I came across the Wankbox in Montreal Canada where of course they call it 'le Wankbox' on account of the fact Montreal is in the French speaking province of Quebec. 'Le Wankbox', as I'm sure you can guess, operates on a fairly simple premise. Allow me to put it in context for you, perhaps in one of your weaker moments while going about your day-to-day business you have been struck by a sudden and quite uncontrollable urge for self-gratification. Well in such a case you might nip into the toilet or on-site portakabin like the filthy wee cretin you are, but if you were French-Canadian you'd just step into the box. Outside of an NCIS crime scene it's the single greatest concentration of jizz on the planet.
Montreal wouldn't strike you as an obvious setting for the Wankbox it's regarded by most in Canada as its cultural capital, the beating heart of French Canada with its striking architecture, plethora of concert halls, art galleries, restaurants, its wonderful night life and cosmopolitan inhabitants. I certainly wasn't struck by the need for a wank on my walk to the grand Basillica and if I did I wouldn't consider that shining beacon of dank self-deprecation to be my preferred spot, I'd go as far to say I'd probably rather have a wank in Oscar Pistorius's toilet than 'the Box'. Although I didn't actually frequent the Wankbox I can say with relative certainty that it's a pretty disgusting and unpleasant place. And that's the point, because a year later myself and my travelling companions on that Montreal trip arrived at a fustie, damp, crusty, filthy, crawling, 'Fritzlesque', hotel room in a certain Spanish resort. We all agreed that a night in the Box would be preferable to the week we faced in the hotel, and so it was our residence from that moment on was forever referred to as 'The Wankbox' - or 'el Wankbox' if you prefer.
You know that old saying 'every Wankbox has a silver lining' well for us it was the glorious, golden beach packed with the most beautiful girls the Mediterranean had to offer. The sheer volume of gorgeous girls was almost unnatural, every day we went to the beach expecting the previous day to have been a fluke and each day their ranks swelled. It certainly made the Wankbox more bearable. We had sunshine, inexpensive booze, beautiful women, and incredible nightlife. These things should have equated to success but when you're travelling with three pasty-white teuchters they are of course more likely to be the architects of your downfall.
Day four of the holiday was a biggie, new up-coming superstar DJ 'Avicii' was playing in one of the clubs; it was going to be a huge night. During the day everyone congregated on the beach making it the perfect place for the nightclub to promote their clubnights. They would send their club-reps out during the day to hand out flyers and invitations, huge, muscle bound, tanned, Abercrombie looking guys with perfectly chiselled good looks and aviators. They had the easiest job going convincing everyone to go to a party they all wanted to go to anyway. They strolled up and down the beach joining in games of football, paddleball and Frisbee stopping to talk with groups of girls and picking up numbers with a near 100% success rate. Every group on the beach, boys and girls, were invited. I wasn't so confident though. As the posse made their way towards me I turned to survey my travelling companions, one of whom was lying face-down in the sand surrounded by sixteen cans of Estrella, one was vomiting in the sea, and another was lying on a sun lounger at an advanced stage of 'Lobsteritis' - a condition that severely reddens Scottish skin when exposed to the sun.
We were the only people on the beach not to get an invite to 'da club' that evening.
The resort was full of Dutch and Spanish people which was good at first on account of how attractive they all were but in the end was a bit of a sticking point because we couldn't really speak to anyone. My interactions were restricted exclusively to my travelling companions most of whom were rarely in any condition to even make it out of the Wankbox. There was an upturn in fortunes on our penultimate night when we met a Hen Party from the North of England. They were great fun, and as we all got drinking and became friends we basically interposed ourselves into the group following them from bar to bar and jumping in all their photos. The Hen Party had a circus theme complete with some fantastic outfits, there were Ring Masters, Clowns, Acrobats, and of course a Circus Lion - who I was trying my very best to chat up.
One of the boys who was on this holiday is always particularly exuberant when it comes to fancy dress and on this evening he was deriving a lot of pleasure from acquiring as many different items of fancy dress as he could. By the end of the night he had enough make up and accessories on to resemble Boy George - if Boy George decided to run away and join the circus. Amongst his most prized possessions were the lion ears and claws he procured from the lioness I was still busily trying to chat up. Now what happened next depends on which of my friends you decide to ask. I'm not sure who to believe but as the boys left the club they encountered another gentleman who was apparently as equally vehement about fancy dress as my friend.
Account of Friend No. 1
I'm not sure why he was so opposed to giving the claws away, or why he valued them that bit more than the ears, but anyway here is the Account of Friend No. 2.
Like I say I don't know what to believe.
While my friends were being accosted on their way home by an angry Mr Ben, I was enjoying a romantic stroll down the beach with my lovely lioness. We walked, and frolicked, and waited for the glorious Mediterranean sun to rise. When we left the beach at silly o'clock in the morning and made our way back to her hotel we were greeted by quite the unwelcome welcome party.
It was quite an experience being shouted at by angry women dressed as circus performers and foreign police, but I suppose mishaps are inevitable on any 'boys holiday'. My advice to any young bucks embarking on a holiday with as equally irresponsible people as myself and my friends would be to buy insurance. I've been on three boys holidays during which time I've spent a total of six days in hospital, been robbed twice, gone missing for twenty four hours, and reached a disabling level of 'Lobsteritis'.
Thankfully I'm too old for the boys holiday these days, although in truth the boys holiday never really dies it just evolves into something as equally unpredictable and irresponsible, the 'Stag Doo'. All Stag Doo's are of course afforded the essential anonymity needed thanks to the age old rule of 'what happens on the stag stays on the stag'. This makes it impossible for me to disclose any sensitive stag information on this blog site - although like any good Ryan Gigg's super injunction who knows what will end up being on here in the future.
In the meantime I hope I have managed to deliver on my Lion, Beach, Wankbox promise, if the only reason you read this far was to find out more about my dad's lesbian ex-wife/fiancée then I apologise, here you are..... http://www.freeforapound.blogspot.co.uk/2011_04_01_archive.html
One last thing has occurred to me, maybe I'm completely wrong about the Wankbox, maybe it's purpose is for something completely different, I mean 'le Wankbox' that could mean anything couldn't it...???