How I Gurned My Way To America

I miss my Mum. I know that makes me sound like a southern poofter but I don’t’ care and anyone who says I am can fuck right off. It’s not easy living thousands of miles away.

I know, I made my bed and now I have to lie in it. Nobody made me leave England. Well, not exactly. They told me I had to stay, at least until the trial was over, but I was getting a bad feeling about the potential outcome and decided to do a runner. I bought a fake passport and a fake identity from Jimmy Bobcap and went into hiding for a few days while I put together a plan.
I knew that getting out of the country with dodgy documents was going to be almost impossible for at least a few weeks. So I decided I would have to immerse myself in the life of the person named in the passport until the fuss died down and I could get out with minimum hassle. I looked for the first time at the passport Jimmy had sold me. It was issued in the name of one Gertrude Stubble, age 65. That bastard Jimmy Bobcap had sold me a woman’s passport. How the fuck was I supposed to use this? I was fucked.

Gertrude wasn’t much of a looker, in fact she had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. Les Dawson in drag was more attractive. I had no choice. I had to make it work. I went round to the local retirement flats and nicked as many items of old lady clothing as I could find on the washing lines and stopped at the chemists for a bottle of cheap perfume, some thick support tights and a bottle of blue rinse hair dye. The paki behind the counter gave me a knowing smile and a wink, the dirty bastard. I wrote Jimmy Bobcap’s number down on a piece of paper and gave it to him with a saucy grin. That would fix the both of them.
I had to get out of town and decided to get the train to Carlisle, the last place the filth would think of looking for me. I got a room at a squalid bed and breakfast near the station. It stunk of cat piss but it would have to do. The owner, Mrs.Gusset, seemed suspicious of my story that I was in town for an Emmerdale Farm convention and asked for a deposit on the bedsheets, in case of an accident, she said.

I didn’t have much cash and would need to generate some quickly if I were to buy a plane ticket and pay my lodgings. There was nothing worth stealing in Mrs.Gusset’s hovel, so I went for a walk, shuffling along hunchback style as I tried to stay in character.
Carlisle was a shit hole and there didn’t seem to be anything worth stealing that would raise the kind of money I needed. Then I saw it, a sign in the window of The Turd and Shovel pub.

GURNING CONTEST TONIGHT – GRAND PRIZE £250 – 8pm

That was it. I would win the money. I looked at my watch, it was 7.50. Just in time! I entered the pub and almost recoiled at the stench of body odour and woodbine smoke. There were some right ugly bastards in there. Winning might not be as easy as I thought. Looking around it was as I had expected, I was the only man dressed as a woman in the place. I tried to see if there were any real women in there, but you couldn’t really tell. I put my name down on the list of contestants and bought a pint of mild so flat it should have been served in an envelope and found a seat next to a fat old fucker with a whippet. Immediately the whippet stuck it’s nose up my skirt and I gave it a kick. “Bit o’ luck and that’ll be me later” said the fat old fucker, nudging an even fatter old fucker sat next to him. They both laughed so hard they collapsed into simultaneous coughing fits.
It was almost last orders by the time my name was called and I was pissed from all the pints of mild the fat old fuckers had been buying me in an effort to get into my thermal woolen knickers (very comfortable by the way!). I stumbled onto the makeshift stage and pulled the biggest fuckin’ gurn you have ever seen. There were gasps of amazement as I pulled one then another, each one outdoing the last. I was declared the winner, collected my 250 quid and escaped through the bog window while the fat old fuckers fought over who was going to take me home. I ran all the way back to Mrs. Gusset’s and fell into bed, exhausted.

I was woken next morning by Mrs. Gusset yelling something about a gentleman being there to see me. The smell of cat piss had been replaced by the smell of shit, a puddle of which was staining the sheets next to me. That was goodbye to the deposit money. But this visitor, who could it be? Could the cops have tracked me down? Did they have the house surrounded? I decided to play it cool and put on my housecoat, a long spray of perfume and went downstairs cautiously. The visitor, it turned out was a local impresario who had been in the Turd and Shovel the night before scouting for talent. He told me that he represented Gurners all over the North West and wanted me to compete in the World Series of Gurning to be held in Las Vegas in two weeks time. The prize money was $500,000 and all he wanted was 50% plus expenses. The offer was too good to refuse and before I knew it I was on a plane to America.

To cut a long story slightly shorter, I won the World Series and announced my retirement the next day, moved to Los Angeles and here I am. Occasionally I look back fondly on my time as Gertrude Stubble. Now and again I will get out the support tights and sniff them, rub them against my thighs and pull a gurn just for old time’s sake. I will never wear them again though as it’s too hard a habit to break.

Here is the picture of my World Series winning gurn.

I am a master of disguise.