Darren Crompton Ruined My Life


Act One: Lucky Star Bar Hamburg

A chance encounter with a German student, deep in the heart of the saucy Reeperbahn.

I tried to ignore him, but his piercing cries were relentless:“Shawy…Shawy…Shawy”
Eventually I buckled.

A glazy eyed Crompton was engaged in a heated confrontation with a feisty Steffi Graf lookalike

“She’s not happy coz I can’t speak German”

Steffi remained unimpressed.

“That is not correct Mr Shaw. I am not happy because your friend keeps pinching my arse!”

Exit Stage Left pursued by a bear

Act Two: Blue Line Taxi Rank Hazel Grove
Crompy nails his colours to the mast

I knew what was coming next:

“Now you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you!”

Two students had just committed the cardinal sin of asking Crompton for his opinion of the Manchester Gay scene. One of them had a gay brother.

Looking back, it was one of those Kennedy assassination moments. The night when Crompton uttered the immortal words:“All gays should be executed at birth!”

Cue bedlam!

Act Three: Dublin Hotel Room

A lesson in etiquette

Alcohol can serve as a romantic drug, often inspiring men to poetry and song.

Others prefer to kick down the toilet door.


Crompton was pacing the room like a man possessed.


In all fairness, when you’re sat on the toilet reading the Daily Express, the last thing you expect is the door to fly over your left shoulder.

“Give me her phone number”

“I’ve not got her phone number”

In the background Eddie Ford had located the Porn Channel and Gibbo’s snoring had triggered a tsunami over the Isle of Man. Neil Woolley was lay on my bed with a huge cigar and a rather worrying cheeky smile.

Could things get any worse?