Sunday 15 January 2012

My girlfriends and other animals

Chapter Six

Blue Nun



The Flying Pickets – Only you – 1983

I should have realised. Three years living and sleeping with the same person yet never actually consummating the union. I should have realised. Fiddly diddly, but never actually docking and shaking hands with the Cosmonauts! I should have realised.

We, that’s the gang (‘Wye aye Dave’, ‘Take no shit Yorkshire’, ‘Up the revolution Wends’, ‘Posh southern twat ME’ and ‘Too bloody lovely for her own good Mel’), did everything together, drank, partied, partied, drank, drank and partied, studied (occasionally). The fact I was having a sexual relationship with a tube of hand cream didn’t really seem to bother me. So here’s the thing. Mel and I would do all the usual things, all the fiddling, but that final push to the Promised Land, well it just never happened.  Obviously I took this as a huge compliment, believing my weapon to be of such proportions that any girl would naturally recoil in horror and so in order to maintain some sort of status quo and semblance of normality coitus would become a kind of simulated affair. Not dissimilar to when you have one of those cinema hot dogs and you’ve been a little over zealous with the mustard.  Out came the hand cream, massage nether regions, Pearl and Dean intermission and out with the hot dog; A sort of rubbing, sliding, slipping kind of masturbation. And yet did we care? The gang were in the middle of its arty farty poncy utopia and the rest of the modern world could piss off. If Mel and me or Wends and me or the whole bloody lot of us wanted to cover our genitals in salad dressing then so be it. It was art and we had convinced ourselves it mattered.


“And the winner for best actor is…William for his portrayal of Hamlet”

It was a sultry July evening with just a hint of jasmine and the unmistakable aroma of hashish floating on summer’s forgotten memories. My first year at the ‘Down and Out’ College of Further Education was coming to an end with the end of year Oscar’s held in the dance studio. Dressed in our dinner suits courtesy of Oxfam and the Sue Ryder Home, I had just received the ‘golden frog’ for best actor. All those rehearsals in Karen’s (COW), let it go Will, parents front room blubbering to Rose Royce had fully prepared me for such an occasion.

‘I’m overwhelmed by this award, although fully deserved.  I’d firstly like to thank my Director Dave whose total lack of direction allowed me to explore my character in my own way and bring something to the stage never before seen in this part of Cheshire; My fellow actors who stood by me on stage mesmerised by such a monumental performance, and of course my mother for marching me down the job centre and allowing me to fully express my inner passion at this wonderful college of advancement.  I dedicate this award to me for all the bloody hard work I put in researching and rehearsing such a challenging, yet ultimately rewarding part.  Thank you all so much’.

“Bloody good speech old boy”

“Super acting”,

“You deserved it”.

“You showed such…charisma”

They loved me, the critics, the paying public and my fellow thespians.  Ok, so we were all first year undergrads pissing our grant up against the wall in the name of Art, but allow me my dreams, for what are we without our dreams?

The ceremony over we moved into the Mandela Centre for a sumptuous feast. Alright, we moved into the Mandela Centre, (normally our canteen and fag break area) for Pasties and whatever booze we could find.

The evening was taking on its familiar look. Dazzler, the fat boy who had been in an advert for Anglia TV, had trapped some poor unsuspecting fine art student, recanting the merits of Colgate dental floss, the product he almost won a best actor in an advert in the Anglia region for. The Steve Biko Society were huddled in one corner of the room planning their next direct action The dancers were still in their black leotards and brightly coloured leg warmers and were as ever plieing and demi-plieing.  The jocks (rugby team), now true to form were dipping their cocks into the hookers pint of Guinness whilst he was away in the bogs chucking up last nights vindaloo. All in all a fairly typical and unexceptional end of term bash. That should have been the end of it. The gang should have gone home and I should have cuddled up with my ‘golden frog’. That’s what should have happened, but she had to go and make an appearance. I didn’t want her there, I hadn’t invited her, but she was in no mood to take ‘NO’ for an answer. Provocative and brazen she sidled up to me with that unmistakable look of hers. Wet slim and ready to erupt as soon as I touched her slender form. I twitched uncontrollably as she slipped into my trembling hands. Mel had gone home early, the gang were nowhere to be seen, I had just won a ‘golden frog’ for fuck sake. We looked at each other with that look. That look that can only mean one thing. The consequences of that German forthrightness were to leave a devastating mark on us all. A bottle of room temperature Blue Nun can do that to you.

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