The Lingering Password

HairyBollocks9t9. That was my password for ICT in year 7 of school. I don't know why. Perhaps I thought someone would find it out one day and think I was a radical. Or maybe it was because I'd began to sprout a fluffy moustache at that age and the dread of hair growth on my testes, was constantly on my mind.

The '9t9' bit was just the thing to do. The year was 1999 and this clever shorthand was written on park slides, lampposts, bus stops and the back of every academic book:

Modern History - "Johnno was here 9t9"
Biology - The Wonders of the Human Body - "Miss Wright's tits control the tides -Smithy 9t9"
Mathematics - The Easy Way to do Algebra - "a + b = Karl's dad bums kids, 9t9"

Besides, I needed a number in the password.

So, every month in school our passwords needed to be changed. HairyCock9t9. That was my alternate password. To this day I haven't seen a cock with hairs (I'd like to point out that my cock research is not extensive).

When I left school, I went to college. I tried other passwords (Liverpool04, Greenday2004) but always forgot them. HairyBollocks9t9 and HairyCock9t9 had been with me throughout my highschool education, why should I abandon them for my higher learning?

Why even stop there? I got my first job in the electrical store and yes, I needed a password to log onto their systems. I created a MySpace (R.I.P.), inevitably this led to facebook, YouTube, MSN, Xbox Live, iTunes and Blogger - all graced with hairy, genital orientated literature.

In work, if you are logged onto one of the stores fifteen terminals, then you cannot log onto another. These terminals are scattered all over the store, back offices and warehouse. So what if you need something urgently, for a customer or something? Well, you ask a colleague to log on for you. What if there isn't a colleague close by? You spot one in the distance and shout across the store - Hey, giz your log on, mate!

So imagine my misfortune when my manager needed my log on. He was selling a microwave to an elderly couple. I'm fifty metres away. He shouts. I hesitate. He shouts again. I give him my employee number. He types. I hesitate. He shouts. I try miming the password to him. He shouts. He glares.

'HairyCock9t9!'

He wasn't a child in 1999, so he wasn't aware of that genius shorthand. He types it in wrong and I have to walk fifty metres towards a manager, who looked like he was chewing dynamite and an elderly couple, chewing their gums and looking very, very disappointed. I typed that password in for the last time that day.