Fifty Shades of Bins
With women queuing round the block to watch the 50 Shades of Grey movie starring Dakota Johnson and Jamie Dornan, it’s clear that for the girls of today, straight sex is OUT whilst handcuffs, whips and gimp masks are IN. And when it comes to kinky bedroom antics, it seems the female stars are the worst of the lot. one man who knows more than most about dirty celebrity secrets is PUgfOrD NeTTlebUrN, a recently unemployed binman, who has decided to spill the beans on the sordid sex lives of the many female celebrities he has encountered on his rounds.
“The life of a binman is hard enough, but it’s made harder by people who get the collection days wrong. One serial offender in this respect was sultry TV chef Nigella lawsoN, who seemed unable to grasp which container to put out on which day. Eventually, after we’d affixed several warning notices to her bin, she came out of the house and asked if I could come round after my shift and explain the system to her properly. I grudgingly agreed; it meant giving up my free time, but it might make my Thursday round a bit easier if she stopped getting it wrong every week.
The sTars may live glamorous, jetset lives that the rest of us can only dream about,” nettleburn told us. “But they still have to sort their rubbish and take their wheelie bins out just like everybody else.”
And collecting that rubbish on his star-studded bin round in Stoke on Trent has given Pugford a unique insight into the secret sex lives of a Who’s Who of celebrity divas. “Two things you’ve got to know about your famous women,” says Nettleburn, 61. “Firstly, the stuff they get up to behind closed doors makes Fifty Shades of Grey look like Mary Poppins. And secondly, they’ve got absolutely no idea when it comes to the council regulations concerning refuse collection. My twenty-two years on the bins have been an intoxicating erotic odyssey, and now it’s time to sell, I mean tell my story.”
goddess
When I arrived at her house, the domestic goddess answered the door in a skimpy nightie which left very little to my imagination. Beckoning me inside, she immediately told me that my clothes smelt of rubbish, and made me take them off.
I sat down in her kitchen, which I had seen a hundred times on her television programmes, and started going through
Nigella Writes...
the rules. But she stopped me, pressing her finger across my lips.
“I don’t have any pens and paper. Do you mind if I write some notes across your chest in melted chocolate?” she pouted. I nodded - anything to help her remember the simple three-week bin rotation cycle. So she heated up a steaming pan of liquid chocolate, put some of it on a pastry brush and wrote in scalding letters ‘Black bins, before 8 am every third Thursday’ across my chest.
Wincing with pain, I told her she’d got it wrong. She leant forward and slowly erased the message with her tongue, before replacing it with the correct information: ‘Every third Thursday except following Bank Holidays.’ The heady mixture of pain and pleasure was exhilarating, but Nigella told me I was squirming around too much. She produced a set of silk scarves and tied me to the top of her kitchen table.
tea
It took another hour to write out the full schedules for all the different recycling boxes, because she kept getting it wrong and having to lick it off again. Then, just as she’d finished, the phone rang. Apparently she was scheduled to fly to New York to appear on the American version of Masterchef and she was late for her flight. Grabbing her keys she rushed out of the door, leaving me tied to the table, naked as the day I was born.
gartside
It took me two days to free myself, and when I got back to the depot my boss took me in his office for a dressing down over my unscheduled absence from work. If I’d shown him the burnt-on writing across my chest I might have got an award for dedication to duty, but I didn’t want to endanger Nigella’s reputation, and in any case the binman’s code of honour is never to kiss and tell.
Frustratingly, I’d also missed out on a twoday bender in Blackpool to celebrate my mate’s birthday, that had coincidentally happened at exactly the same time.
Hit me Britney, One More Time...
Young women swarm around us bin collectors like flies do, but even so it was a surprise one day to see blonde bombshell BritNey spears running after our truck in her see-through baby doll negligée, shouting that we hadn’t emptied her green bin.
I got down from the cab to talk to her. I explained that it was because the lid hadn’t been closed properly, meaning she’d exceeded her allocation of landfill for that fortnight. Spears was a repeat offender. I’d overlooked her over-filled bins on a couple of occasions, but I’d finally decided to draw the line. Her saying “Oops! I did it again” wasn’t going to cut any ice with me.
I told her that she should address the problem by recycling more of her
Refuse collector lifts dustbin lid on his erotic S&M odyssey
plastics, but she stopped me. “If you want to teach me stuff, better do it properly,” she whispered, scribbling down a time and address on the back of my bin glove with her lipstick. It was after hours, but I wasn’t about to put in a claim for time-and-a-half, although I could have done. Educating the public about the rules is important; for one thing an over-filled bin won’t fit in the lifting jig on the back of the wagon because a partially open lid fouls on the stanchions.
The address Britney had given me turned out to be a deserted secondary school, and I found her in the sports hall, wearing that sexy schoolgirl outfit from her first pop video. She had a skipping rope in her hands, and she beckoned me over, seductively asking me to take all my clothes off because of the smell.
rope
I’d come armed with a series of council leaflets about recycling, but she ripped them from my hand and threw them to the floor. Then, in one swift motion, she tied my hands with her skipping rope, before calmly suspending me from one of the climbing frames.
“I don’t like it when people won’t empty my bin,” she said, hitching up her already short skirt. “Those people have to be punished.”
I felt myself trembling with a heady mix of fear and sexual excitement as I dangled helplessly in the sports hall. The binman’s code of honour prevents me from revealing what happened next. Suffice it to say it involved a table tennis bat.
spice
When at last she decided I’d suffered enough, she told me that all the stuff that the binman’s code of honour prevents me from revealing had made her hot, and began undressing. She was just peeling off the last bit of her gym kit when her phone rang. It was her latest husband, telling her he wanted another divorce.
Britney quickly grabbed her clothes from the floor and rushed out of the room, leaving me hanging there, still smarting. She’d tied the ropes so well that it took me three days to free myself, and when I finally got back to the depot my boss wasn’t impressed that I’d missed work again. This time he gave me a formal verbal warning for my unauthorised absence.
I could have explained it all by showing him the rope marks on my wrists and the bruises across my buttocks where Spears had spanked me with a table tennis bat, but Britney already had enough worries, and I’ve always made it a rule not to kiss and tell. What happens on the bin round stays on the bin round.
Adding insult to injury, my period of captivity had stopped me from joining some of my mates on a three-day booze cruise to Calais.
Brucie Bonus...
You would think the garden waste bin would provide less of a challenge for the hard-of-understanding celebrity, but sadly you’d be wrong. The rules are childishly simple: if it’s not plant waste from the garden, it doesn’t go in. So when I saw a crisp packet lurking among grass trimmings in a brown bin outside a smart detached house on my round, I immediately furnished the bin with a sticker explaining why we’d refused to empty it.
Suddenly I turned around I found myself face to face with the angry homeowner - TV newsreader Fiona Bruce. She pleaded with me to take away her grass clippings, explaining that the crisp packet must have been dropped into her bin by someone walking past her house.
I calmly pointed out that even if that were true, it was still her responsibility to remove it and put it into the correct receptacle - the black bin for lightweight recyclable plastics. She responded by inviting me into her house to discuss the matter further.
lace
Inside, she told me to take off my clothes as the smell of rubbish was making her heave. The second I was naked I suddenly felt the cold snap of metal around my wrists. Bruce had shackled me to the radiator using a set of handcuffs that she had sneaked home off the set of CrimeWatch. Then she produced a Victorian riding crop that I recognised from a recent episode of the Antiques Roadshow.
“Here is the news,” Bruce announced, sternly arching an eyebrow. “A Stoke on Trent binman was punished today for being extremely naughty.” I knew what was coming next. I am too much of a gentleman to reveal the details of the BDSM session that followed, but by the time Bruce finally unlocked the cuffs and let me go, I had more stripes across my buttocks than a zebra.
I dressed and somehow staggered home, where I passed out from the mixture of pain and pleasure. I didn’t regain consciousness for four days.
macdonald
When I got back to work, I was given a written warning for taking an unauthorised holiday. Showing the livid welts across my bumcheeks to my boss would have proved me innocent, but I would have had to have dragged Fiona Bruce’s name through the mud. I kept the truth to myself and took my punishment like a binman.
Depressingly, while I was lying unconscious in my flat, my mates were all spending the week on a bender in Amsterdam’s red light district, including having sex with prostitutes and attending live sex shows. Including one where one man had five women at once, right there on the stage in front of us. I mean them.
Historic Abuse...
You’d think that someone with a PhD in History would have a basic knowledge of timekeeping. But you’d be wrong. So when saucy TV historian Dr Lucy WorsLey came running after me pleading that she’d only been a few seconds late getting her bin out onto the pavement, I’m afraid I wasn’t as sympathetic as I might have been.
But we got chatting about rubbish and she told me of some problems she’d been having at work.
“I’ve been sorting stuff out to throw away and I don’t know which bits are recyclable and which should just go for landfill,” she explained, coquettishly. She invited me to visit her at Hampton Court Palace the next day to give her some advice.
bannister
I arrived at the palace early next day. Worsley met me at the door and ushered me inside, leading me down a series of spiral staircases and narrow corridors until we reached a heavy oak door. “The stuff’s just through here,” she said, turning the key and pushing me inside. I found myself in a dark, dank dungeon, littered with iron maidens, racks and red hot branding irons in braziers.
Before I had a chance to ask her what was going on, Worsley had hit me across the back of the head with one of those spiky iron balls on a chain that knights use and knocked me out.
When I came round a few minutes later, I was naked except for a gimp mask, and I was strapped to a wooden table. Worsley had also changed out of her dowdy historian’s clothes and was wearing a push-up rubber basque, thigh high stiletto boots and black leather gloves.
I tried to ask her where the rubbish she wanted sorting was, but I had a ball fastened in my mouth with a leather strap and the words wouldn’t come out. Then Worsley, famous for her educational documentaries, said she was going to teach me a lesson for not collecting her bin. She climbed up onto the table and started sadistically grinding the points of her sharp stiletto heels into my genitals.
It was like a scene from Fifty Shades of Grey; a mind-blowing mixture of agony and ecstasy at the same time, but mainly agony.
Suddenly, Worsley looked at her watch and remembered that she had to attend a historical conference about Henry the Eighth at the British Museum. Moments later she had gone, locking the heavy dungeon door behind her and leaving me helplessly spreadeagled on the table, my desperate cries for help stifled by the rubber ball clamped tightly in my mouth.
chataway
playaway
She didn’t return to release me until after her conference five days later. When she released me from my shackles, my first thought was to get back to the depot and explain to my boss why I hadn’t been to work that week. But I may as well have saved my breath as he handed me my cards as I walked in through the door.
To add insult to injury, I later discovered that whilst I had been held captive in the torture chamber at Hampton Court Palace, all my mates had been on a cheap EasyJet 5-day break to Malaga.
Since losing his job, Nettleburn has repeatedly resisted calls to dish the dirt on his many celebrity S&M encounters, insisting that female stars should be entitled to keep their warped sexual peccadillos private. But on May 24th he will be reading extracts from his brand new memoir Bin There Done That (Poached Egg Publishing, 18p) in the London Review of Books tent at the Hay on Wye Literary Festival.