This month’s True Love story comes to you courtesy of the smokers’ table at the King of Tonga wine bar.

The King is a small bar and has a single bench outside for smokers, which is fine if you are having a convivial evening and have had enough wine to feel all very hail-fellow-well-met about the world. It’s not so good if you are trying to have a private conversation about secret women’s business.

It’s also not so good if you are having a quiet cigarette while waiting for a friend and you end up sharing the smokers bench with a bunch of lads who are busy exchanging poo stories and roaring with laughter.Now, I’m not going to try and get all coy with you, I think you all know that I’ll shriek with delighted horror at tales of scatological woe as much as the next not very ladylike person, but I was brought to a halt that night, when the boys told me about a drinking/gambling game they had “heard about” called Freckle. Freckle starts (!) with one of the protagonists taking a dump in the middle of the table; all the players then put money in a pot and their chin on the edge of the table. Some poor soul (who has to miss out on participating in this delightful game) then drops a large heavy object from high above the table onto the steaming pile in the middle of it. The person with the most ‘freckles’ on the face after the object has been dropped wins the money.

After regaling me with this story the lads, seeing the look of dismay on my face, hastened to assure me that they had never actually played this game themselves, in fact, they said, they had never even seen it played. “Never mind, don’t vomit, it’s probably just an urban myth,” they said, patting my hand and lighting another cigarette for me.

I would like to believe the urban myth suggestion, but I am reminded of how icky beyond description people can be every time they start another wishing well in the (single) loo at the King. People catch on very quickly and happily throw their 5 and 10 cent pieces into the loo and it sits there for no more than three weeks or so before some sad fucker puts his hand into a pub toilet to scoop out the handful of change in the bottom of it. EWWWWW!!! And I bet whoever it is picks his nose with the same hand.

But I digress, back to the poo stories from the smokers’ bench.

To ease my discomfort after the Freckle incident, the boys told me the following story about some folk they work with:

In keeping with the current festive season a large Melbourne company, that I am very sure would prefer to remain nameless, decided that a good morale boosting, team building exercise would be to take their entire staff out for an all expenses paid curry and pints night. Leading the charge out the door was the office prankster and his female counterpart. Months of competing for title of office clown had recently morphed into the snappings of courtship, and excitement and betting amongst their cronies was high. Everyone, including the protagonists themselves, was expecting that tonight would be the night their unspoken passion would be consummated. After all, what could make rampant sex with colleagues more likely than a management funded curry and pints night? After mounds of steaming hot curries and many, many pints, expectations were fulfilled and a passionate, if slightly malodorous night ensued.

The next morning our office clown awoke to the stentorian breathing of his lady love. He lay for a while, watching her snore, and then decided that it was time for her to awaken, A gentle caress? The murmurs of sweet nothings?

No, no.

Our hero, being a man of Noel Cowardesque wit, decided that the most amusing way to wake his lady would be to turn and fart, long and loud, directly into her face.

Ahh…l’amour….

I’m sure that some of you can already see where this is going and are cringing in your seats. For the more innocent out there, a large night of curry and beer means that you can not always trust a fart to be just a fart and the unfortunate girl was rudely awakened by her new lover shitting on her head.

At this point even the lads who were telling this story were unable to adequately describe her reaction. I can see their point, words fail me too.

However I believe that the hero of our story though it was too good to keep to himself and told every one in the office.

His unfortunate paramour resigned the next day and has not been heard from since. I daresay she is still soaking in a vat of chlorine and bleach and won’t be out until she has managed to grow herself a new head.

Next month, hopefully, I will be able to find a True Love story that is slightly less vomit inducing.

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