12:56 a.m., 10.12.03
Is that necrophilia?

So what if it's two entries tonight? I just remembered this, you gotta hear it.

Picture a 21st. My brother's, specifically. Parents, relatives and friends, some from across the country, have gathered together for his coming of age.

And this isn't *that* brother, either. This is the respectable one.

The speeches have been ribald, as all good 21st speeches are, and full of tales of debauchery and tomfoolery. One of them has nearly crossed the line by recounting how he pinched off a loaf in some buggger's driveway once, but the elderly rellies let it pass for the good of the occasion.

Then the exquisitly nicknamed Dumpa gets up and recounts the tale of how The Colonel lost his virginity.

Well.

I swear this tale is true.

He's 18, and has just broken up with his girlfriend of a few months - the family's a bit sad about this, as her parents owned the Black Swan dip company and she used to come around with loads of free hommus and tzatziki and other, dodgier efforts.

He's at a party with one of his dodgier mates. The beers are flowing and he's pissed and depressed.

The Colonel always used to get all "nobody loves me" when he was drinking, and this night was no exception. Midway through the night, he finds himself a dozen beers down, sitting in the gutter outside and moping.

A girl approaches. She's a friend of the host - they met in a psychiatric ward as she was trying to recover from a heroin OD and he was under observation after a suicide attempt. She's about 28, and a rugged looking specimen by all accounts.

"What's wrong dude?" she asks, noticing his obvious melancholy. "Nobody loves me," he replies. "That's so not true," she says, "everyone here thinks you're a great bloke! You're a bloody star! You're good looking, a great guy, musical, great at sport, loads of great friends. Everyone here loves you!"

"Yeah well... How is that gonna get me a bloody root?"

Wow, top line, Colonel. That sort of thing would get you slapped in a fucking brothel. But tonight, there's magic in the air. She looks at him for a moment and says, "maybe I can sort that out."

In like Errol, he's led to the bedroom, stripped and decked out with a condom (thank God) and his first shag begins.

She's as hammered as him, and neither notices too much when the boys come wandering in with cameras and handycams to record his bumbling first poke for posterity.

As drunk as he is, he's not only having trouble finding a stroke and, ahem, getting anywhere with it, but his balance is a fair bit off as well, which sends them toppling onto the floor a couple of times. They proceed unabated.

Another of the lads walks in with the portable phone. It's his very recently ex-girlfriend, calling to apologise to him, and presumably suggest a reconciliation. He waves the phone away and continues toiling away on his first and worst case of carpet burns.

She seems to be getting less and less responsive. He suspects she may have shot up immediately before commencing. He pounds away relentlessly, though his interest is waning.

Then, she dies.

Right there, as he plugs away, he notices she's stopped breathing. Closer inspection reveals her heart has stopped as well.

He's too drunk to panic - instead, he musters his first-aid knowledge and begins to administer CPR. This failing to bring any immediate result, he starts up with some mouth to mouth as well.

By some freaky miracle, this works. She sits bolt upright in bed and vomits copiously onto the floor, gasping for breath between retches. Puke is flying out her nose and mouth simultaneously. The Colonel is more relieved than you can imagine.

Then she wipes her mouth off, flips over onto all fours, grabs his dick and makes him keep shagging her.

I *wish* I was making this up.

Of course, the poor boy was so drunk that after more than an hour of boning this undead creature, he threw in the towel and gave up all hope of an orgasm.

He came sheepishly into my bedroom the next morning to recount the tale, and he was still wearing the Peter Daicos Collingwood singlet he'd had on at the time. I told him to take the wretched thing off, but it was stuck to his back.

When he finally wrenched it off, it was crusted to him with bloody gashes from where her nails had raked his back. He had scars across his back for literally years, as if he'd been flogged with a whip or something. The one positive from the event was that he finally threw that fucking singlet out.

So there's the story. I only wish I could accompany it with a picture of the stony faces of his aunts, uncles and grandparents around the room as Dumpa recounted it in excruciating detail at his 21st.

Us boys have always had pretty controversial 21st speech material, but this one was the first one to really cross the line. I think pretty much everyone there felt pretty crook about it - not least the Colonel himself.

Uncle Graham, however, the funny bastard, loved every minute of it. He still goes around telling his mates up in dairy country how his nephew rooted a sheila to death.

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