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1986 was the year that Maggie abolished the Greater London Council, and Ken Livingstone threw a farewell party for the whole city. This was too good for me and my mates to miss, so onto the train we piled, and up to town we went.
It was a truly great night; the whole city seemed to be in a buoyant mood. There were no hoodies and no stabbings – just free concerts, beer tents everywhere and girls galore. A memorable evening was had by all.
According to the rules of being a British teenager, I got right pissed. It felt like the proper thing to do.
The train home is where my problems began. A packed train emptied out as it got further away from central London, but the thing that really needed emptying was my bladder. It started off innocuously enough, but after fifteen minutes I was in crisis mode. It was a closed carriage and it was the last train home, so I couldn’t get off until I got to my stop – still twenty minutes away.
The pain caused by ten cans of backed-up, watery Fosters lager let itself be known as I doubled over in my seat, whimpering, just desperate to have a piss. No one seemed to notice my discomfort, everyone around me happily gabbing on about what a great night they’d had.
At the next station about six people got out, and miraculously I found I had a section of the carriage to myself. I slumped into a corner seat – out of sight of the people in the other sections. I was in agony by now, and action had to be taken. There were two options: piss out of the window or piss on the floor. The windows only opened about one third of the way down so I’d have to stand on the seat in plain view of everyone for that; and pissing on the floor would lead to my piss swishing up and down the carriage, and no matter how desperate I was I couldn’t face that, or the fact that I’d have to piss crouching down in order to do so unseen.
Then it came to me in a flash. The can of Fosters I had boarded the train with was going to save me. I’d have to empty it out of the window first, as I’d need the full 440ml – of that there was no doubt.
Remaining slumped in my corner, out of sight, I was almost crying with relief as I carefully let myself go into the top of the can. I had no time to waste as another station was not far off. Relief turned to panic as I realised the can was no match for my bladder. And now I can see the snapshot in my head; my drunken teenage self, holding my dick on a train as I empty a beer can full of piss out of the window, strange looks coming down the carriage from people who can only see my head and shoulders.
I managed to empty my bladder before the train reached the next station; the fact that I had only five minutes to my own stop meant little to me. I sat back, relieved, happy and drunk, piss all over my fingers and a large damp patch on the front of my jeans, proud at my own drunken ingenuity. |
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