties amongst himself and his friends (and have a little function of his own).

Anyway my parents left and my brother’s friend’s started to arrive with armfuls of booze,

I was a pretty quiet kid and was happy enough to sit and chat so when my brother tried to send me to bed his friends said I wasn’t doing any harm and to leave me alone.

After a while my brother disappeared to his room with his girlfriend to exchange Christmas present’s (never understood why they had to lock the door just to give presents??), leaving me to the mercy of a bunch of drunken 20 something year olds.

Curiosity got the better of me and I decided I wanted to have a sip of harp to see what it was like, I didn’t like it at all and wanted to have a go at the vodka.

My brother’s friend (lets just call him Satan) told me I wouldn’t like it, I was quite adamant that I would and insisted I should have some,

My brother’s friend said I bet you wont like it.

So little lovejoy disappeared and broke into my piggybank and rushed down stairs clutching my life saving’s. I guess the sight of nearly 10 quid clouded Satan’s better judgment and he decided to ante up and take the bet.

I drank the shot and won the money, I think Satan was a little upset at an 11 year old winning his money and went for double or nothing. I don’t remember anything after that but was filled in on the story a few years later.

I drank about a half pint of vodka and was falling all over the place, at that point it was decided it was time for bed.

I lay in bed for 10 mins and then got back up walked out of my room fell down the stairs and broke the mirror at the bottom with my head, when I was put back to bed I puked all over the place making a nice mess for them all to clean up before my parents got back.

Waking up Christmas morning I was a little reluctant to go see what Santa had left for me and had to persuaded to do so.

My electric car racing game made me queasier with every lap and the smell of the food was churning my guts. I made a lot of trips to the bathroom that day

Years later I admitted to my parent’s about the whole thing, and to my surprise the told me that they knew all about it and was one of the funniest days they ever had as everybody was in tears laughing every time I made the run to the toilet.

I got my revenge on Satan years later but that’s another story.

[khall64au]

Gross story Lovejoy. I can smell the puke from here!!!

[lampard10]

Christmas day 1985 (I was 11) was the day I had my first ever hangover.

My parent’s had gone to a Christmas Eve party, and my brother thought he would distribute his babysitting duties amongst himself and his friends (and have a little function of his own).

Anyway my parents left and my brother’s friend’s started to arrive with armfuls of booze,

I was a pretty quiet kid and was happy enough to sit and chat so when my brother tried to send me to bed his friends said I wasn’t doing any harm and to leave me alone.

After a while my brother disappeared to his room with his girlfriend to exchange Christmas present’s (never understood why they had to lock the door just to give presents??), leaving me to the mercy of a bunch of drunken 20 something year olds.

Curiosity got the better of me and I decided I wanted to have a sip of harp to see what it was like, I didn’t like it at all and wanted to have a go at the vodka.

My brother’s friend (lets just call him Satan) told me I wouldn’t like it, I was quite adamant that I would and insisted I should have some,

My brother’s friend said I bet you wont like it.

So little lovejoy disappeared and broke into my piggybank and rushed down stairs clutching my life saving’s. I guess the sight of nearly 10 quid clouded Satan’s better judgment and he decided to ante up and take the bet.

I drank the shot and won the money, I think Satan was a little upset at an 11 year old winning his money and went for double or nothing. I don’t remember anything after that but was filled in on the story a few years later.

I drank about a half pint of vodka  and was falling all over the place, at that point it was decided it was time for bed.

I lay in bed for 10 mins and then got back up walked out of my room fell down the stairs and broke the mirror at the bottom with my head, when I was put back to bed I puked all over the place making a nice mess for them all to clean up before my parents got back.

Waking up Christmas morning I was a little reluctant to go see what Santa had left for me and had to persuaded to do so.

My electric car racing game made me queasier with every lap and the smell of the food was churning my guts. I made a lot of trips to the bathroom that day

Years later I admitted to my parent’s about the whole thing, and to my surprise the told me that they knew all about it and was one of the funniest days they ever had as everybody was in tears laughing every time I made the run to the toilet.

I got my revenge on Satan years later but that’s another story.

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

Same thing happened to me about 5 years ago

[andyfletch]

This may be apocryphal, but it is still amusing, and remarkably accurate, - a typical English Christmas ?

Everything in the 70s was better than today. The massive sideburns. The huge, mad unconditioned hair. Eight-inch wide Kipper ties. The three day week. High waisted three button trousers. Wonder Bras (the first time round). Stack heeled platform boots with metal segs in. Ziggy Stardust. Chopper Bikes The Sweeney and Progressive Rock. We all smelled of Brut, carried around albums by King Crimson and Vand Der Graaf Generator and a foreign holiday was a week in a caravan in Carlisle.

A 70s Christmas was full of unchanging certainties: Double Diamond beer, Slade, a bottle of Advocaat for the over 60s, a box of dates with a wooden fork that only your dad would eat, radio active orange coloured cheese balls that made small children hyperactive and eventually vomit.

Of course, there was Morecambe and Wise, The Great Escape, a box of liquid centre fruits jellies and laughing at your granddad trying to crack walnuts with a hammer on the hearth because youd lost the nut cracker even and despite the fact that no one liked walnuts.

You would always get several pairs of large brown nylon Y-fronts with contrast coloured trimmings which could be pulled up to your neck. And you’ld usually be given soap on a rope by your Grandma and a copy of the Joy of Sex from one of your older brothers daft mates and a Magpie annual from one of your Aunties who still thought you were ten. This happened every year for a whole decade.

By Boxing Day you were on the verge of insanity after being crammed into a small room with eight people, all of whom youre related to and not one of whom you liked in the slightest. The windows would be flooded with condensation and the room choking with the smell of sprout farts, fags and your Uncles old bulldog with the leaky bottom. Or your Aunt, to give her the correct title.

This explained why Boxing Day matches always got such massive crowds.

Even people who loathed football went just to get out of the house.

Darlington would get 37,000 turn up to see them play Rochdale, or at least it seemed like it. In Glasgow 125,000 people would collectively urinate in each others pockets at Hampden Park.

Thousands of fans crammed onto terraces all over the country to see football played by hairy but balding overweight men in heavy 100% cotton football shirts. It was always freezing cold and frosty. The law insisted you had to wear a Parka or if you were a bit older and had long hair, a Great Coat.

Great Coats were rightly named. They really were great. They were either old army coats or were styled on trench coats. They were huge and were almost floor length and made of 100% heavyduty wool. If you were a weak boy, they were heavy enough to deform your spine. They were compulsory clothing if you were going to see Jethro Tull or The Groundhogs, even in the summer. They soaked up loads of beer and you could sleep in a ditch while wearing one after too much beer at a Fairport Convention reunion gig in a field somewhere in Oxfordshire.

The best Xmas present a man ever got was given to a mate of mine in 1975.

The location was Ayresome Park, Middlesbrough and it involved one such huge army style Trench Coat. You might want to ask your loved one to give you the same present this Christmas. However, if your lady isnt progressive or open-minded you may well be spending Christmas sleeping on the sofa if you do, so beware.

You have to remember that sex in the mid seventies was still a relatively harmless occupation. Anything you caught could be cured with penicillin, a pink cream, by wearing loose underwear or letting the dog lick your scrotum

The lad in question had a brilliant girlfriend. We all thought she was brilliant anyway. She looked like Suzi Quattro and, though only 16, could drink us all blind. She was the sort of girlfriend your grandma would call "a bit loose", which was rarer than you might imagine for most of us.

So when she asked what he wanted for Christmas he naturally wanted, as any 16-year-old would want, to combine football and sex. Having it off while Match of the Day was on in her parents back room was thrilling as long as Jimmy Hill wasnt on screen, but he wanted to go one step further.

And so it came to pass that his Christmas present was to be orally pleasured live at Ayresome Park in the middle of a match. Try sticking wrapping paper round that.

This is where the Great Coat came into the equation. She was a small, even petite girl. Small enough to crawl under a big coat and huddle under there undiscovered. Or so she thought.

We stood at right at the back of the Holgate so no-one was behind us. Fans stood either side but the football was really good so they were all distracted. Half way through the first half she bent down as though to fasten a shoelace. He opened the coat for a moment and then fastened it around her.

We had thought it would be easy to hide her but we were wrong. He looked like he was holding an angry Otter under his coat as she unzipped him and got to work.

When you're 16 you're pretty much ready for red hot action every hour of the day and things reached a critical point within two minutes.

Unfortunately, even in this short space of time, everyone around us had become aware of something odd going on under his coat despite his best attempts to look casual and had all turned to look.

He was sure he'd be able to keep a straight face and look casual like nothing was happening. But evidently nothing can prepare you for the sensory delights of a blow job during football match and his face was a contorted mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.

Soon everyone had sussed what was going on, especially as her legs were sticking out of the bottom of his coat as she kneeled on the Terrace. It was pretty obvious to all when she'd reached the end game by which time there were general cries of encouragement and much obscene comment. She emerged from under the coat to a huge cheer and many requests that she perform similar service to other fans.

It was a classic, very 70s moment. Even more so because afterwards we went and drank lager and lime and ate Tudor beef crisps - crisps so pungent and strong that they stained your fingers for days and you couldnt get the smell of them off unless you dipped your hands in bleach.

I can only hope that your Christmas brings you as much pleasure.

Whatever youre doing and whomever youre doing it with, as Marc Bolan once said at the end of on a T Rex single (Born To Boogie, I think it was), have a funky Christmas and a golden New Year.

[kayo]

About 12 years ago ( i was ...................walking very gingerly.

And the moral of the story, not sure, perhaps don't make fun of fat sensitive girls on christmas eve!!

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

I've got another !!! 

Many moons ago, on a backbacking trip around the world, I found myself (with the other half at the time time) in Burma ..........Suddenly, the sound of angels filled the night. On the front porch, a group of locals had gathered to sing to us some Christmas carols. This was one of the most beautiful sounds I'd ever heard. My eyes weren't the only to fill with happiness at  the sight of these simple village folk who'd come to bring a little joy to the hearts of their foreign visitors.... 

That's one special Christmas I'll never forget!!!

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

I like that!

Where´s the santa smilies?

A few years ago i got drunk.

And a few years before that...

Actually, I´m not very good at remembering christmas stories.

I´m sure I´ve NEVER done anything embarrasing

[ThaiPauly]

This may be apocryphal, but it is still amusing, and remarkably accurate, - a typical English Christmas ?

Everything in the 70s was better than today. The massive sideburns. The huge, mad unconditioned hair. Eight-inch wide Kipper ties. The three day week. High waisted three button trousers. Wonder Bras (the first time round). Stack heeled platform boots with metal segs in. Ziggy Stardust. Chopper Bikes The Sweeney and Progressive Rock. We all smelled of Brut, carried around albums by King Crimson and Vand Der Graaf Generator and a foreign holiday was a week in a caravan in Carlisle.

A 70s Christmas was full of unchanging certainties: Double Diamond beer, Slade, a bottle of Advocaat for the over 60s, a box of dates with a wooden fork that only your dad would eat, radio active orange coloured cheese balls that made small children hyperactive and eventually vomit.

Of course, there was Morecambe and Wise, The Great Escape, a box of liquid centre fruits jellies and laughing at your granddad trying to crack walnuts with a hammer on the hearth because youd lost the nut cracker even and despite the fact that no one liked walnuts.

You would always get several pairs of large brown nylon Y-fronts with contrast coloured trimmings which could be pulled up to your neck. And you’ld usually be given soap on a rope by your Grandma and a copy of the Joy of Sex from one of your older brothers daft mates and a Magpie annual from one of your Aunties who still thought you were ten. This happened every year for a whole decade.

By Boxing Day you were on the verge of insanity after being crammed into a small room with eight people, all of whom youre related to and not one of whom you liked in the slightest. The windows would be flooded with condensation and the room choking with the smell of sprout farts, fags and your Uncles old bulldog with the leaky bottom. Or your Aunt, to give her the correct title.

This explained why Boxing Day matches always got such massive crowds.

Even people who loathed football went just to get out of the house.

Darlington would get 37,000 turn up to see them play Rochdale, or at least it seemed like it. In Glasgow 125,000 people would collectively urinate in each others pockets at Hampden Park.

Thousands of fans crammed onto terraces all over the country to see football played by hairy but balding overweight men in heavy 100% cotton football shirts. It was always freezing cold and frosty. The law insisted you had to wear a Parka or if you were a bit older and had long hair, a Great Coat.

Great Coats were rightly named. They really were great. They were either old army coats or were styled on trench coats. They were huge and were almost floor length and made of 100% heavyduty wool. If you were a weak boy, they were heavy enough to deform your spine. They were compulsory clothing if you were going to see Jethro Tull or The Groundhogs, even in the summer. They soaked up loads of beer and you could sleep in a ditch while wearing one after too much beer at a Fairport Convention reunion gig in a field somewhere in Oxfordshire.

The best Xmas present a man ever got was given to a mate of mine in 1975.

The location was Ayresome Park, Middlesbrough and it involved one such huge army style Trench Coat. You might want to ask your loved one to give you the same present this Christmas. However, if your lady isnt progressive or open-minded you may well be spending Christmas sleeping on the sofa if you do, so beware.

You have to remember that sex in the mid seventies was still a relatively harmless occupation. Anything you caught could be cured with penicillin, a pink cream, by wearing loose underwear or letting the dog lick your scrotum

The lad in question had a brilliant girlfriend. We all thought she was brilliant anyway. She looked like Suzi Quattro and, though only 16, could drink us all blind. She was the sort of girlfriend your grandma would call "a bit loose", which was rarer than you might imagine for most of us.

So when she asked what he wanted for Christmas he naturally wanted, as any 16-year-old would want, to combine football and sex. Having it off while Match of the Day was on in her parents back room was thrilling as long as Jimmy Hill wasnt on screen, but he wanted to go one step further.

And so it came to pass that his Christmas present was to be orally pleasured live at Ayresome Park in the middle of a match. Try sticking wrapping paper round that.

This is where the Great Coat came into the equation. She was a small, even petite girl. Small enough to crawl under a big coat and huddle under there undiscovered. Or so she thought.

We stood at right at the back of the Holgate so no-one was behind us. Fans stood either side but the football was really good so they were all distracted. Half way through the first half she bent down as though to fasten a shoelace. He opened the coat for a moment and then fastened it around her.

We had thought it would be easy to hide her but we were wrong. He looked like he was holding an angry Otter under his coat as she unzipped him and got to work.

When you're 16 you're pretty much ready for red hot action every hour of the day and things reached a critical point within two minutes.

Unfortunately, even in this short space of time, everyone around us had become aware of something odd going on under his coat despite his best attempts to look casual and had all turned to look.

He was sure he'd be able to keep a straight face and look casual like nothing was happening. But evidently nothing can prepare you for the sensory delights of a blow job during football match and his face was a contorted mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.

Soon everyone had sussed what was going on, especially as her legs were sticking out of the bottom of his coat as she kneeled on the Terrace. It was pretty obvious to all when she'd reached the end game by which time there were general cries of encouragement and much obscene comment. She emerged from under the coat to a huge cheer and many requests that she perform similar service to other fans.

It was a classic, very 70s moment. Even more so because afterwards we went and drank lager and lime and ate Tudor beef crisps - crisps so pungent and strong that they stained your fingers for days and you couldnt get the smell of them off unless you dipped your hands in bleach.

I can only hope that your Christmas brings you as much pleasure.

Whatever youre doing and whomever youre doing it with, as Marc Bolan once said at the end of on a T Rex single (Born To Boogie, I think it was), have a funky Christmas and a golden New Year.

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

Brilliant Post

Bought back so many memories for me, and there was me thinking that these sorts of Christmas's only happened to ME

Just add the crazy Christmas Number One Songs like Benny Hill's "Ernie The Fastest Milkman In The West" and Clive Dunn's "Grandad" and that was the perfect typical 70's Christmas. (Oh plus "Dark at 4pm")Why did the best day of the year when you were a kid have to be the shortest!!!

But for all those things that you point out and go Arhhhhhhhhhhh at, Christmas at 16 was GREAT, because we knew nothing different!!!

[rcalsop]

This may be apocryphal, but it is still amusing, and remarkably accurate, - a typical English Christmas ?

Everything in the 70s was better than today. The massive sideburns. The huge, mad unconditioned hair. Eight-inch wide Kipper ties. The three day week. High waisted three button trousers. Wonder Bras (the first time round). Stack heeled platform boots with metal segs in. Ziggy Stardust. Chopper Bikes The Sweeney and Progressive Rock. We all smelled of Brut, carried around albums by King Crimson and Vand Der Graaf Generator and a foreign holiday was a week in a caravan in Carlisle.

A 70s Christmas was full of unchanging certainties: Double Diamond beer, Slade, a bottle of Advocaat for the over 60s, a box of dates with a wooden fork that only your dad would eat, radio active orange coloured cheese balls that made small children hyperactive and eventually vomit.

Of course, there was Morecambe and Wise, The Great Escape, a box of liquid centre fruits jellies and laughing at your granddad trying to crack walnuts with a hammer on the hearth because youd lost the nut cracker even and despite the fact that no one liked walnuts.

You would always get several pairs of large brown nylon Y-fronts with contrast coloured trimmings which could be pulled up to your neck. And you’ld usually be given soap on a rope by your Grandma and a copy of the Joy of Sex from one of your older brothers daft mates and a Magpie annual from one of your Aunties who still thought you were ten. This happened every year for a whole decade.

By Boxing Day you were on the verge of insanity after being crammed into a small room with eight people, all of whom youre related to and not one of whom you liked in the slightest. The windows would be flooded with condensation and the room choking with the smell of sprout farts, fags and your Uncles old bulldog with the leaky bottom. Or your Aunt, to give her the correct title.

This explained why Boxing Day matches always got such massive crowds.

Even people who loathed football went just to get out of the house.

Darlington would get 37,000 turn up to see them play Rochdale, or at least it seemed like it. In Glasgow 125,000 people would collectively urinate in each others pockets at Hampden Park.

Thousands of fans crammed onto terraces all over the country to see football played by hairy but balding overweight men in heavy 100% cotton football shirts. It was always freezing cold and frosty. The law insisted you had to wear a Parka or if you were a bit older and had long hair, a Great Coat.

Great Coats were rightly named. They really were great. They were either old army coats or were styled on trench coats. They were huge and were almost floor length and made of 100% heavyduty wool. If you were a weak boy, they were heavy enough to deform your spine. They were compulsory clothing if you were going to see Jethro Tull or The Groundhogs, even in the summer. They soaked up loads of beer and you could sleep in a ditch while wearing one after too much beer at a Fairport Convention reunion gig in a field somewhere in Oxfordshire.

The best Xmas present a man ever got was given to a mate of mine in 1975.

The location was Ayresome Park, Middlesbrough and it involved one such huge army style Trench Coat. You might want to ask your loved one to give you the same present this Christmas. However, if your lady isnt progressive or open-minded you may well be spending Christmas sleeping on the sofa if you do, so beware.

You have to remember that sex in the mid seventies was still a relatively harmless occupation. Anything you caught could be cured with penicillin, a pink cream, by wearing loose underwear or letting the dog lick your scrotum

The lad in question had a brilliant girlfriend. We all thought she was brilliant anyway. She looked like Suzi Quattro and, though only 16, could drink us all blind. She was the sort of girlfriend your grandma would call "a bit loose", which was rarer than you might imagine for most of us.

So when she asked what he wanted for Christmas he naturally wanted, as any 16-year-old would want, to combine football and sex. Having it off while Match of the Day was on in her parents back room was thrilling as long as Jimmy Hill wasnt on screen, but he wanted to go one step further.

And so it came to pass that his Christmas present was to be orally pleasured live at Ayresome Park in the middle of a match. Try sticking wrapping paper round that.

This is where the Great Coat came into the equation. She was a small, even petite girl. Small enough to crawl under a big coat and huddle under there undiscovered. Or so she thought.

We stood at right at the back of the Holgate so no-one was behind us. Fans stood either side but the football was really good so they were all distracted. Half way through the first half she bent down as though to fasten a shoelace. He opened the coat for a moment and then fastened it around her.

We had thought it would be easy to hide her but we were wrong. He looked like he was holding an angry Otter under his coat as she unzipped him and got to work.

When you're 16 you're pretty much ready for red hot action every hour of the day and things reached a critical point within two minutes.

Unfortunately, even in this short space of time, everyone around us had become aware of something odd going on under his coat despite his best attempts to look casual and had all turned to look.

He was sure he'd be able to keep a straight face and look casual like nothing was happening. But evidently nothing can prepare you for the sensory delights of a blow job during football match and his face was a contorted mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.

Soon everyone had sussed what was going on, especially as her legs were sticking out of the bottom of his coat as she kneeled on the Terrace. It was pretty obvious to all when she'd reached the end game by which time there were general cries of encouragement and much obscene comment. She emerged from under the coat to a huge cheer and many requests that she perform similar service to other fans.

It was a classic, very 70s moment. Even more so because afterwards we went and drank lager and lime and ate Tudor beef crisps - crisps so pungent and strong that they stained your fingers for days and you couldnt get the smell of them off unless you dipped your hands in bleach.

I can only hope that your Christmas brings you as much pleasure.

Whatever youre doing and whomever youre doing it with, as Marc Bolan once said at the end of on a T Rex single (Born To Boogie, I think it was), have a funky Christmas and a golden New Year.

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

A brilliant post ...I feel homesick and nostalgic ...spot on especially the great coat ,boxing day and Darlington ( the only time we went ) . Then I progressed to Croft Auto Drome .Great racing biting cold ,time to wear that stupid jumper from Mum ( actually the only time ) with a new hankerchief full of slippy starch so it refused to mop up the mucus running freely from your frozen nose . Then after the excesses of Christmas lunch and supper .... today a simple Kangaroo ( or what ever they were made of ) Burger from the stall with hot tea in a thin plastic cup that either burnt your hand or dribbled into the new black vinyl gloves aunty got you from British Home Stores, too small but not yet cracked or split at the base of the thumb .

Have a good one from a Barnard Castle ( Co Durham ) lad !!!!

[thaibebop]

Great stories keep 'em coming!

[ThaiPauly]

Christmas Eve 1972

Went to the Hammersmith Palias with my mates to celbrate the evening.

Got pretty trashed as I recall. We could not find a taxi after we left so we had to walk until we got one...

We got as far as Chiswick, still no taxi, then one of my mates noticed that the Xmas milk delivery had already been made to the shops along Chiswick High Road.

Now being a combination of very young, stupid and drunk, we decided that it would be a good idea to take all the tops off the bottles! I think we wanted to give the little birdies a Christmas present or something like that!

Anyway we are doing this for a couple of minutes, (Brits will know that all you have to do is press your finger into to silver seal at the top-job done).

Within a couple of minutes a "Panda Car" shows up. I didn't see it but my mates did and legged it off down the road, leaving me to face the wrap..

The Copper was obviously in a Festive mood himself as he decided that my punishment (after extracting from me that I lived a further 4 miles down the road) that after all this milk (which I denied drinking) I should have enough energy to RUN the rest of the way home. Well as I thought this was a better bet than spending a night in a cell, you should have seen me go!!!

He crawled after me for about 10 minutes -probably smirking like mad, then he must have got a call about some serious matter and did an abrupt 'bout turn and sped off in the opposite direction.

After a couple of minutes of by now huffing and puffing , but walking my mates turned up in a taxi, shouting and jeering out of the window, pretending they were gonna leave me, but they didn't and I got home with my parents none the wiser (I had never (or ever) been in trouble with the Police).

I think I was very fortunate not to get nicked (my dad's best freind was a seargent at the local shop-would have been very embarassing). The Copper was obviously not gonna be working on Xmas day and as I said was probably in a festive mood himself.- hence my stroke of luck, I was able to open my presents on Xmas day as if nothing had happened

Happy Christmas

TP