Who likes Short Shorts

  Just don’t put on the sore patch that used to be your nipples.

  I’ll start by saying: I bought the Spanish version of this. But it was still called TCP, how amazing is that!? I did fear that they’d have called it something else and I’m so glad they hadn’t.

  I found myself in need of this while on my honeymoon. Which wasn’t something I’d planned for, but then I don’t suppose anyone ever planned the need for TCP, unless they were drastically weird or something — which I’m not.

  Once all my employees had left I changed into my shorts and navy singlet, wolfed down the honey sandwich, strapped on my Hi-Tec silver running shoes and headed out into the summer night.

  As is the norm in Spain, I hired a little moped. Mary, my new wife, refused to come with me on a trip to the local monastery. The moped I hired wasn’t in the best condition but, as Pedro informed me, the leopard-skin seat made up for any mechanical shortcomings. He was right, too; everyone was looking at me as I chugged my way through the local town. Mind you, I think the young ladies might have been looking at me just as much as they were looking at the sex-mobile that I was riding.

  Seeing as I was on holiday I wore the uniform all vicars wear when out of sight of their flock — Speedos. The smaller the better, we all wear them on holiday; well, after a long year of wearing our robes and tight-necked dog collars, a small pant-like trunk is extremely liberating. I could feel the wind on the inside of my thighs, airing Jesus and the two disciples, Peter and Nathanael. I bloody loved it. The only thing that would have made it better was my old large hip flask, but seeing as Mary had pronounced me an alcoholic, I wasn’t allowed it on the holiday.

  The monastery was at the top of a mountain so I was soon out on the open road. Getting up the hill took a little longer than if I’d been walking, but it was steep so I was happy that I didn’t have to actually walk, and I managed to ignore the kids that strolled past me as I was crawling up the hill on Pedro’s trusty moped. They were just jealous that I was burning my bare feet on metal and not on the road like they were.

  Meeting the Spanish vicars was nice. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but we pointed at the Bible and nodded in agreement a fair amount. After tea it was time to head back down the hill. Unfortunately, this was when I found the brakes weren’t all they should have been and I got the speed wobbles. Luckily I was only on the first corner so wasn’t going as fast as I imagine I would have been if I’d careered all the way down. I still hit the ground at some pace, though, and it seemed for a while that the pace would continue. That part of the road had recently been tarmacked, so was fairly smooth for me to skid on. I didn’t feel the pain until I’d stopped and the heat from the road brought me out of the daze I was in. My Speedos had disintegrated somewhere along the way. I’d been on my front as I skidded and looking down, I noticed that the little Pope had lost some of his skin. It wasn’t until later I realised that I’d lost most of my nipples, too. In the police car that took me home I caught a glimpse of my chest in the mirror. Next thing I know I’m waking up with the bed sheets my wife had lovingly placed over me stuck to me! The pain started all over again.

  Mary had also forgotten to get holiday insurance, so with no choice but to take my healthcare into my own hands, I headed down to the chemist to see what I could lay my hands on for under five Euros. (I’d spent all my holiday money on the moped rental.)

  I think the chemist must have been a sadist or something because the smile that appeared on his face when I showed him my scarred body was not something I expected. The smile grew as he handed me the bottle of TCP and waved his hand in dismissal when I offered him payment.

  When you go on holiday, you don’t expect to have to deal with the police once, let alone twice. I’d almost stopped screaming by the time they arrived at the villa. Apparently they were responding to reports of a little girl being murdered. In my defence, it wasn’t like if you hurt yourself normally, this pain got worse as time went on, even if you weren’t dabbing the area with a TCP-soaked bit of cotton wool.

  Thankfully it was the second but last day of the holiday, so I didn’t have long to wait before I could see a British doctor who didn’t demand payment upfront before he let me take my T-shirt off. Unfortunately for me, scabs had started to form by then and he had to tear them off to get the bits of gravel out of my body that had lodged there during the accident. When I left the surgery I asked if there was anything I needed to do with the wounds while they healed. His answer? TCP. I didn’t say anything, though, as us vicars aren’t allowed to swear.

  I kept the bottle of TCP and it’s come in handy for the locals. Jock knocked our door late one night; something had bitten him, so I lent him a bit of this. I was glad to see that he screamed like a little girl, same as I did when I first applied it. Jock is an old biker chap so it means I’m not as soft as the people who were laughing at me thought I was.

  -Father Frederick

  Become a Scottish Laird/Lady