This is a story I’ve told before — hundreds of times, as it goes. More specifically, it is a story that I have blogged about before, which makes it a bit of a cheat for my ‘first’ blog post. In fairness, the blog that I posted the story on has long since ceased to be, and I think it’s a story worth telling more than once.
This is, as far as I am able to tell — and I have absolutely no reason to doubt — a true story. It involves an old friend of mine who for the purposes of this post we shall call Jimmy. As well as it being a good name for this story, it is also his real name.
The events of the story take place during my final days of university — on our final night out as a group in Sheffield. Dissertations had been handed in, exams had been scraped through, lectures had been skipped, and for one last time the whole group of us was out to celebrate.
About half way through the night Jimmy met a girl and started chatting her up. Me and another friend, Pete (again, real name), interrupted their conversation — for no other reason than to irritate Jimmy. I’ve always been something of an arse like that, as evidenced by me publishing this story on the internet. Twice.
As a related side note, at the time of this story Pete was a representative of the National Disabilities Office for the NUS. He struck up a nice, pleasant conversation with the girl in question who we’ll call — actually I genuinely have no idea what her name is, so let’s just go with something sensible like Claire.
Our initial assessment was that Claire seemed quite nice. She also seemed quite drunk — not unexpected given the setting for the story — and we noticed that she occasionally stumbled or bumped into stuff. Still, she was funny and she was obviously into Jimmy so we eventually decided to stop being arseholes and just left them to get on with their night.
The end of the night drew closer, we all said our drunken farewells to a lot of people whom we suspected we’d never see again (and in some instances that has proven to be the case) and Jimmy hopped into a taxi with Claire. I didn’t hear from him for another couple of months when he called to sort out plans for the forthcoming graduation day.
He also filled me in on what happened that night after he and Claire had got into that taxi.
As the taxi sped towards Jimmy’s house, Claire turned to him and asked if they could stop off at her place along the way — apparently she needed to pick something up. Jimmy was fine with that, why wouldn’t he be? The taxi took the slight detour to Claire’s place and she stumbled inside to fetch whatever the ‘something’ was.
She emerged a few moments later with her guide dog.
It turns out that we had all been far too drunk to notice that Claire was blind and now Jimmy sat in the back of that taxi, watching a very pleasant young woman head towards him with every intention of bringing a dog along for the remainder of their evening. He did some fast-thinking and settled on, ‘So what if she’s blind? She’s a nice girl, we’re both drunk. Why shouldn’t we still have some fun?’
So they returned to Jimmy’s house where they had (direct quote incoming) ‘loads of sex’ under the attentive stare of Claire’s guide dog. ‘Pretty weird,’ said Jimmy on the phone to me, ‘but what was more weird was that she had her handbag with her the whole time.’
‘The whole time?’ I said.
‘Wait — so she had her handbag with her in bed?’
‘The whole —’
‘While you were —’
‘While we were.’
As an aside, I feel like I should mention at this point that Jimmy is Welsh. I don’t know why that suddenly feels relevant. It just does.
So. After getting over the initial weirdness of performing before a panting audience, Jimmy loosened up somewhat. He flicked her handbag aside, guided her onto her knees and (might as well just use his own words) ‘decided to see if she was up for anal.’
But something was amiss. He couldn’t actually find his intended destination despite repeated exploration of the area. Luckily Claire was able to offer assistance by way of an explanation when she turned round and stated matter-of-factly, ‘Oh, I haven’t got an arsehole.’
‘You haven’t got —’
‘An arsehole. They stitched it up to prevent leaking when they fitted this —’
CLICK. The bedside lamp was turned on and Jimmy learned what the ‘this’ was that ‘they’ had fitted. Claire was pointing at what Jimmy had originally assumed to be her handbag but which now proved to be her colostomy bag.
The guide dog panted happily.
A couple of months after that call, I saw Jimmy at our graduation ceremony. We all went out for drinks afterwards, and I was introduced to his dad. Naturally, the first thing I did was gush that oh boy did I ever have an amazing story to tell him about his son.
He looked at me and said, ‘Okay, as long as it’s not the one about him trying to have anal sex with a blind girl with no arsehole.’
His dad was the first person he’d told.