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Oh man I cringe when I think about it! Give me a few days.

It doesn't have anything to do with 4 chocolate fingers does it? Shudder.

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Ruudboy   

Or the Berlin KitKat club where, according to Wikipedia: "Guests are allowed to engage in sexual intercourse openly at the venue. A strict dress code needs to be respected in order to get into the KitKatClub door, often enforced by Kirsten herself, and requiring fetish, latex, leather, kinky, high style, glamor. The venue consists of three dance floors and an outdoor area with a pool. It is decorated with ultra-violet light and fluorescent color paintings done by the Berlin-based painter .... ".

On second thought, probably best kept to yourself.

Edited by blue moon

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Or the Berlin KitKat club where, according to Wikipedia: "Guests are allowed to engage in sexual intercourse openly at the venue. A strict dress code needs to be respected in order to get into the KitKatClub door, often enforced by Kirsten herself, and requiring fetish, latex, leather, kinky, high style, glamor. The venue consists of three dance floors and an outdoor area with a pool. It is decorated with ultra-violet light and fluorescent color paintings done by the Berlin-based painter .... ".

On second thought, probably best kept to yourself.

Sadly no !!

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It doesn't have anything to do with 4 chocolate fingers does it? Shudder.

All I'm prepared to say at this stage is that my KitKat "incident" happened December 1st 1984 on Clapham Junction station. I can be very specific about that because Chelsea had just played Liverpool at the Bridge. After I had recovered from the "incident" I phoned up LBC radio to relate the story. They aired it live and apparently replayed it several times that week.

In the years since the "incident", to my disbelief, I heard a similar KitKat story told but happening to another person, not the same as mine but similar. This has cast some doubt on the authenticity of my story but let me tell you this. I challenge anyone to find a KitKat story that predates 1984. I refer to it as B.C (Before Clapham). And somewhere in the LBC archives is the evidence. However once you hear the story you realise that it could quite easily happen on more than one occasion and I can't deny that. I am of the opinion though that once the story was aired a kind of outward ripple effect took place. In those days there was no internet or social media, things were pretty much spread by word of mouth. I think my story may have got stolen, and mutated and gained a kind of folklore status a bit like that bloke banging a severed head on the roof of a car in the middle of a forest. No my friends, every KitKat story starts and ends at Clapham Junction station, December 1st ,1984 . In the coming days I will do my best to do it justice and post it here.

(p.s I will have to do it on a word document. Can anyone tell me how to attach it to a post?)

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Following the departure of our dearly beloved Brenda and Stevie G from Liverpool, there was a concern that things may never be quite the same on this thread. So to keep things ticking along I’d like to recall an “incident” that I was involved in many years ago following a Chelsea/Liverpool clash at Stamford Bridge. I was a mere lad of 19 at the time and Chelsea was my life. The events here are true. Over the years some have doubted the story’s authenticity, some may have even stolen the story and claimed it as their own. Neither bothers me. I claim no copyright to the story and I will not try to defend or validate the sequence of events below. You can believe as little or as much as you want but it is my experience and that’s what counts. It is what it is and it is the story of …..The KitKat.

THE KITKAT

December 1st 1984. Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1. That still feels good just writing it. And back then it was against a proper Liverpool team, not shower that they throw onto the pitch these days. The line up included the likes of Ian Rush, Kenny Dalglish, Alan Hanson, Phil Neal, Bruce Grobbelaar to name a few. We had the team that John Neal built. Dixon, Speedie, Nevin, Spackman , Bumstead etc. and on our day we could beat just about anyone. December 1st 1984 was our day. It was though, less of a grudge match in those days. We actually got on quite well with the Dippers back then but that was probably because we never won anything! Chelsea glory was a distant dream and still a good 20 years away.

After the game many pints were consumed in my local Chelsea boozer. Several hours later and two sheets to the wind, I ‘high fived’ everyone I knew (and didn’t know) in the bar and headed for home. As I left the pub the first spots of rain had started to fall. The dark skies looked threatening and it wasn’t long before the heavens opened. It came down in sheets and waves. I pulled up the hood of my big Parker but it was a pointless exercise. By the time I got to Clapham Junction I was a drowned rat. Even when I got onto the platform the rain was finding a way under the wooden roof to soak me further. I checked the train times. I only had about five minutes to wait but the on-platform café was looking warm, dry and inviting. I pushed open the glass door and went inside.

“Cup of tea and a KitKat please” I asked cheerily.

Both items were pushed silently in front of me. The Jamaican lady behind the counter had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp but she wasn’t going to spoil my evening. “Thank You!” I answered maintaining my happy disposition. I paid for my items and searched for a table. Jeez it was busy in here! Everyone must have had the same idea. With no free table available I sat myself down at an occupied table and found myself staring into one of the strangest faces I’d ever seen. He was probably in his sixties with a fattish round face and an extraordinary mass of unkempt curly grey hair . He had a mass of eyebrows which like his hair shot off in all directions, wild woolly and out of control. Nasal hair jutted disturbingly from his nostrils and headed down in the direction of a large tash. There was no getting away from it, it was a classic scousers eighties tash. He was a Pool supporter and on closer inspection I spotted a little bit of red and white scarf popping out from under his collar. But the thing that distressed me most about the odd man sitting opposite were his eyes. As my mum used to say he had “one eye looking at you and one eye looking for you”. Each eye moved completely independently of the other but strangely neither seemed to point in the same direction at the same moment.

Under normal circumstances I would have made eye contact and struck up a casual conversation. “Good game pal! Better luck next time. Our second goal was probably off side. Are you local or are you travelling back tonight?”

As it was I couldn’t tell if he was looking straight at me or straight out the window. I decided to leave it. My train would be here in a minute anyway. I took a sip of my tea, picked up my Kit Kat, broke off a finger and started to munch.

What happened next stopped me mid-munch. Very very slowly his hand started moving towards the centre of the small round table in the direction of my KitKat. He picked it up, calmly broke off a finger, replaced the bar on the table and proceeded to slowly eat it! I was in unknown territory here. How was I to react? Was he being provocative? Had he realized I was a Chelsea supporter? My Chelsea colours were hidden beneath my huge Parker so how could he know? Were scousers now so shameless about stealing that now they would do it right under your very nose? Maybe he was just a bit mad? I decided to just play it cool and front this one out. I narrowed my gaze directly at his disturbing eyes and took another sip of tea. I then reached out and picked up the KitKat, broke off another finger then replaced the last remaining finger back on the table. As I munched I maintained my gaze at all times. Then to my disbelief I watched as his hand once again moved slowly across the table toward the final chocolate finger. I could hear my train pulling into the platform but I was focused and completely in the zone. With the speed of a striking Cobra, with the agility of a Kerry Dixon bicycle kick at the Clock End, with the accuracy of a David Speedie head butt to the bridge of the nose, my hand shot out and grabbed the final piece of KitKat from right beneath his fat hairy fingers! Almost in one movement I swivelled on my chair and shot out of the café before jumping onto my train.

As I sat down in the carriage I could see him looking at me through the café window…. well one eye was looking at the front of the train and the other was looking at the back but I sensed he could see me. So I held up my prize and pulled away the silver foil. Then in exaggerated slow motion I proceeded to eat the final finger as if it were the most exquisite thing ever to pass my lips. The guard blew his whistle but just before the train moved away I performed my ‘coup de gras’, my final ‘dagger in the heart’. I stood up, turned towards my opponent and threw open my Parker to reveal my Chelsea colours.

“WHO ARE YA! WHO ARE YA! WHO ARE YA! ” I bellowed at the top of my voice. The whole carriage turned to look at me but I didn’t care. We had done ‘em on the football pitch and now we had done ‘em at Clapham Junction station. Even today I can still remember the look on his defeated face as the train pulled away from the station. Through the dark and the rain and the misted up café window- one eye looking at me and one eye looking for me. Victory was indeed sweet in every sense of the word!

I slumped into my seat incredibly pleased with myself and bathed in the afterglow. This was a story that I would be telling to my grandchildren. In years to come I would be in a bar somewhere. A mate would shout over from across the room “Hey Nobs, this bloke hasn’t heard your KitKat story!” I would give an exaggerated sigh and say “Ok, Ok tell him to line me up a pint and I’ll begin”.

An overly loud voice snapped me out of my daydream “tickets please ,tickets please!” hollowed the guard as he made his way through the carriage. Now where was that ticket? I started rummaging through the many pockets in my Parker. As my hand reached the bottom of a deep side pocket I froze. For a brief moment it felt like the world had stopped turning. My heart started racing and I started to feel sick. I slowly pulled out my hand. For what must have been quite sometime I just stared at the item retrieved. It was of course my new, fresh, un-opened …… bar of KitKat!

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