Killer Kung-Fu Enema Nurses on Crack

First published in Killer Kung-Fu Enema 
Nurses on Crack, June 1989.

Before we start, it is probably worth emphasizing that all the anecdotes in this article are true—I haven’t made a single thing up. Now are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin. Aah, the nostalgia.

Killer Kung-Fu Enema Nurses on Crack.

What happy memories those words evoke.

My friend Geoff was a martial arts fanatic. We all thought he was a spy—he was majoring in Slavic Languages and spending all his spare time breaking tiles with his forehead. What else could he have been? He used to make beer money by hiring himself out to parties where he would kick lumps of wood to bits for a fee.

Although Geoff was a perfectly nice person, he had one failing. He couldn’t walk past a wall without thumping it. It was most disconcerting to stand with him in a bus queue. Only half his attention would be on the conversation. The rest would be concentrated on his fist as it thump, thump, thumped into the wall. There was always a large nervous space around Geoff. Nobody ever wanted to get too close.

One day we were walking down a corridor in the house where we lived, and Geoff absent-mindedly thumped it as usual. Several months worth of concentrated kung-fu came home to roost, and a brick shot out and landed on Malcolm who was in the room behind the wall and who was at that moment engaged in some serious fornication. He pretended not to notice.

Everybody gathered round to watch, and we made the interesting discovery that clapping in time to the rhythm quickly caused the rhythm to disintegrate. It was my first practical demonstration of the quantum mechanical principle of the observer affecting the course of the experiment.

Geoff eventually got a first class degree in Slavic Languages and went to Japan to teach English and study karate. Malcolm married the girl in question and the brick lived happily ever after.

Killer Kung-Fu Enema Nurses on Crack.

Lindy was a nurse. She worked in a male surgical ward and her job was to prepare the patients for their operations. These were normally minor operations, appendectomies and the like, and Lindy’s task was to shave the patient’s genital area and paint it with antiseptic.

Not unnaturally, the men whose genitals she was playing with had a tendency to become aroused. Most were embarrassed by this, and Lindy (who was a kindhearted girl) did her best to make things easy for them.

But there were always one or two who would try to take advantage. Convinced that the mere sight of their arousal would cause Lindy to go weak at the knees and drop everything, they would make crude remarks and try to take advantage.

Lindy loved it when that happened.

She would hold the man lovingly with one hand. Perhaps caress him a little. Then with the finger and thumb of the other hand she would go flick as hard as she could, right on the tip.

“You never,” she told me with glee, “saw an erection collapse so fast”.

Eventually Lindy stopped being a nurse and went to work for Rentokil.

Killer Kung-Fu Enema Nurses on Crack.

I never had any exposure to crack. By the time crack arrived on the drug scene I had long since left it. But I was at an interesting head party once…

I wasn’t all that sure of the address, so I wandered up and down the street for a time listening for party noises. I didn’t hear any, so eventually I went into the place where I thought it might be.

As I opened the door everyone turned to look at me.

“Ssssh!” someone said. “Don’t wake the baby”.

The stereo was playing very softly, and the room smelled bewitchingly of dope overlaid with incense. I had a large bottle of home made gooseberry wine which I hid in the oven. (Always check the oven at parties. You’d be amazed what you find there.)

I’d brought the gooseberry wine because once you open a bottle of wine you have to drink it all otherwise it goes off and that’s a waste. Unfortunately this particular wine was so strong that one person couldn’t finish a bottle without falling over. So I thought I’d share it.

Beside the oven where I hid the bottle was a three-legged dog and someone who looked like a bank clerk. He was smartly dressed, suit and tie—it made an amazing contrast with the standard uniform of scruffy jeans and tee shirts that everybody else was wearing.

The dog was a black labrador. One back leg was missing (presumably amputated after some sort of accident) but it didn’t seem to mind. I shared some wine with the bank clerk and stroked the dog.

The bank clerk was fascinated by the fact that the wine was home made—he seemed to think that made it far more dangerous than the various other illicit substances that were circulating around the room (he may well have been right). He clasped his plastic cup in the approved manner with his little finger stuck out, and drank the entire cupful in one swig. Then he smiled.

“Not too sweet,” he said. “Not too dry. I like it”.

I poured him some more, put the bottle back in the oven, and circulated. Not much was happening. Everyone was petrified of waking the baby.

The usual collection of lunatics asked me what my sign was—astrology was very big that year. I had my birth sign on a medallion round my neck and I waved it at them.

“I just knew you were Capricorn,” someone assured me as they blinked blearily at the rather stylized pair of fish on the medallion. “I can always tell”.

I just nodded. It didn’t seem worth the effort.

Back in the kitchen, I found the bank clerk snoring, face down in a pool of vomit. It was smeared all over his nice suit. The dog, for reasons best known to itself, was sniffing his bottom and it growled at me when I picked up the bottle of gooseberry wine.

The bottle was empty, and so was the bank clerk. Billy Connolly once remarked that when you throw up after too much booze, it always looks like diced carrots. That’s not quite true. When you throw up after gooseberry wine, it looks like chinese takeaways.

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I’ve never had an enema. But I have had chicken vindaloo, which has much the same effect.

When I was a student, back in England umpty ump years ago, I used to eat at a very cheap Indian restaurant called “The Purple Elephant”. The food was not of the highest quality, and among ourselves we referred to the restaurant as “The Purple Effluent”. Once, for a bet, I ate the hottest curry on the menu.

I won the bet—I finished the curry. There was steam coming out of my ears, and you wouldn’t believe how much beer I drank to try and put out the flames.

But the next day…

I got a simultaneous attack of Rangoon Rot and Delhi Belly. The Rajah’s Revenge had me in its grip. Chicken vindaloo smells like biological warfare even before you eat it. Afterwards, it is guaranteed to blow the lock off the lavatory door.

But that’s not the worst. Oh no! The worst thing is that coming out, it is twice as hot as it was when it went in. Oh the agony, the pain, the terrible perverted joy of it.

Killer Kung-Fu Enema Nurses on Crack.