Great Balls of Spitfire

This is my worst nightmare.

In retrospect, karma was never something I ever really bought into. I always assumed that it only appealed to people who delighted in the misfortune of those who had wronged them. I can see its appeal as a concept; someone cuts you up on a roundabout and the universe is supposed to flip their car or give them cancer. It has a strong USP. I'm not sure it's really a thing though. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that it's all bullshit, how could I know? I just think that the people who really deserve to get shafted keep on winning at life. Karma doesn't play fair.

Take me for example, all I did was kick a kid out of a bathroom at a house party so I could shit in the host's bathtub. Where's the crime? For the record, the host is a notorious stain on the good character of the known universe and has been fucking my wife. They don't know I know of course, but I didn't know until half an hour ago. Such a short time to know something and yet everything is different; if you told me that cows lay eggs I'd have to think about it for a moment. Clearly anything is possible in a world where my wife finds John attractive.

It's amazing how much alcohol you can drink in twenty minutes if you're angry enough and you set your mind to it. You know you're on to a winner when people start clearing a space around you and going quiet or putting their arms around their partners. It was either that or beat the living crap out of John with a spiralizer and get arrested. Both fab options. I'd like to dedicate my current predicament to my innate laziness and lack of practical fighting experience. It helped that my wife wasn't at the party of course; she would have micromanaged my evening.

'Don't embarrass yourself.' she would have said.

'Go fuck yourself you steaming harpy.' I would have thought.

Alright, things have been rocky. I can't claim to be blameless in this, working too hard on the boat hasn't been popular. Come to think of it I've only been working so much on the boat because I don't enjoy being at home. Which came first? Did I spend more time away because things were awful, or did things being awful drive me to the boat? Or did I buy the boat because I knew what was coming? Or is the boat a distraction from everything? When did I think buying a boat was a good idea? Fuck, I'm one of those people who has a boat. Shit, my arms are tired.

I shift my grip on the edge the huge roll-top bath. To my left the door is locked, but it's only a matter of time before someone tries to use the loo. I'm fucked.

The box to the toy spitfire is next to the sink. I think I used to have the same one. God the emergency services are going to have to sort this out aren't they.

Poor little kid, I shoved him out of the door with a rambling tirade about his bedtime and threw him out. It's not his fault his father is a philandering fuckwit. Can I blame being an arsehole on the drink too? That's would be useful. Little Kevin shot out of the room in tears shouting for his dad. Well, they are going to have to buy another kit to finish the plane that is for sure. At least my erection is going down. Poor little soldier kept itself free of adhesive long enough and is taking a well-deserved rest on my left thigh. I can't really see much else. No wetness anymore, I think the glue has gone off. Maybe I'm an arsehole, but the drink can definitely take the blame for my lack of care when preparing to crap in the tub. Kid out, trousers down, rear end on edge of bath, beer armour dulls sensation of sitting on something pointy. Ignore pointyness and slight moisture. Curl out tremendous turd which lands with the delicate kiss of a snowflake on long grass. Attempt to force second wave but wee a little on own trousers around ankles and decide against further defilement. Attempt to stand up.

My scream silenced the DJ for a few moments, but nobody came rushing to the door. Most had seen me stagger in there and they were probably wondering what I had said to the historical eight-year old in floods of tears who should have been in bed anyway, it's nearly eleven o'clock.

I look down between my legs. There's a bit of metal I can see and part of the cockpit, but it's no spitfire down there. From what I can tell, when I sat down on the tube my weight caused most of the glue to squirt out and pool around my balls. Some time spent laying cable in John's bath was perfect for the bonding process. Instead of hold firmly for thirty seconds they should say take a nice long crap. I've ruined two things at once. My scrotum looks like a hideous, dystopian, hairy model of the Hindenburg.

Now if I'd sat with more of my weight forward I might not be quite as precarious. As it is, I'm barely keeping myself from tipping backwards and ripping them off completely. I doubt it would be possible to gather them up mid-air during the fall. I'd probably pass out anyway.

So what's the way out? Acceptance? Fuck that. I'm doubling down on this. I just need John at the door and convince him to come in. He'll see me vulnerable and he'll want to help. I'll get him to bring me some nail polish remover and get free, and then I'll tell him I know. It will be glorious. Shit, I think I'm still drunk, it might not quite play out like that. Oh no, I can hear sirens. There are a few people outside the door. Bollocks.