This week my new employer – benevolent overlord and thoughtful provider of my “varied and challenging role” – saw fit to send me to North London for two days in order to fix/upgrade/break-in-a-different-manner (delete as applicable) a customer’s installation. Go on Thursday, work, stay in a hotel overnight, work friday, back home.

This is the first job I’ve had that requires occasional travelling, so it’s all still new and fun for me. I agreed to the trip …but not too eagerly. It is never a good idea to let on that you might enjoy yourself when you’re trying to guilt your manager into extra holiday time as compensation.

Their decision was made in rather a panic and very short notice, and so the booking of my hotel was equally ad-hoc and random. For this reason, no-one really cared that rooms around Wembley were particularly scarce that night, and booked whatever they could find for me – and so they paid nearly 300 quid for a single night, in a hotel right opposite Wembley Stadium.

My boss tried to put a gloss on the whole situation. “Just take it easy!” he said: “I’m sure it’ll be an easy job. Find a decent restaurant, have a quiet drink, enjoy the sights of Wembley.”

When I check-in on Thursday evening I find myself in a room containing two double beds and a fully-stocked complementary minibar. This would have been a dream come true for any of the hedonistic batchelor playboys I work with, but was completely wasted on me. I am married, drink almost no alcohol and am usually in bed before 10pm. My idea of a good Friday night is quality time with my “‘Allo ‘Allo” boxset.

After I checked-in I dumped my stuff and then went out to find something to eat. I soon discovered why rooms were so scarce around Wembley – Take That were performing at the Wembley Stadium that night.

Perhaps I should have been forewarned by the ride on the Tube on the way there. There seemed to be a lot of grown women trying to fit inside clothes that they last wore a decade ago. If you’re built like a Zeppelin, your wardrobe should not include Lycra.

By the time I went looking for something to eat the crowds around Wembley were … memorable. In much the same way that a Prostate examination by Edward Scissorhands would be memorable. Take a crowd-scene from a zombie flick and then cross it with an early-nineties “Smash Hits” annual and you’re in the right area. It was like “Night of the Living Dead” but with fatter thighs.

I did what any heterosexual man would do when confronted with crowds of ravening women driven insane by hormones and Bacardi Breezers, hungry for Gary Barlow … I ran back to the hotel and barricaded myself in my room.

Why would I go out in public and try and find a restaurant when there are thousands of sexually frustrated thirty-year old women on the rampage? I’m already married to one; I am not about to go looking for any more.

Now don’t misunderstand me: I know how attractive I’m not, and the only celebrity I’ve been confused with is Frank Sidebottom … but the scene from my hotel room at 11pm after the concert finished clearly showed that The Hordes had set their standards very low.

I never knew that women could make dropping their knickers and crouching over a hotel’s ornamental flowerbed into such a social activity.

Offend a friend:
  • Digg
  • StumbleUpon
  • Facebook
  • Yahoo! Buzz
  • Twitter
  • Google Bookmarks

posted in Diary by Oddbloke

2 Comments to "Saggyboobpocalypse"

  1. Rob wrote:

    Oh gosh yes.. I had the misfortune to see the hoards kicking out after one of their Manchester shows…. one of the taxi drivers was quoted in the paper as saying “give me the football hooligans any day” !

  2. James Blast wrote:

    I live near Hampden, the place was awash with MILF for three feckin’ days!

Powered by Wordpress. Design by Bingo - The Web Design Experts.