The Whipping Shed

A while ago That's Crapchester, our ultra local TV news station, had, as part of its daily line up of three stories, some items about local sheds which were contenders for the Shed of the Year title.  (I know that sounds like a completely made up competition, but I can assure you that it is very real).  Among the sheds I saw featured were one that was some kind of mini cathedral and another, owned by a fire man, which was a sort of miniature fire station, complete with fireman's pole (but not fire engines).  All of which left me wondering what secrets might lurk in other Crapchester sheds and whether they might feature in the Shed of the Year contest.  Sure, most of them are being used as repositories for garden tools and assorted junk and a few more probably host model railways, but I'm sure that others harbour more exotic secrets.  I mean, when I was a child, there was this kid a few doors down who tried to make his own fireworks in his dad's garden shed, but succeeded only in blowing it up.  Although slightly scorched, he survived the experience - his old man went mental at him. though.  No wonder my parents decided to move the family off of the council estate.

Then there was that kid I knew at school who used his garden to shed to store, read and whack off to, his highly impressive collection of jazz mags (mainly sourced from hedgerows).  Now, he isn't to be confused with that other kid I knew at school who amassed an equally impressive stash of porn by somewhat different means.  He was the one who wormed his way into the confidence of the Head of Music to the extent that he was allowed access to the keys to the department's main building (which was situated on the opposite side of a main street to the rest of the school, along with the drama and woodwork departments) in order to open it up first thing in the morning.  Of course, the reason he wanted such early morning access was in order to intercept the first post (which used to arrive before eight o'clock in those days), as he'd been ordering some horrendous hard core porno mags in the Head of Music's name.  As you can imagine, it all ended badly when the kid in question was sick one day and the Head of  Music opened up the building and the first post. Apparently, he nearly had a heart attack and had to brought round with smelling salts.  You can guess the consequences.

But we've strayed from the kid with the shed: eventually he graduated from just using it as a repository for his smut, to turning it into a 'photographic studio', where he took shots of various girls from the local convent school, in various states of undress.  All under the pretext that he was helping them put together 'portfolios' for their modelling careers whilst they were helping him out with his art A-level course work.  Not that he was studying art, obviously.  I'd have liked to have seen his shed-cum-photographic-studio featured in Shed of the Year.  Almost as much as I would like to see the shed of that bloke from a couple of streets away featured. He has reputedly transformed his garden shed into an S and M sex dungeon.  Which makes perfect sense when you consider that his house doesn't have a cellar (the usual venue for such things), so it is only logical that he should set up shop in the shed, instead.  Allegedly, he's blacked the windows out and installed various restraints, chains and manacles.  There's a strong rumour that one wall has a rack full of whips and riding crops mounted on it - I've also heard that he has a brazier and branding irons in there, not mention a home made rack.  During the week it's just him and his wife who use it, but on weekends he invites round friends, so that they can enjoy being suspended from the ceiling and whipped.  Several local Tory councillors are reputedly regulars.  But sadly, neither That's Crapchester nor the Shed of the Year contest have yet seen fit to feature him.