Diary of an Unwilling Virgin

Adam Pearson

Description

Welcome to the world of football-mad Troy Brown, a typical fifteen-year-old, with a loving family, a tight-knit group of friends, and a nice house in Cowes on the Isle of Wight. Materially, he has a comfortable life - but then no hormone-ridden, angst-filled teenager would ever describe their life as comfortable, and Troy was no exception, plagued as he was by 'the whole world is against me' complex, 'no girlfriend' syndrome, the pains of unrequited love (or lust) and the usual hoard of teenage frustrations and obsessions.A privileged peek into his very private 'warts and all' 2003 diary reveals the transformation of his boring, ordinary life, as Troy tries to negotiate the many twists and turns in what was to become the most extraordinary year of his life, fraught with family secrets, misunderstandings, dangerous liaisons, challenging adventures, shocking realities and unexpected outcomes, interspersed with teenage insights into the state of the world, including war, crime, death and disease.As you travel with Troy on his one-year life-changing journey, you will undoubtedly laugh at the adolescent humour, cry at his misfortunes, sympathise with his plights and empathise with his feelings as he works through his personal traumas and is forced to learn by his mistakes. Be warned, however: those of a sensitive disposition may also be shocked by some of the diary's content, possibly offended, but you are, after all, delving into the grimy mind of a pubescent youth!

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 24 octobre 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781908548900
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page




THE DIARY OF AN UNWILLING VIRGIN


Adam Pearson






Publisher Information


APEX PUBLISHING LTD

First published in 2005 by Apex Publishing Ltd
PO Box 7086, Clacton on Sea, Essex, CO15 5WN, England
www.apexpublishing.co.uk

Digital Edition Converted and Distributed in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright © 2005 by Adam Pearson
The author has asserted his moral rights

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition, that no part of this book is to be reproduced, in any shape or form. Or by way of trade, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

Production Manager: Chris Cowlin

Cover Design: Adam Pearson
(Parts of the Southampton Football Club logo have been used on the front cover design, the logo was kindly supplied by Southampton Football Club)
Southampton Football Club have in NO way endorsed this book.

Although real news events have been woven into the storyline, this book is essentially a work of fiction. Therefore, any similarities between the characters contained herein (animate or inanimate) and actual persons, living or deceased, are purely coincidental.




Dedication


To my Mum, for giving me life.

To Janet and Basil, for giving me my wife.

To Alicia and Debbie, for making my life worth living.

To Joanne, for your inspiration.

I would also like to dedicate this book to my precious God daughters,Karen Suzanne Spurgeon and Chloé May Pengelly




Acknowledgments


I would like to thank Garry Smith for being the first person to read the manuscript. His positive remarks were a driving force towards publication.
Fiona Burnett’s encouragement helped me believe that publication was a course I should take and her input on the cover design helped as well.
Apex Publishing Ltd have been a great help and I am very grateful to them for giving me this chance.
I would especially like to thank everybody at the world’s best radio station for their help and support - 107.8FM The Saint.
Finally, without the support of my family this project would not have been possible.




Warning


Some people may find some of the material in this diary offensive or controversial. My answer to that is that this is my personal diary and you shouldn’t be reading it anyway, so hands off!
Any similarities between characters in this diary and real life people, are obvious, but as these writings are for my eyes only it’s tough shit!




Introduction


My name is Troy Brown. I am fifteen years old. I have a mop of mousy blond hair, which won’t style into anything, which I find most annoying. I’d love to have a haircut like Duncan off Blue or Charlie from Busted, or indeed anybody else that would make girls fancy me.
My Nan Brown gave me this diary for Christmas, continuing the tradition of giving me naff presents, so I thought I’d make use of it.
I live in Cowes on the Isle of Wight. (I use the word ‘on’ instead of ‘in’ as proof that I am an islander, as only a true islander would use that term.)
Cowes is a dying town that only comes to life for one month a year; a month in which all sorts of shops open when the only shops we have for the rest of the year are a couple of supermarkets, two DIY stores, a couple of banks, Woolworths, Boots and lots of yachting stores.
I love this town, but it is fast becoming a large residential unit, which will soon rely entirely on the capital town on the island, which is five miles away, Newport, for all shopping needs.
I live with my mum, Alison, who has long, wavy blonde hair and is quite good looking for her age. I have just overtaken her in height. A few of my mates have claimed that they fancy her! Which I think is sick even though I fancy my own aunt.
I also live with my dad, Kevin, who is slightly overweight and balding at the age of thirty-six. He farts a lot, moans a lot, eats a lot and is obsessed with Southampton Football Club, as am I.
My dog completes our family group. He is a big-boned Yorkshire Terrier called Griz, short for Grizwald. We live in a house, funnily enough! Our house is in a road called Baring Road. It is quite a nice neighbourhood and our house is a detached bungalow with a big front and back garden with a golf course behind it.
All the houses on our side of the road have a stone front wall which, I was told, used to be the boundary wall of Lord Baring’s estate, many years ago.




January 2003


1 January 2003, Wednesday

This morning I was the first one up as Mum and Dad were suffering the ill effects from last night’s festivities. I fixed myself some toast and Marmite and settled down in front of the TV. There wasn’t much on but I just flicked around the Sky channels for a while.
This went on for an hour or so until my dad staggered into the front room, still wearing most of the Dolly Parton costume he had worn last night. In fact it was all of the costume minus the wig and the fake tits. The make-up that my mum had put on him had originally been applied to specific regions of his face. Now it had all migrated to populate the whole of it.
‘Get us a drink, son,’ he slurred.
‘What do you want? Tea or coffee?’ I replied, getting wearily out of my seat.
‘Naah! None of that malarkey, mate! Get us a can of lager out of the fridge.’
Drunken sod!
An hour of stereophonic flatulence followed before we set sail, on the Red Jet, to Southampton.
The Red Jet is the most expensive water journey in the world and my dad and I make the trip every time our beloved Saints play at home. Dad foots the bill for me. We have season tickets.
Normally the trip is event free, but on this occasion the two cans of lager that Dad had consumed for breakfast, had, combined with the rocky motion of the Red Jet ferry, made Dad ask the steward for a sick bag. He didn’t waste it. Nor did he waste the other two he was supplied with - highly embarrassing as my dad makes a hell of a racket when he retches.

Dad tried to persuade me to agree to join him in a taxi up to St Mary’s, but I insisted that we travelled by foot. I told him the fresh air would do him some good. The real reason was that I didn’t want him throwing up in the taxi.
This seemed to do the trick, as he seemed to perk up when we got to the ground.
We were playing Tottenham Hotspur in the Premiership, our second closest rivals behind Portsmouth, after they poached our manager, Glenn Hoddle, a couple of seasons ago.
Revenge is sweet as we won one-nil. We virtually floated back to the ferry terminal and got home at around six fifteen.
Mum had our traditional post-match meal ready for us, which is steak and chips. Wonderful!
My mate, Ed, a good-looking lad who wouldn’t look out of place in a boy band with his floppy brown hair and his bright blue eyes, phoned during tea. He asked me if I’d like to go round to his house for a session of games on his X-Box. So, once I’d eaten my cherry cheesecake pudding, I was off.
Ed lives about five minutes away from my house, down Egypt Hill. His Dad always has the most up-to-date electronic equipment. This Christmas he had acquired a DVD recorder! Ed has got one of those Nokia mobile phones that take pictures! Such a gimmick! He took one of me as I arrived at his front door, but you couldn’t see anything as it was too dark.
We played a few games, which he won - hardly surprising as he has had so much practice. He always wins in everything he does. It’s sickening. He supports Manchester United as well.
After three hours of getting trounced by him and annoyed by his thirteen-year-old little sister, Zoe, I gave up and went home.
When I got in, the front room stunk of Dad’s farts so I just went to bed.

2 January 2003, Thursday

Dad was happy this morning. His cheering awakened me. Last March his Nan had passed away and it had taken all this time for probate to be sorted out. The cheque he had been waiting for, his third of her estate, had finally dropped onto the doormat. Twenty-three thousand, four hundred and seventy pounds and seventy-two pence.
‘That’s it!’ he beamed. ‘Tonight we are going car hunting!’ And he hugged my mum and then me.
He then ran around the house celebrating, Alan Shearer style. It was bloody funny!
My mum had to emphasise that he drive carefully to work, reminding him who would inherit the money if he were to kill himself in the car.
My dad drives a crappy old Vauxhall Astra, so anything would be better than that!
After breakfast, Mum and I walked Griz down to town to get some holiday brochures. We stopped off at Tiffins Café for a cup of tea so that we could browse through them.
A lot of things go through your mind when you have a windfall. I was daydreaming for most of the day but I eventually realised that it wasn’t me who had received the money, it was my dad, and this fact was gradually sinking in with Mum as the day went on.
By the time Dad got home from work in the