“The Sporting Life” & “White Hart / White Heat”

Two pieces of short slash fiction, published in Push #4 & Push #6 respectively….


The Sporting Life

Athletics may have gained mass approval across the UK after the 2012 London Olympics, but on Tyneside, running has been popular for decades now. In the 1976 summer games held in Montreal, Brendan Foster won a bronze medal in the 10,000 metres and, despite breaking the Olympic Record in his heat, finished fifth in the 5,000 metres final. Strictly speaking, the pub at the bottom of Chowdene Bank in Low Fell that was opened in his honour soon afterwards was inaccurately named The Gold Medal. My suggestion The Boring Ex Chemistry Teacher Who Mumbles out the Corner of His Mouth didn’t even make the long list.

Time passed; memories dimmed and the pub relaunched itself around the millennium as Porcupine Park, styling itself as a revolutionary concept in 21st century leisure, where dancing and dining go hand in hand ALL NITE LONG. Another decade on and the vogue for sports’ bars showing unreliable internet feeds of Fulham v Stoke on Saturday afternoons to 30 bored blokes with severe Carling habits meant the place reverted to its original name. However, I am able to shed some light on why it was known as Porcupine Park for that unconvincing interregnum.

When training for the 76 games, Foster and his fellow Gateshead Harriers, 400 metre sprinter and subsequent convicted drug dealer David Jenkins (an eventual seventh in his final) and Charles Manson lookalike steeplechaser Dennis Coates (twelfth overall) made camp in the hills above Hollywood at a former movie ranch. The Harriers’ companions included the remnants of Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters, though not the man himself as he was engaged in post-production duties on One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, as well as Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs, enjoying a brief period of rapprochement in their tortuous relationship.

In the camp Foster, a University educated organic Chemist; fell under the spell of occasional visitor Dr. Timothy Leary. Brendan experimented not only with LSD 25 and psilocybin, but with the peyote and mescal Ginsberg had brought with him as a sign of his continued fascination with Mayan culture. The hallucinations Foster enjoyed, influenced his future philosophy, while the junk Burroughs shared with Jenkins shaped the latter’s subsequent career. Dennis busied himself by jumping over tree stumps and the ranch barbecue, simulating the track conditions he would soon face, while reciting Buddhist incantations. Clearly, competitive athletics had taken a back seat.

Post competition, the athletes were granted a civic reception at Gateshead Town Hall and then chauffeur driven to meet their adoring fans at their home track, the International Stadium. In the limousine, Jenkins freebased cocaine, Coates recited mantras and Foster ingested 200mg of lysergic acid, in the form of a blotter, as they sped along the A184 Felling Bypass.

At the stadium, Jenkins slumped wild-eyed across the podium, while Coates sat cross-legged in meditation, while Foster seized the mic from local radio DJ and Master of Ceremonies, Frank Wappat, and began extemporising beat poetry to the awed audience. I am privileged to say I was one of those gathered to hear him speak.

Foster’s final performance piece was dedicated to “all the fish of the oceans and birds of the air.” It featured an impassioned plea for ecological awareness, strict adherence to vegan principles and complete disarmament by all nations of the earth. As he recited it, Foster provocatively undressed and jived lewdly with a hand-picked selection of ample breasted women from the audience, endlessly repeating this totemic quatrain -:


We’re gonna build us a Porcupine Park,

With a dozen apple trees

And space for the hedgehogs as well.

Let’s get high baby; let’s get high.

Clearly, the poem struck a note with all who were there, being plucked from the most obscure corner of sporting history to rename a pub. Certainly, whatever the place is called now, I feel Porcupine Park is a more fitting tribute to Foster’s achievements than The Gold Medal, but opinions differ…


White Hart / White Heat

Gareth was driving to a home game between Spurs and Chelsea on a humid late summer’s afternoon. White Hart Lane is not a particularly easy ground to get to, and the tail back on the motorway wasn’t helping. Gareth sat back in his metallic grey Ferrari and placed his rugged and blistering hands down his shirt top, then began to gently massage his flat and un-inspiring nipples. He quickened the pace of the caressing but failed in his endeavours to get his nipples erect. Resourcefully, he decided to use another form of stimulant. Gareth languidly opened up the ice dispenser and removed a handful of ice cubes, then aggressively smeared the cubes all over his scrawny, decrepit chest. Within an instant of doing so his nipples protruded an inch in diameter and he was feeling raunchy.

Without a second thought he instantaneously reeled up his gaping car-windows to ensure innocent eyes were not viewing this moment of private indulgence. He began to unfasten the buttons on his corduroy trousers, which were very highly rucked around his abdominal region. Gareth peeled down his y-fronts to his lower thigh then released his heaving penis, which was already on hard. He then opted to reach for a tub of ice-cream, which was inadvertently lying in wait on the back seat. He flipped the top off, his hands shaking with excitement. Needless to say, this act of shame came with an element of danger as he was surrounded by cars packed with football supporters; one slip up and his morale and social-status would be scarred for life.

He began to smear the thick raspberry ripple ice-cream over his dry penis and gaping anal shaft; the creamy-white substance filling every crack and crevasse underneath his foreskin and ring. He rubbed and caressed his external organs to the point of orgasm but he knew he had to save the moment, for a few minutes at least and let it prosper. Bale then decided to remove the cigarette lighter from underneath the dashboard, leaving a hollow indentation; this was obviously pre-planned because without hesitation Gareth inserted his penis into this small dark area of the car.

“Like a glove!” he bellowed, both elated and surprised he was able to fit his erect penis into such a demanding hole as afforded by the cigarette lighter. He then slowly allowed his penis to rub up and down the hole, masturbating with enigmatic glee, all the while wondering how much he would shed. In seconds he had discharged himself and his penis was surrounded by a hot frothy liquid. Gareth closed his eyes in delight as he pulled onto the nearest hard-shoulder, where he dozed in post-coital splendour, waiting for his erect penis to slacken, so he could make his way to the ground.


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