It’s a beautiful afternoon in the Spanish city of Valencia. The scent of oranges ascend up to the balcony from the roadside trees, the relentless sun beats down and in a pretty square two old women are pissing.
The suave and thoroughly respectable looking pair strolled along together, hitched up their dogs to a lamppost, each took a corner of the square, almost like it took on some sort of significance and dropped their pastel trousers and white bloomers and began a horse like slash. Impressive in its gush, it ran into the road, some metres away. We berated the tweed clad pensioners as they filled the air with their feculence with shouts such as ‘oi’, ‘piss flaps’ and ‘grandma you shouldn’t be doing that in broad daylight in a reasonably busy street’.
They were unmoved, too engrossed by their depositing and nobody else waded heed to our chants for human decency and self respect. Infact quite the opposite, well not to the point where locals were actively cheering on the wee fest but nonchalantly walking past, considering this to be normal practice. ‘It’s ok, they’re old, they fought the civil war so they could wazz in the street.’
The Spanish equivalent to Gloria Hunniford and Mo Slater then pulled up their gloriously sized briefs and released their by now traumatized terriers. The aforementioned Gloria, naturally the classier of the pair by that I mean she used a leaf to quench herself and didn’t drip dry like Mo(it’s no wonder Charlie has such suspicious eyes, forever wondering whether her tanga is spoilt), began to sniff bins. She would lift the lid, have a good route about and give it a big smell, sometimes her head would arch back so she could fully appreciate the scent, ‘AH, FISH!’
After a spot of refuse inspection from Glor the pair returned from whence they came, arm in arm, sisters in piss.
The bins which Hunniford 2.0 had been sticking her snout in attracted alot of attention but not merely for their decadent perfume. Various cyclists who rode modified bikes which had a large box attached to the back wheel would take a good look inside. The container on the cycle would often house things such as cardboard, pieces of wood and in one case my boxers.
I wanted to test the resolve of the bin diver. Would they, could they take a pair of front soiled, weathered in the scrot region, pair of Marks and Sparks boxer shorts. Infact I didn’t want them to be taken I was after more of a poke around, a consideration type thing. I was producing a rather smelly carrot for a donkey that looks in bins.
I was wet with voyeuristic anticipation perhaps we’d catch someone discovering the stained flyhole and they would proceed to stumble backwards, hand to mouth, appalled but with a sense of stark realisation that they shouldn’t really be touching discarded pants.
The idea that someone might have a feel of my under garments was based on that previously in the day great numbers of people had foraged through a mucky looking bag. Passers by would enthusiastically scrutinse each zipper and pocket, weighing up whether it would be worth a take home.
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So I scampered downstairs, having sprayed the crotch with Superdrug, ‘Abjedia’ deodorant, to create the illusion that something may actually have happened in that area whilst I was wearing them. The boxers were slightly protruding from my right pocket; a few looked but doubtlessly took me for a practical man who carries an extra large hanky round in those hazy, hayfever months. Checking both ways, I placed the filthy garment upon the bag. Turning I noticed someone on the balcony; I was being filmed by a someone. I couldn’t quite make out whom due to the sun but as I approached the building, my vision became clearer and I made a truly shocking discovery. It was Lucy capturing my darkest moments in an Oriste mask.
I returned to Oriste who was quite clearly after a people checking dirty underwear moment for Harry Hill. He wanted the 250 quid and was upset after last time when Aston never quite delivered when he once tried to poo on a duck, he choked at the last second when he had his bum over a mallard. Band leader of Jack the Lad Swing Oriste was very annoyed.
We looked on as dozens walked past, not even noticing the new leaving or choosing to sensibly ignore it. A dirty protest against the bin men by a sick maniac who scrawls messages in his own vomit onto blackboards (the blackness of the board, therefore highlighting the lettering), or so they foolishly thought. It was infact a rather calculated attempt to discover how far people would go in this freebie obsessed society. For the benefit of people who actually talk and think like the last statement, YAR.
Hours passed, some had looked, none had touched. Disappointed but not shamed by what we had done, we left the balcony. I retreated to the bedroom. How could people who often pilfer from the bins and openly urinate in front of canines in public places not take an interest in me manky shorts?
Later on after some traditional Spanish cuisine, pizza and chips, we headed out to a bar. The sun lay heavy in the sky like a fat person in a wilting hammock, the day was drawing to its inevitable close and we had failed in our objective. The bar was pleasant enough, beer wasn’t served in a Petri dish and Lucy told me a riveting story about how in a dream she went to see Alan Carr and was really busy. Even in her sub conscious she doesn’t have a spare moment. I told her to look at a rota before she went to sleep and we left. En route back to the flat we went past the bin, the bin which no longer had a bag or boxers beside it. I think what followed could only be described as a twat dance. So overcome by joy you have no control over what your body is doing, you just move in pure unadulterated celebration.
Someone out in there in the stunning city of Valencia has my pants, too curious to back away, so intrigued by the stain, lured in by the lack of teste coverage, they callously took them. Placed them over their trousers and ran off into the night.
When I got home I watched an episode of Eastenders. Charlie’s right eye began to twitch and at that point I knew Mo had em.
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