I am a man who likes a pint and a kebab, and this has led to several incidents in late night eateries of which I am not particularly proud.  The worst of these occurred last year in a Turkish kebab shop in Glasgow town centre, after a heavy session on the vodka.  Myself and my friend, Jamie, entered the kebab shop and I was advised by Jamie to purchase a donna kebab, since these generally take less time to prepare than my usual choice of chicken.  I didn't really want a donna, but quite frankly I would have eaten Cornflakes if they had chili sauce on them, so I joined the queue and made my order.

After a brief wait, the man behind the counter asked me whether I wanted salad with my donna.  Unfortunately, the combination of my alcohol-addled brain and his Turkish/Glaswegian accent led me to believe that he had asked whether I wanted salad with my doughnut.

"No, no," I said, "I didn't order a doughnut.  I ordered a kebab."

"Salad with your donna, sir?" he repeated, as politely as could be expected when faced by an idiot in a packed kebab house.

"Look mate," I said, slightly less politely, "I didn't order any doughnuts.  I ordered a kebab."

At this point, the man who was stood behind me in the queue lost patience and said rather aggressively "Just answer him.  Do you want salad or not?"

Under normal circumstances I might back down in the face of a drunken Glaswegian, but I was drunk myself, and being so close to getting a kebab only to be fobbed off with doughnuts filled me with rage.

"Look," I shouted at him, "I'm not eating a f*cking doughnut, salad or no f*cking salad."

The man behind the counter intervened at this point by handing me my donna kebab in a box.

"That's more like it," I said, sufficiently mollified to give the aggressive Glaswegian a smile and wave the box in front of his face.

"I told you I ordered a kebab."

Has anybody else behaved like a tit in a kebab house ?

Terrence had an undistinguished childhood, his only feature of note being his impossibly long legs.  As he entered manhood however, his torso grew to match his lower half, and he therefore became a total non-entity.  To counter this feeling of social invisibility, he started doing Ben Elton impressions and spouting lefty pseudo-politics, yet all the while dressing in the latest expensive fashions, using money earned in his job as the fascistic and much feared Till Controller at Tesco's, Chorley Branch.

At college he became interested in rocks, which grew into an uncontrollable obsession. His perverse fantasies about rock sex led him to spend three years at university studying geography and geology, a course which allowed him unlimited access to millstone grit samples and as much metamorphic slate as he could shake his cock at.  After university, a tragically failed relationship with an outcrop of carboniferous limestone led him to re-evaluate his life, and he realised his master-plan of becoming a Davros-type figure, by fusing his body with parts of a check-out till, propelled on a family-sized shopping trolley, would never succeed.  Instead he set off in a new and fulfilling direction in life, training to be an accountant.

At university, my friend Neil was a bit of a dick.  He was well known for "overdoing it", i.e. taking things to excess be it abuse of drink and drugs, dressing foolishly or just generally behaving like an idiot.  One such example of this idiocy was when he decided to pierce his nipple.  Most people, having made this decision, would visit a qualified body piercer, who had the appropriate sterilised equipment, and it would all be very simple.

Neil, although a bit simple himself, decided to make it hard. Instead of letting a professional do it, he decided to do it himself, and having collected various inappropriate objects to help him achieve this delicate procedure, he settled down to give it a try. The first step was the anaesthetic, which consisted of drinking a half bottle of whisky and a couple of cans of strong lager whilst watching television. The anaesthetic having taken effect, Neil producing a sewing needle (and not a particularly thin one at that) and sterilised it in the flame of his lighter.  He then stuck the blackened needle into his sensitive nipple and wiggled it around for the next 20 minutes trying to push it right through.  This was no easy task however, since Neil's breasts were, and still are, unusually large for a male (he was often mocked by his friends whilst at university about his need for a sports bra).

Everytime he pushed the needle therefore, he only succeeded in pushing his tit to one side.  This farcical display went on for some time, with Neil periodically making pathetic whimpers and groans.  Finally however, the tip of the needle poked through the other side, but try as he might, Neil was unable to push it right through to make the hole suitably large. Not to be defeated, Neil ratched around the house for a pair of pliers with which he could pull the needle right through.  Living in a student house though, we had an extremely limited collection of hardware tools, and so Neil improvised by using a pair of nail clippers. I was then "treated" to the sight of Neil, sat semi-naked on the couch p*ssed out of his mind, pulling on a pair of nail clippers which he had clamped onto the end of the needle.

With every tug of the clippers his breast (which was now even larger due to the swelling) was yanked to the side, and he let escape a pitiful yelp.  This farce continued for a while longer, until Neil was finally satisfied that the hole in his tit was large enough.  He yanked the needle out and produced the nipple ring which he had purchased for this occasion.  Unfortunately, he made a ham-fisted attempt at inserting the nipple ring and it broke.  Unwilling to go to bed that night without a ring in it and risk the hole closing up, Neil decided to stick the needle back in and go to bed like that, planning to get up early and go to town to buy a new ring the next morning.

In the morning however, the effect of spending a night with a common or garden needle stuck in him had resulted in his breast swelling to an alarming size.  The whole exercise was called off, to be fought again another day, when his tit was no longer a double D-cup.