Sex Gods From The Planet metal

Sex Gods from the Planet Metal - Chapter Eleven

2010-01-13T11:18:00.001-08:00

Then…

To my great relief, Mum never said a word to the rest of the family about my sexual misadventures, telling them only that our trip had been cut short because the car was fucked, although obviously she used politer terminology. Inside I still wasn’t sure what the hell to think, and went through periods of total ecstasy at not being a virgin anymore through to gloomy depression because I had been used like a fool by an unscrupulous woman I had actually rather liked until I had discovered she was an utter bitchbag.
My big challenge was what to tell Peter. Bear in mind that Peter was my bestest friend in the whole wide world. We had vowed to be friends forever, so naturally I have no idea where he is nowadays, but at the time this was a deadly serious pledge, cemented in a den we created in a nearby woods where we had cut our palms and pressed them together in a moving ceremony. Okay, so we were utter spanners, but to us it seemed very real and very grown up, even though it hurt to hold a pen for a week afterwards because I had made my cut a bit too deep. It was worth it.
As my best friend, Peter got told everything, and I mean everything. It would never have occurred to me to hold back anything from him, because I trusted him so implicitly. The thing was, I wasn’t sure of which tack to take when informing him of what had happened that week. I was seriously toying with the conquering hero ploy, swaggering around like I was the first person ever to have sex, and rubbing his nose in it until he admitted I was sexier and more manly than he could ever be. As I was admittedly still quite immature, this was a very appealing idea, as one upmanship was a serious part of my life back then. There was a greasy pole hierarchy at school, and the best way to climb it without slipping down onto someone else’s head was to have had sex. Sure, anyone could lie about it, but these people were always caught out by those that actually had. To break your duck was to join an exclusive little club of boys who were one step closer to becoming men than all of their classmates. A big part of me wanted to join that club.
The thing is, there was another part of me, perhaps not quite as vociferous, that didn’t want anything to do with the Shaggers Club (as they were informally known by smaller, impressionable boys). If I’m to be honest, all the boys that strutted and preened like they were somehow special tended to be, to a man, arseholes. They were the kids who called you names, or stole lunch from third years. They were the ones who had been gifted with a confidence, and they used their power to make sure that everyone else was so in awe of them that they never found out just how lonely they really were up on their perch. Of course, the way they did this was to treat everyone like scum, so if anyone actually had found out how lonely they were they really wouldn’t have given a shit. If I wanted, I could play the big I am without even having to embellish anything, and let that swagger enter my step, that condescending tone enter my voice. Did I really want to be that person?

These thoughts tumbled around my brain as I moped around on the first day back from Devon, counting the hours before Peter came home from school. I had decided to meet him off the coach so we could disappear to the den (still there and used after three years, incredibly) and I could see in which direction my big mouth was going to take me. At four thirty I was there at the precinct, watching as the various buses disgorged their passengers and soaking up the attention I was getting from just about everyone as “that kid what got suspended”. With every sideways glance, every whispered reference, my inner stature grew a bit, and I found I was enjoying my outlaw status.
“Slugger!” came the cry as Peter stepped off the coach. “Punched any wankers recently?” he asked as he came over.
“Not yet,” I replied, looking suggestively at him.
“Like you’d stand a chance,” he said with a grin. “So what’s up? You said last night you had something to tell me. Christ, you haven’t finally got laid have you?” He said this with his tongue firmly in cheek, but something about my expression obviously gave me away for the sex machine that I was. “No way!!” he exclaimed. “Who was she? What was it like? Was she fit?”
I held up my hand to stop the flow of questions. “Shut it,” I hissed. “Come on – let’s fuck off to the den and I’ll tell you the whole story, okay?”
He nodded, a thousand unasked questions trying to escape from his lips, and we set off at a brisk pace.

Ten tense minutes later, we both sat in the den. It was hard to get to if you don’t know it was there, a hollowed out centre in a nasty looking bush. We had discovered it whilst messing violently about, me having pushed Peter a bit too forcefully with the result that he ended up literally disappearing into the bush. It was a bugger to get into, and we had salvaged some stiff boards that we hid nearby, and we used them to part the branches on the way in and out. Once within we could not be seen by anyone who came close, and over the years had witnessed some very interesting things, including the school slag getting some from a sixth former on what they thought was a nice, deserted sunny afternoon. Something like that leaves an imprint on your mind, I can tell you, and to this day I can still hear her moans.
Peter took a cigarette out of his hiding place and lit one up. As was and still is my custom, I refused his offer of one and tried not to complain about the smoke. I knew he enjoyed a fag, and it seemed a bit cruel to object just because I didn’t like it, as he couldn’t really do it anywhere else. He inhaled deeply, the look on his face not unlike that of a drowning man who has been thrown a lifebelt and a Pamela Anderson calendar.
He blew a smoke ring and finally gave in to his inner nosy bastard. “Come on then. Tell all.”
“Okay,” I said, a serious look on my face. “But you have to let me tell it straight, without interruptions.” I had decided as we walked that I just wanted to tell him the unblemished truth without being bombarded with questions, each of which would no doubt encourage my inner bullshitter to embellish at will.
“Okay,” he agreed. “Just get on with it, will you.”
And I did. I got on with it in great detail, from Neil Diamond all the way to our speedy getaway from what had become for me the village of the damned. I told it straight, as I had promised myself, and from the astonished looks that crossed Peter’s face, it was enough of a story to stand on its own.
“Fuck me,” was all he could say when I finished and nodded that it was okay for him to speak now.
“No thanks, you're Mum's better looking,” I retorted automatically. It was one of many running jokes berween us that required the suggestion that we had shagged the other persons Mum.
Peter didn't even try to rise to the bait.
“You bastard,” he continued, oblivious to everything except the sordid images in his head, from which I had no doubt been airbrushed and replaced with himself.
“No, tell me whatyou really think,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.
“You lucky, jammy BASTARD!” he exclaimed, turning to me with the biggest smile I had ever seen. “You fucking DID it! I am so fucking jealous!”
“Hey, it wasn't all sex and chocolates, you know,” I pointed out. “She just used me. I really liked her and she shat on me.”
“Oh come on, Dave,” he said, looking at me like I was mad. “How lucky is that? If it had been love at first bloody sight you'd have spent a few months writing and phoning her, going around like a spayed puppy, maybe visiting her once at the most, then would have been even more upset when the inevitable dumping came.”
“Interesting use of the word 'inevitable' mate,” I said. “Am I so dumpable to you?”
“Don't be a twat. Look, these long term things never work out, so I reckon she did you a favour. She gave you a good shagging, sorted out your cherry problem and left you to get on with your life. What's better than that?”
“Well...” Okay, so I hadn't really thought about it that way. “It's... complicated.”
He looked smug. “No it's not. You're a lucky, jammy bastard and that's the end of it.”
I held up my hands in surrender and grinned at him. “Well, if you must put it like that...”
“I do, and you are gonna be a fucking God, mate. When the kids at school hear this... you'll be able to live of this 'til we leave.”
I was quiet, and sat contemplating my shoes. They really were crap shoes.
“What?” he asked.
“I don't know if I should tell anyone,” I said in a small voice.
“You WHAT?”
“I don't know if I should tell anyone,” I repeated in a louder voice, raising my head to look him squarely in the eye.
“Are you fucking mad?” he exclaimed. “This is even better than Squarehead Jones when he got sucked of my Mandy Allsnot in the gym.”
Please note that people's real names have not been used as we much preferred the nicknames.
“Yeah, maybe it is,” I conceded. “But what do you think of Squarehead? Go on, one word assessment.”
“Well, he's a cock, isn't he.”
“Is the correct answer. How about Nethercott, or Bassy, or any of them?”
“Cock central, naturally.”
“Okay, Pete, you've done well, but here's the million dollar question: Do you think I really want to be lumped in with a bunch of cocks like that?”
There was a pause of the pregnant variety, and I could almost hear the cogs going round in his head.
“Yeah, I get it,” he conceded.
“Well done,” I said, giving him a slow handclap. “You've won a motorboat.”
This last was delivered in my best Jim Bowen accent, naturally. We both enjoyed Bullseye, especially when the two blokes from the middle of the country won, of all things, a speedboat between them. I found out later in life that the shows producer had a deal with a boat firm to give as many away as possible to winners so he could get them at a knockdown price. Of course, if someone failed to win, a car would be trundled out and the tired old phrase “Here's what you could have won” would trip cruelly from the hosts lips. Bastard.
“So it's a big secret then,” Peter said dispiritedly. “I can't tell anyone?”
“Nope. It's a shame in a way, 'cos I was hoping that Miss Wright would be the one to introduce me to the ways of sexology.”
“Oh shit!” he exclaimed at this. “I forgot to tell you.”
I looked at him in a puzzled manner. “Tell me what?”
“Miss Wright! She's left.”
“What do you mean, left?” I stammered, although I knew what he meant. He meant that the woman who had taught me so much was gone.
“She's gone, mate. Yesterday some other woman came in and said she was our new teacher. Miss Dunnery or something. Bloody stupid name for a bloody stupid woman by the looks of it.”
“But where's Miss Wright gone?” I asked, a little too desperately.
“Dunno. No one's said anything.”
“Shit!” I exclaimed. “I really liked her.”
“Yeah,” agreed Peter. “Me too.” His face took on a dreamlike expression and I could see he was off in a sordid little sex fantasy, probably involving kilts and her paying for everything.
My head was working too, but not in the same way. I made a quick decision. “Right,” I said, moving towards the bit of the bush we used for access. “I'm going to see her.”
“What?”
“I'm going too see her,” I repeated. “At her house.”
“What do you mean? You don't know where she lives.”
“Says who?” I replied, raising my eyebrows suggestively.
“Where does she live then?” he challenged.
“Mendip Road,” I replied with authority. “Down by the park. I saw her parking her car there and carrying in shopping once.”
“Doesn't mean she lives there. She might have been helping a friend out or something.”
“Well, I might have seen her around there a few times,” I admitted, pausing in my pushing away of prickly branches.
“You bloody perv!!” he exclaimed, fairly enough. “I can't believe you've been stalking a teacher!”
“I haven't been stalking her,” I replied indignantly. “I've just noticed her, okay?”
“All right, all right,” he said, holding his hands up, adding “stalker,” under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
I gave him the finger and pushed my way out of the bush. Whatever happened, I was

determined to see Miss Wright. I felt like Indiana Jones at the start of a quest.
“Make sure you phone me from the police station with your one phone call, Stalker man,” shouted Peter from inside the den, ruining the image a bit.

It wasn't too far to Miss Wright's house. I honestly had not been stalking her, and what I told Peter was the truth. There was just something about her, something that made her different from other teachers, other adults even. She treated me with respect, and I gave her my own in return. Maybe she was the reason I was finally able to stand up to my mother after all these years, or maybe I was just growing up. Either way, I felt like I was finally starting to get the hang of this thing called life. Little did I realise that the reason it's called life is it takes a lifetime to master, but it was nice to feel good about myself for a change.

I arrived at Miss Wrights house and was surprised to see a removal van outside. I guess that put paid to any wondering about why she had left her job, but I still needed to see her, to at least say good-bye. When I rang the doorbell, I was relieved to find that it didn't play a novelty song. I really hate farty doorbells that bang out some tired old melody instead of going “Ding dong” like they are supposed to. The only novelty doorbell I have ever come across that didn't make me want to kill the owner was one that actually said “Ding Dong” with Leslie Phillips voice. I have a very warped view of the world, I know.
It only took a few seconds for the door to open, and there she was. Admittedly, she looked a lot more flustered than usual, but that's moving house for you. Behind her in the hallway two sweaty men were wrestling with a wardrobe, and from the looks of things the wardrobe was going to win by a submission.
“David?” she said, understandably confused. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Peter said you were leaving,” I said, as if this explained everything. “I just, well, I wanted to say good-bye, I suppose.”
“But how did you know where I live?” she asked, quite reasonably.
“I remembered seeing you here,” I explained. “I live up the road.”
She seemed to consider fleshing out this flimsy explanation, but I don't think she could be bothered.
“Well, Peter was right. I am leaving. I'm moving away.”
“Why?”
“It's personal, David. Stop that, Kitty.” The last was directed at a small girl who had crept up behind her and was tugging at her dress for attention. I smiled at her and she smiled back. I assumed it was Miss Wrights daughter, but didn't feel it was my place to ask. I stood and waited as she was led away.
Miss Wright came back, looking a little less flustered now, and we talked. She asked me about the suspension, and I told her all the gory details. I even told her about the trip with my Mum, but didn't go into the gory details that time for obvious reasons. She explained that she was moving to Bristol to work in the college as head of English, which would get her more money. She also let slip that Kitty's father lived in Bristol, and it would enable her to see more of him. In the end the words dried up like so many puddles on a warm day, and I only had one more thing to say.
“I really just wanted to say thanks,” I said solemnly. “You're a brilliant teacher, and I reckon you'll be brilliant in Bristol.”
“Thank you, David. You keep up the good work, okay?”
“Yeah.” I couldn't think of anything else to say.
“Keep reading those Heinlein books,” she continued, with a small laugh.
“I'm on to Asimov now,” I said proudly.
“You're a good boy, David. Good luck with your life.”
“You too, Miss.”
“It's Susan,” she said kindly.
“Oh. Well, good-bye, uh, Susan.” I held out my hand and she shook it solemnly.
“Good bye, David.”
Then she slowly closed both the door, and a chapter in my life.

Now

I do not like funerals, and I don't think I'm alone in the sentiment. I mean, I'm sure there are those who get their jollies from a burial and a good mourn, but I'm not one of them and treat death with the respect it deserves. Okay, so I did write “The Necrophilia Song”, but that was not because of an interest in the subject, more from a desire to gross out Greg at the office. It worked, too. Anyway, the point was, and still is, that I don't like funerals, and would be very happy never to have to attend one, which is a shame because I am sitting in St Mary's watching Irene's coffin slide through the curtains of doom to the strains of “Don't Fear The Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult. Simon maintains that if you're cremating someone you shouldn't waste money on a nice coffin, because once it goes through the curtains the undertakers swipe it back, but I like to believe in honour among undertakers. The lad himself is sitting next to me, looking his usual sexy self in black. On the other side is Kate, also looking sexy in black. She is now securely ensconced in the position of my official girlfriend, and as I look at her I get the usual urges that are very inappropriate at a funeral. She has a few tears in her eyes, but mine stay dry as ever. I guess I'm just mot the weepy type, which somehow seems wrong when you're at a funeral, but there's nota lot I can do. Sure, I feel sad and all the rest, but my eyes only seem to leak tears when my balls have been whacked, which fortunately has only happened twice.

Afterwards, Simon sparks up a cigarette outside as the three of us huddle and try to work out what to say to each other.
“Well,” says Kate, bravely making the first awkward move. “That was... dignified.”
“Yes,” agrees Simon between puffs. “Very dignified that – having your remains burnt to a cinder as half the church play air guitar and the other half wonder what the fuck is going on.”
“Hey,” I interject. “It's what she wanted.”
“Apparently,” he says. “I mean, she's got no relatives, you said, so who organised all this. No one at the pub knows fuck all.”
“Probably her lawyer,” says Kate reasonably.
Simon looks shocked. “Don't talk to me about lawyers. Every time I see one of the bastards I'm waiting for him to whip out a paternity suit.”
“Wouldn't that be a shame,” Kate says unconvincingly, giving Simon a little pout.
“Excuse me,” says a voice, and we all turn to see a short, very neat man, who basically looks like the Uncle everybody never had but would have been quite satisfied with.
“What?” I say.
“Are you Mr David Marion Banner?”
“Um...” I stammer. No one has ever, and I mean ever, called me Marion. Yes, it's my middle name, but I never even use my initial, let alone the full bloody name, so how does this creep know it?
“I'm sorry to bother you, but I really must find Mr Banner. It's very important.”
“Who are you?” I ask, as beside me Simon and Kate are still trying to work out why this strange men would think my middle name was Marion.
“My name is Francis Hollingwood. I'm the late Mrs Carr's lawyer.
At the mention of the word Lawyer, Simon's head snaps up like a meerkat, ever alert for paternity suits.
“I'm also looking for Mr Simon Paul Hurford,” continues Mr Hollingwood. “Do you know where I can find them?”
“It's nothing to do with a paternity suit, is it?” asks Simon.
“What? No, of course not. I'm the executor of Mrs Carr's will.”
“Her will?” I say, confused. “Are we in it?”
“That depends,” Mr Hollingworth said. “Are you Mr David Marion Banner and Mr Simon Paul Hurford?”
“Well I'm Simon Hurford,” says Simon, always happy to be asked a question to which he knows the answer. “But I don't know anybody with the middle name of Marion, because if I did have, say, a best mate for example, with the middle name of Marion, he would have told me by now. Do you know anyone with the middle name of Marion David?” He looks at me, all exaggerated eyebrows and hurt expression.
“I can explain,” I say.
“Oh please do tell,” says Simon in his poshest voice. “This should be good.”
“It's not that good. My Dad was always a massive John Wayne fan, and John Wayne's real name was Marion. That's it, really. Mum wouldn't let him use it as my first name, thank fuck, but I sort of got lumped with it as a middle name. I've never, ever used it.”
“I'm not fookin' surprised,” says Simon, grinning. “Marion.”
“Okay,” I say, holding my hands up. “If anyone wants to make any jokes, please do them now.”
No one says anything for a second.
“Nah. That's all right, mate,” says Simon. “If it's okay by you I'll just serve them out one by one for the rest of your life.” Of course, he adds “Marion”.
“Yeah. Me too,” chips in Kate. “Marion.”
Exasperated, and not wanting to see this escalate into me murdering the pair of them, I turn to Mr Hollingworth. “Look, we are Mr Banner and Mr Hurford. What can we do for you?”
“Can you be at the Full Moon public house at seven this evening please?”
“Why?” asks Simon.
“All will be revealed. I am under very strict instructions, and will confess to you that even I do not know what to expect. The full details of the will can only be diverged at that time, with the two of you and certain others present. I take it you will be there?”
We look at each other and shrug. “Sure,” I say.
“Excellent. I shall see you then. Good day gentlemen.” With this, he walks off, presumably in search of 'certain others'.
We stand there for a few seconds, then Kate pipes up. “Are you going to be rich then? I've always wanted a rich boyfriend with a girls name.”
“I reckon you'll have to stick with the latter half of that, love,” says Simon. “She's probably left us a couple of nick nacks or something. Nice of her to think of us, though. What do you think Marion?”
“I guess we'll find out later won't we?” I reply, deliberately not rising to the bait. “I told you there was a lot of expensive stuff in the house, but that's probably going to the cats home or something.”
“Not the orphanage you saved from burning down then?” asks Kate with a giggle.
“Fireman Marion!” exclaims Simon, and the two of them collapse against each other, laughing like lunatics. I hold my head high and stalk off. Bastards.

Naturally, we get to the pub at six, because on one hand we feel that we're going to need a drink or two before whatever it is goes on, and on the other hand because we damn well know we're going to need a drink or two before whatever it is goes on. The back bar is certainly rather full for this time on a Friday evening, as the usual dregs normally hide until at least eight before coming out. Tonight, however, it's strangely rammed with regulars, and a little not too subtle probing reveals that we're far from the only ones who are curious about what they are going to get in Irene's will. Part of me suspects that it's all a big joke, and we'll all get a drink whilst the rest goes to the now traditional cats home or young conservatives or whoever Irene fancied.
The three of us sit down at the last available table and collectively wonder what the hell is going to happen. I'm still in a bit of a daze over the whole Kate thing here, to be honest, as sitting with a genuine girlfriend who I haven't lied my arse off to is a relatively rare experience for me these days. After we came back from Devon, Kate simply nipped home to Bristol for a few things then came to stay with us. We didn't really talk about it as such, it was more sort of a mutual unsaid agreement. Naturally, Simon doesn't object to a pretty girl in the house, and has told me how proud he is of me for finally getting a regular shag that isn't mental. I swear there was a tear in his eye as he said it. Kate just sort of assumed I would want her there, and I can't disagree with that. It's just, well, odd. She's mentioned going back to her Mums tomorrow, so I guess she just wanted to see me through the funeral, which is nice of her. God I think I love her.
“So do you fancy a game of pool Marion?” she says, nudging me in the ribs.
I don't think I love her any more.

I foolishly agree to play her at Morgan rates, and after three games hold up my hands in surrender after having lost most of my free pints for the coming week.
“You're a bloody pool shark,” I say sulkily.
“Somerset ladies most valuable player three years running,” she says smugly, slamming the white off four cushions and smoothly into a pocket. “All you had to do was ask. You didn't think I'd be crap because I was a woman did you?” she adds with an innocent look of surprise on her face.
“Right on sister!” cries Sally from a stool at the bar, whilst Morgan just points at me and laughs from his own four legged vantage point. At this point, I'm wondering why I ever got out of bed this morning.
As if to answer my unspoken question, Kate comes over and hugs me, whispering in my ear that I can keep the pints, and if I want she'll let me win the next one. Being a chivalrous man, I naturally take her up on the offer, giving her a public stuffing and regaining at least some of my wounded pride. As I am sensibly not doing any kind of gloating, Mr Hollingwood enters the bar and there is a silence punctuated only by Simon saying “About bloody time”. Harry is at the bar, and we all watch mutely as the lawyer gives him a DVD, which Harry slots into the player behind the bar. Mr Hollingwood steps to the middle of the room and addresses us all.
“Thank you all for coming,” he begins. “As some of you may know, Irene Carr had no living relatives, and her will has been divided, so I believe, between the people sitting in this bar.” At this there are a few small cheers, soon stamped out by stiff blows to the heads of those involved. “I have not yet viewed the DVD on which she recorded her last will and testament, so please do not interrupt it to ask me questions. I have been adequately provided so that there will be no problems on the legal side, and will answer any questions afterwards. Thank you.” With this, he nods to Harry, who presses play whilst every single other person takes a deep breath followed by a big sip of whatever they have in front of them.

The screen on the big TV in the corner comes to life, and there is Irene, sitting in what I presume is the lawyers office. A man says something to her and she nods, then a door shuts and she is alone in the room.
“Hello everyone,” she begins. “If you're watching this then I'm dead. I know I had a good send off because Mr Hollingwood will have followed my instructions to the letter. Put it this way, if Simon wasn't waving his head about to Blue Oyster Cult I'll be very disappointed.” There is a ripple of laughter at this, and Simon treats everyone to a mini headbang. From beyond the grave, Irene continues. “Anyway, I've got no one but you buggers in my life, so you get the lot, starting with Jason Ferryman, who gets my widescreen TV.” At the back of the bar, Jason gives a whoop, and as his mates promise to help him break it in Irene goes on. And on. Each and every person in the room gets a surprise, as she makes her way through her possessions, sometimes giving a monetary sum to someone she knows needs it more than material goods. It's like Santa Claus is real, and is in fact a doddery old lady with more money than sense. Sally gets some sessions with a top psychiatrist to help her get over her fears, whilst Morgan is speechless at a very healthy amount of shares in Bristol City. Soon, the only people left are Harry, me and Simon.
“And so to Harry,” Irene says finally. “A loyal and trusted friend for many years. Harry has spent too long running the pub, and he needs to rest a bit, so I'm giving him my house and £100,000 pounds. That should allow him to take it a bit easier.” Harry's jaw nearly hits the bar, and he points at me and Simon, saying “You two are gonna love this next bit.” On the screen, Irene is pausing, as surely she knew what a commotion such a pronouncement would make.
“So that's nearly it,” says Irene, a definite twinkle in her eyes. “Except for Simon and David. You two boys have brought such happiness and life to this pub, and to me, because I saw the profits. They're yours now, because I'm giving you the pub. Enjoy it.” And with a big smile, she reaches towards the camera and the screen goes blank, whilst every single person there, including us, says “No fucking way!”

Epilogue

“I own a pub,” I say happily to Kate as we drive into Bristol.
“I know,” she says wearily. “I was there, you know. Don't forget that Simon owns half of it.”
“I don't care,” I burble happily. “I own a pub, and I love it.”
“I'm very happy for you,” she says, leaning across to kiss me. “Next left.”
I suppose I'd better explain. The Funeral (it will always have capital letters in my mind) was two days ago, and yes, Irene owned the Full Moon and yes, she left it to me and Simon. After everyone had got over the shock, Mr Hollingwood came over and informed us that it wasn't quite that simple, but in essence we did own the pub. There were legalities, and the promise we would keep Harry on part time to help us get sorted, as well as the promise that we would keep booking bands. As far as we were concerned, these were not things that we objected to in any way. On top of the pub we got a nice cash sum (mind your own on that score) and the car I'm driving, a lovely new BMW Mini. It turned out that she had visited the lawyer when we went to Weymouth, and although he didn't know the technicalities, he was given a list of all her beneficiaries so he could arrange the gathering. He was the bastard whose detective work had found out my middle name. Bastard. Other than that, we were all pretty much in the dark, apart from Harry, and he wasn't saying.

“This one,” said Kate, and I pull up outside a nice little semi in a nice suburb of the city. She stayed the extra day to help me and Simon get over the shock (which required lots of drinking in our pub), and I agreed to drive her to her Mum's house and do the official meeting the parent thing. She's refused to tell me anything about the woman, saying she didn't want me to have any preconceptions, so I have no idea what to expect.
We walk up the path, with me carrying Kate's things (guaranteed good first impression there), and she rings the doorbell. Within a few seconds, the door opens, and I get a glimpse of the woman who may well become my mother in law one day. It's a scary thought until I register her face, which is actually rather pretty.
“Hello David,” she says, looking fondly at me.
“Hello Miss,” I say reflexively, and Miss Susan Wright laughs.

Sometimes, it all goes right. About bloody time too...

THE END

Sex Gods from the Planet Metal - Chapter Ten

2010-01-13T11:16:00.000-08:00

I don’t think there is anything more satisfying than waking up in the morning and looking at a pretty girl that you have shagged the night before wandering around the room in tiny knickers and a bra. It’s not exactly scoring the winner at the world cup or bringing about world peace, but by god it feels fucking great, especially if it’s for the first ever time.

I watched Kaz sleepily as she found her jeans and started struggling into them, whilst my brain demanded to give me some information immediately. Whilst it battered its way to my conscious mind through the dozy and ecstatic thoughts that barred its way, Kaz found her t-shirt and slipped it on as well. Finally my brain got through the fog and made me aware of a very important fact.
“You’re leaving?” I asked, going for by Boy Scouts ‘Stating the Bleeding Obvious’ badge.
She looked at me, not quite as lovingly as she had the night before it must be said. “Well, I hardly want to be here when the sleeping dragon makes an appearance do I?”
I sat up on my elbows. “I suppose not. Weren’t you even going to wake me?”
“Course I was,” she said, coming over and giving me a peck on the lips. “I just didn’t want you watching me get dressed. I get a bit body conscious sometimes.”
“Don’t see why,” I said with a small leer. “It’s a lovely body.”
“Aren’t you the predictable one,” she said, punching me on the arm. “Look, I’d better be off, but I’ll meet you here again at seven if you like.”
“Yeah. Great,” I replied with notable enthusiasm. What time is it now?”
“Six.”
“Six! I’m going back to sleep for thirteen hours, then I can see you again when I wake up.”
“Aren’t you the lazy romantic. I’ll see you later Dave.”
With that, she got off the bed and went to the door. As she opened it she looked over at me and winked, then looked confused when she noticed the look of sheer horror that crossed my face. She wasn’t confused for long, however, as she then noticed Mum standing in front of her, obviously just about to knock on the door, or (from the look on her face) just kick it down. To her credit, Kaz didn’t step back, or even look remotely scared. It was the classic standoff of an irresistible force and an immovable object, with me in the corner trying not to wet myself.
Mum looked over at me. “Who is this girl, David.”
“Uh, this is Kaz,” I said in a small voice after a pause.
“And what is she doing in your room?” she asked.
“Well I was leaving,” interrupted Kaz. “Is there a problem with that?”
“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” Mum said to her fiercely. “Actually, no. Why don’t you go and sit on the bed so we can get to the bottom of this.”
“Get to the bottom of what?” said Kaz. “If you don’t know what’s been going on you’re bloody stupid. Now get out of my way, I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady,” Mum hissed.
“Or what?” said Kaz defiantly. “You’re nothing to do with me. You don’t know where I live, anything about me. You can threaten all you like, but you can’t do fuck all, can you?”
I had never heard anyone speak to my mother like that, and was taken aback. I didn’t really know who I should be supporting.
“Aren’t you a bit young to be a slut?” said Mum with venom.
Kaz clenched her fists, wisely keeping them at her side. “I’m eighteen, actually.”
“Eighteen?” said me and Mum together. She didn’t look eighteen. She looked, well, my age.
“Do you know how old he is?” shrieked Mum, raising the decibel level substantially. “He’s fifteen, for Christ’s’ sake!”
Kaz shrugged. “So?”
“What you have done is illegal! Just leave, or I will report you to the police and have you up on charges of corrupting a minor.”
“Fine,” said Kaz. “See you Dave.” And with that, she left me alone with Mum. Thanks Kaz.

It’s difficult to describe what was going on inside me at that point. The word ‘Maelstrom’ should really be in there somewhere, as should the word ‘conflicting’. Firstly, someone had faced down my Mother, something which had never before occurred. She was the rock upon which the rest of the family banged its head, knowing she would never crack. Secondly, I had performed the sexual act on an eighteen year old girl. This was, without a doubt, huge. Getting some was a superb achievement as far as I was concerned, but with an older woman? I was indeed the high priest of shagging, but at that point it would have been rather unwise to sashay around the room celebrating the fact. As well as all this, I had been left alone in an enclosed space with a Mother who was likely to spit lava at me any minute, judging by the Vesuvius like pulsing of the veins in her neck. What was I to do? I was, as you may have gathered, scared of my Mum. She was the one who had handed down bollockings for fifteen years, the one who had tried her best to instil some sort of moral code into me. Most of what I was I owed to her, and because of that I owed her the chance to give me a right scolding and ground me for a year. But the thing is, I didn’t want to give her what she definitely thought she was owed, because I was finally tired of paying my dues.

“Whatever you’re going to say, Mum – Don’t.” I said levelly, almost managing not to tremble.
“What did you say to me?” she gasped. As far as her game plan went, my job was at that point to tremble in fear as she laid into me and taught me the error of my ways.
“Please. Just come over here and sit down. If you start screaming and shouting I swear I will walk out. I just want to talk to you. Please?” The last was accompanied by my best pleading look as I patted a space on the bed.
She looked confused for a second, then incredibly she seemed to deflate, letting the anger flow out a bit, as if she realised that this was not the time for wrath of God type smiting. Although she was still obviously mad, she calmly walked over and sat on the bed.
“Go on then,” she said. “What do you want to say.”
“How old are you?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“You know how old I am.” She replied. “Forty five – thirty years older than you. Why?”
“And how old is Dad?” I pressed, knowing this one as well, as my Dad was, and still is, four years younger than Mum.
“It’s not the same, David,” she said. “We were in our twenties when we met. A three year gap doesn’t really matter then.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” I insisted. “Okay, so I didn’t know she was eighteen, but it wouldn’t have changed anything. I like her! She likes me! What’s so wrong with that?”
“You won’t be saying that in nine months time when you find out you’re a sixteen year old father,” she said.
“I won’t be,” I mumbled, embarrassed.
“What makes you so sure?”
“We did it safe. I’m not totally stupid. I did listen to your sex lectures, you know.” This was not a conversation I ever wanted to have.
“How safe?” she asked, and I knew I had to tell her or she would worry herself sick.
I sighed. “She’s on the pill and I wore a condom.”
“Well that’s something, I suppose.” Then a thought struck her. “What on earth were you doing with a condom?”
“I didn’t have one!” I spluttered. “She had one in her bag.”
“So,” said Mum, regaining the moral high ground. “You had sex with a girl behind my back, an eighteen year old girl no less, and she is the sort of girl who is not only on the pill but carries her own condoms. Have I missed anything out?”
This wasn’t the sort of question I was supposed to reply to, so I kept my gob shut and twiddled my thumbs.
“David, I’m not so much angry as disappointed,” she said. This was an old line often used. It just meant that she was angry but had decided not to shout, just to give me a guilt complex. It always worked, but for some reason I didn’t want to bow down to her mind games this time.
“I’m not sorry, Mum,” I said in a small voice. It took a lot to drag those words out of me.
“Pardon?” she said, not quite believing what she’d just heard.
“I’m not sorry,” I repeated, louder and more confident. “I met a girl, went out with her, got on well and had the safest sex possible. This is nothing to be ashamed of. All right, so I’m only fifteen, but it’s only a month ‘til I’m sixteen. There’s boys at school who did it ages ago!”
She thought on this for a few seconds. “You know what, David? I don’t want you to be one of those boys. I want you to be a moral upstanding young man who doesn’t play with other people’s emotions, doesn’t jump into bed at the first opportunity. I don’t doubt that it was mostly her doing,” – a glance at my suddenly downcast eyes confirmed the truth of this – “but I hoped that I’d brought you up a bit better than this. I know there’s nothing wrong with sex, but you have to see that this isn’t the way to go about it.”
I suddenly felt defeated as the weight of her very true words sank into me. I’d heard all the lectures over the years, and had had the whole sex and love thing thoroughly explained to me despite my total embarrassment at having a parent go into such gory detail. The key was respect – That was one of the main messages. If you jump into bed with someone it shows a lack of respect, and is never a good way to start a relationship.
“Okay,” I conceded. “I’m still not sorry for what I did, but you’re right. I shouldn’t have done it, but at the same time I’m glad I did. Do you understand that?”
“Of course I do,” she said, smiling a little. “I was young once, you know. Shall we call this one a draw?”
She smiled down at me, and I smiled back, leaning forward so she could give me one of the hugs I was too old for. Her little boy was growing up, but at least she was able to accept it, and for that I was grateful.

Breakfast was, as you might expect, a subdued affair. We sat politely, both nibbling toast and avoiding eye contact, like lambs invited to lie down with the lion. Sure, we had agreed a truce, but the spectre of what had happened still hung over us, and would do for a while to come. After we had finished, Mum announced that she would be going for a short lie down and would see me in my room in an hour, where we would decide what to do for the rest of the day. I didn’t ask why she was tired, because I had a feeling she might tell me. I was happy to be left to my own devices for a while, because I had a plan: I was going to contact Caz. I don’t know what all of you, or even any of you think about this whole mess, but I wanted to see her again. I know she had said she would meet me at the pub again, but that was before we had been rudely interrupted. The thing was, I had no idea of where she lived or what her telephone number was. The whole thing had been a bit of a whirlwind romance (more like a hurricane that morning) and the little details hadn’t seemed important. This was before the days of mobile phones, so there was no filthy text messaging between new lovers, just a promise to meet again and some crossed fingers (mine). All I really knew about Kaz was that she was eighteen, she lived somewhere nearby, and most importantly she worked at the very pub I was standing in. This was the good bit, because I could try and get her phone number from the manager or something. Good thinking, eh? Well, so I thought anyway.

“Is there a problem, Sir?” asked the same man who had let my Mum go through his kitchens the day before. His tone made it very clear that, because of my age, the word “Sir” was added out of politeness, not necessarily respect. Perhaps I had given the wrong impression by telling the waitress that I wanted to see the manager, because people rarely do that if they want to lavish compliments on their service and food.
“No!” I assured him in embarrassment. “Everything’s lovely. I just wanted to ask you a favour.”
“And what would that be?” He asked, perhaps a little happier now that he realised that I wasn’t like my Mum.
“Well, you know the girl Kaz who works in your kitchen? Blonde? Pretty?”
“Yes, I know her. What about her?”
“Could you give me her phone number?” I blurted out, deciding not to go round the houses with this.
He thought for a second. “I’m afraid I can’t give out members of staffs’ phone numbers, young man. It could cause all sorts of problems. Can I ask why you want it?”
“Well,” I mumbled, embarrassed again. “We went out last night, and I don’t know how to contact her.” I sensibly stopped myself from mentioning the sex, sensing that this was probably not the time or the place.
“You went out with Kaz?” He said. He seemed confused by this. “Are you sure you’ve got the right girl?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Well, I shouldn’t say this, but the Kaz we have working here lives with her boyfriend a mile or so into town. He works nights at the brewery, which is how I know him. I think I can safely say that he is not the sort of person who would take kindly to anyone taking out his young lady, although I will also say that if you have got the right girl I am not at all surprised.”
“What do you mean?”
“Between you and me, young man, she is not exactly the most chaste girl in town, if you see what I mean.”
“Chaste?” I said, confused. It was not a word I had ever heard used in a sentence which did not involve one thing trying to catch another.
“Look,” he said kindly, sitting down at the table. “It would probably be best if you just forgot all about her, because she’s what you youngsters call a bit of a slapper. Is that more understandable.”
I was gobsmacked. Not only was Kaz a tart, but this fiftysomething year old man had just used the word Slapper. It was like hearing your Gran fart. He gave me a conciliatory smile, then got up and went back to the kitchens or wherever managers go when they’ve just shattered the dreams of young men.

When I got back to my room, after walking like a particularly zombified zombie up the seemingly endless flight of stairs (in reality twelve steps), Mum was waiting for me.
“I thought you were going to sleep for an hour,” I said after checking my watch and noting that only fifteen minutes had passed.
“I’ve had a phone call,” she said. “From Mr Beard.”
“Who?”
“The mechanic from yesterday. That’s his name, David. He says he’s fixed the car. Apparently he found a suitable old part when he got the car back, and he and his son worked through the night just so we could get it today. If we want we can take it today. It’s not perfect, and he suggested that we take it straight home then get another mechanic to fix a new part or it might go again”
I digested this information like a cow chewing the cud, and to Mum must have looked like a particularly dopey dipstick.
“David?” she prompted. “What do you think? Do you want to leave? I’ll understand if you want to stay a bit more.” She really was trying here, and the last remark was tantamount to her saying she didn’t mind if I had some more sex. Under any other circumstances this would have been manna from heaven, but I really didn’t want to spend any longer in that place than I had to, not after what I had just learned.
I shrugged in that way only teenagers can. “Let’s just go.”
“What’s wrong, David? Mum asked. Quite reasonably, considering what she had just offered me.
“Nothing!” I grumped. “Can we just go? Now?”
“Right,” she said, her motherly sixth sense knowing that the best bet was just to go along with me and ferret out what was wrong later on. “Well, pack your things and we’ll be off. Mine are hardly out of the case, so I’ll just go down and settle the bill, and I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes or so. Okay?”
I grunted agreement to this and she left. Then, I am ashamed to say, I sat on my bed and cried a few very unmanly tears for a bit, then wiped my eyes and got on with the business of packing so I could get away, back to normal life, whatever the fuck that was.

As promised, the very non bearded Mr Beard had fixed the car, and had even driven it to the pub rather than make us go to his garage to collect it. I was thinking how considerate he was, then I remembered he had seen Mum on force ten, and realised that he was probably only doing this to make sure she was far away as soon as possible. To her credit, Mum was unfailingly polite and appropriately grateful to him for his efforts. On his part, he referred to her as Mrs Banner, even going so far as to risk a “Ruth” at one point, which Mum let slide as she did say he could get away with it if he fixed her car, and fair play to him he had done exactly that.

Five minutes after Mr Beard had been paid, we were heading out of town, with Mum letting me put on an Iron Maiden tape (at the lowest volume that was possible for human hearing, naturally.) We hadn’t spoken since leaving, and as far as I was concerned wouldn’t be speaking for the rest of the trip. I wasn’t mad at her, just at life and the general unfairness of it all. I just sat in the passenger seat and moped, looking gloomily through the window at the passing town, which was getting sparser the further we got. Near the outskirts, Mum decided to fill up with petrol, and pulled up at a small local garage, the sort whose pumps look like Martians from cheesy old sci-fi films. She got out and started filling the tank, because the days when I was trilled to do this were long gone. I let my eyes wander, taking in the small shop and the larger workshop, and noticed the sign above the workshop that said “A Beard and son - Auto Repairs”. A part of me filed this away for future reference, as it’s always good to amaze people with unlikely coincidences. As I was quietly musing on the fact, I saw a mechanic through the open door, probably Mr Beard’s son as he was about twenty five. Then, as the pump pinged to let Mum know the tank was full, I saw Mr Beard Jnr take Kaz into his arms and give her a very sloppy, very grown up kiss. I tried doing a double take, then a treble take, but it was no use – she was sticking to his face like a British PM to a U.S Presidents bum. It was a long, sensual snog, and they were still at it as Mum got back into the car and started it up. Then, as we slowly pulled out, they stopped, and in a perfectly synchronised moment, Kaz saw me and Mum, and Mum saw Kaz. Naturally, there were shocked looks all round as we pulled out into the road, narrowly missing a truck. The trucks horn slammed Mum back into the real world and she concentrated on driving without killing us for a few minutes before she spoke.
“Was that…?”
“Yes.”
“Kissing that…?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why you…?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“If you say anything about plenty more fish in the sea I will grab the wheel and kill us both. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.”
“How did you…?”
“The pub manager told me. Guess she was free last night because her boyfriend was fixing our car.”
“That’s quite a coincidence.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, at least there’s one good thing come out of all this, David.”
“What?”
“You’ve had sex before Peter.”
My Mum never, ever ceases to amaze me.

Now

I know I’m dreaming, but I let myself be carried through the twilight sky on the back of a dragon, pausing only to roast a bunch of peasants because I feel like it. I am lord and master of all I survey, my scaly steed more than able to deal with anyone who dares to suggest that I am not the most studly stud in all of studland. As we circle lazily, eyes peeled for any more peasants that need charcoaling, the dragons left ear begins to play the theme from Doctor Who. As I reach quizzically towards it, my eyes open and I find myself staring at a ceiling rather than a dragon, and sometimes that just sucks. On the table beside the bed, my phone is flashing away, the theme from Doctor Who filling the room, or filling it as well as it can with its’ tinny speaker. I pick it up and gaze blurrily at the display. I am reliably informed that not only is Simon calling me, but he’s calling me at six in the morning, a time I thought only existed in documentaries about supposedly hard lads who wanted to join the army only to end up begging for their Mummys.
I pick it up. “Simon?”
“Oh, thank Christ,” comes his voice, sounding less than his usual confident self. “Are you still at the pub?”
“What? Of course I’m still at the pub. It’s six in the fucking morning, Simon. I’m hardly likely to have decided to go for a stroll around town am I? Where are you?”
“Well, as it happens,” he says. “I’m having a little stroll around town.”
“What?” I say again. I have to stop saying this to Simon, but sometimes he really leaves no option. “Why?”
“It seems that Sid isn’t too keen on people porking his daughter. This point was rammed home to me mid shag half an hour ago when he burst into her room.”
“Jesus! What did he do?”
“Well he bloody well put me right off me vinegar strokes for a start.”
“Simon!”
“All right, keep yer skirt on. He went a funny colour, and said that if I was still there in three minutes he was going to shoot me in the balls. That was when he left by the door and I left by the window.”
“Where are you?”
“I haven’t got a bloody clue. I just legged it over some fields and am at this moment skulking behind a bush.”
“Why behind a bush?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I haven’t got any trousers. I don’t know where they bloody got to, so I just grabbed me phone from the table and fucked off as fast as I could. So – did you?”
“What?” I say again. “Did I what?”
“With Kate?”
“Where the fuck did that come from? Haven’t you got more pressing matters on your mind?”
“Come on, Dave. You know I’m always willing to put personal jeopardy on hold for a good shagging story. Is she still there then?”
You know, it occurs to me that I haven’t even looked yet, so I glance next to me and am happy to see that Kate is indeed there, and giving me a very confused look based on hearing one side of this very odd call.
“It’s Simon,” I explain, not bothering to attempt to cover the mouthpiece. “He’s got caught shagging and has had to scarper in his undies. What do you think?”
She thinks for a couple of seconds. “Is he cold?”
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“To fookin right I’m cold,” he replies emphatically.
“Yes, he’s cold,” I replay to Kate, who grins and gestures for me to pass her the phone, which I do.
“Simon?” she says. “It’s Kate.” She pauses as he makes a very unsurprising remark. “That’s none of your business. Look, give me one good reason why we should leave what is a nice comfy bed and do anything to help you, you selfish tart.” Another pause. “Thank you for the offer Simon, but I don’t really want to shag you. Try again.”
As Simon pleads for his life and trousers, I watch Kate with very good feelings sloshing about inside of me. I can’t remember when I’ve been this happy, and the best part is I know she isn’t seeing anyone else because I was there when she dumped him! How great is that? She turns away from me and speaks softly into the phone, with the only words I can catch being “What are you wearing?” then turns back.
“Okay Simon,” she continues. “Can you find the pub again? Good. Meet us at the end of the road that goes off to the left if you are facing the pub in twenty minutes. If you’re not there as agreed you won’t get your trousers back and will have to hitch home in your pants. Right – see you then.” She hands the phone back to me, having hung up on Casanova.
“What did he agree to do?” I ask. “And why did you want to know what he’s wearing?”
“That’s between me and him,” she says with a wink. “But don’t go getting all paranoid. It’s nothing rude, and you’ll find out soon enough.”
“So what are we going to do?” I ask, because I already have enough faith in her to let her make any devious plans. I’m crap at devious plans, and am about as successful as Dick Dastardly or Wile E Coyote, although not as funny.
“How about getting dressed first,” she suggests pragmatically, and I nod in agreement.

Luckily, both of us came on the trip with a minimum amount of clothing, and within a few minutes we’ve hurriedly got ourselves dressed and packed and are ready for action. The bedrooms are all on the same floor, and our first stop is the room that was allocated to Simon. Of course, the bed hasn’t been slept in, but we’re happy to find his small case there. The only unpacking in evidence is a pack of condoms, so we zip it up and leave it in the hallway.
“Which one do you think is Lauren’s room?” I ask in a whisper.
“Why do we want her room?” asks Kate.
“Well, to get his jeans,” I say, as if this is obvious.
“I’m sure he can live without them,” she says. “There’s another pair in his bag anyway.”
“His wallet will be in the ones in her room,” I state with confidence. I don’t mind him losing out on a pair of jeans, but I know what a complete pain in the arse it is to lose your wallet. Anyway, I’m planning to make him pay for the train home at the very least.
Whilst Kate is deliberating, the door next to us opens unexpectedly and the girl herself peeks out. She looks a little surprised as she sees us.
“Have you seen Simon?” she asks, not unreasonably.
“He’s buggered off,” I state. “He was under some strange impression that your old man was going to shoot his balls off.”
“Oh,” she says simply. “He’s always threatening that, and he almost always never does it.”
“I don’t think that’s a statement that would entice Simon back,” I say confidently. “Look – we’re going to go and get him. Can you give us his jeans?”
“Hang on,” she says, and disappears back inside. When she reappears she is carrying his jeans, which I gratefully take. A quick grope of them confirms the presence of Simons’ wallet.
“Thanks,” I say, and turn to go.
“David, isn’t it?” she says, grabbing my arm. I nod. “I’ve slipped my number in the pocket – can you make sure he gets it?” I nod again. Then, because I feel like it, I give her Simons’ mobile number, something he himself never does. Okay, so it’s petty, but it might slow him down a bit, especially if she’s a bunny boiler.

As Lauren closes her door, we look at each other and mentally signal that it’s definitely time to go now. Kate gives a little smile and kisses me softly, and I am greeted by the morning stiffy I didn’t have time to get earlier.
“Thanks,” I whisper, and she does it again. We start to creep down the hallway to leave when another door opens up, and this time it’s Morgan sticking his head out to check that the coast is clear.
“Oh,” he says. “What are you two doing?”
“Leaving,” I say. “Simon,” I add, and Morgan nods as if this explains everything, which if you know Simon it does. “What about you?”
“I thought that this might not be the best place to be when the band manage to get out of bed, so I thought I’d bottle it and scarper early.”
“Is being a roadie not quite what you expected?” asks Kate sarcastically.
“To be honest, I was hoping for more sex and less violence,” he says gloomily, like a man who has rented a film called “I Like It Hard” and found it to be a story about a tough street cop who doesn’t have any nookie.
“You mean you didn’t pull last night?” I gasp with impressive mock shock.
“I would’ve done if there hadn’t been a riot,” he says sulkily, as if the locals had gone mental for no other reason than to stop him getting his end away.
Sensing that this is going on a bit too long, Kate steps in. “I suppose you’d better come with us, Morgan. We’re going to get the train home, if there is one.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” he agrees, and the three of us creep out of the pub like everything was our fault.

Once outside, we breathe the clean crisp air of freedom and follow the road to the left, mindful that there should be a semi naked Simon at the top of the hill. We fill Morgan in on the story, and he laughs a bit and looks jealous a bit, then, as we crest the hill, he nearly pisses himself laughing at the sorry sight that greets us.
Simon is indeed waiting for us, as arranged, and he is resplendent in his black boxers and a plain white t-shirt. Rather, it used to be a plain white shirt but it is now adorned with the legend “I am a womanising tart” in black felt pen. Unsurprisingly, he is getting some car horn honks and a few sarky comments from passing motorists on their way to work. I look at Kate, knowing that this is her doing.
“What?” she says not at all innocently. “I figured we may as well have a bit of fun at his expense, so I told him if he didn’t manage to locate a marker pen and write that on his shirt he wouldn’t get his stuff back.”
“You wouldn’t have held him to that, would you?” I ask, not totally sure.
“I guess we’ll never know,” she says with a mischievous grin, and proceeds to give a grateful Simon his trousers and other stuff. He immediately dons the trousers and gets his jacket and a fresh shirt from his case. Naturally, the bastard doesn’t look like he’s been shagging all night before being cast out into the cold – he looks his usual cocky, perfect self. Oh well, I can’t hold it against him, and we clasp hands in that manly way that men do.
“You’ve got a right one there,” he says approvingly, nodding towards Kate.
“Where the fuck did you get a marker pen?” I ask. This has been bugging me since I saw him.
“There’s a newsagent down the road,” he half explains, gesturing down the hill.
“How did you pay for it?”
“The assistant was a bird,” he says with a shrug, and no more explanation is needed.
“Have you two finished cuddling?” asks Kate.
“Yes Maam,” I say with a salute. “Awaiting further orders, Maam.” Next to me, Simon does a full on Rimmer from Red Dwarf salute and we snigger like the idiots we are.
“Does any of you have any idea where the train station is?” she asks, ignoring our antics.
“It’s about ten minutes that way,” says Simon, pointing. “I asked in the shop.”
“Good boy,” she says, coming over and patting his head. I put on an exaggerated hurt look so she gives me a snog. I am gratified to note that both Simon and Morgan look jealous, so I give them the finger as I do a small victory dance.
“If you ever do that again I will cut your bollocks off,” says Kate matter of factly as I wind the dance down. I look down at my feet as Simon does an impressively realistic whipping sound.
“Do I have to grow up now?” I ask in a small voice.
“It would be nice, dear,” she replies.
Well, there are worse things I could do, I suppose.

Amazingly, the train station has a reasonably regular service to it, and we manage to board a train in the right direction within thirty minutes. There will be a couple of changes down the line, but thanks to Simon’s credit card we’re at least on our way, grateful to leave the whole thing behind us. We dump our cases on the rack and flump into our seats with a collective sigh.

An hour later, when normal people are getting out of their beds and leaving their bedrooms by doors not windows, “Seasons In The Sun” starts tinkling away from the direction of Kate’s handbag. Understandably, she flushes a bit and retrieves her mobile phone, all the while mumbling about getting the ringtone changed whilst the three of us laugh cruelly at her discomfort.
“Hello? Wayne?” she says, and our attention is instantly grabbed. “Where are you?”
“Well, on the plus side, he’s not dead,” Simon says to me as Kate listens to Wayne. “But then again, on the negative side – he’s not dead.” I poke him in the ribs and focus on Kate.
“Um, actually we’re on a train home,” she says apologetically. “Sorry to run out on you, but there was a bit of an incident with Simon. Yes, he did. No, he didn’t get shot. Yes, it is a shame.” She says the last whilst giving Simon a sly wink. “Look, are you going to be okay?” There is a lengthy pause whilst Wayne tells her either how brilliant everything is going to be, or possibly that the mob came back and murdered Marlon. Either would be acceptable, to be honest. “Well that’s good, Wayne,” continues Kate. “Call me when you get back, okay, and for what it’s worth I’m sorry. Okay, see you soon, bye.”
With that, she folds away the phone and turns to see us looking at her like the three decidedly unwise monkeys.
“What?” she says in that infuriatingly innocent way she has. “If you want to know, you all have to make gibbon noises.”
Without even thinking (something we do very well) we all start to whoop and grunt in a way that even gibbons would be ashamed of, with Morgan attempting to swing from the luggage rack to the accompaniment of the very un jungle-like sound of tutting from several other passengers.
“You are such pricks,” says Kate, smiling to let us know she’s not going to hold our prickishness against us. “Wayne and the others are fine – stoppit!” she shrieks as we all groan in disappointment at the news. “They’re all okay, apart from the obvious injuries, and Waynes cousin is hiring a truck to get them and the gear home. Surprise surprise the vans weren’t insured, but the landlord is going to flog them to the local scrap merchant and keep the cash for his trouble. So, basically, everything is going to be okay.”
“Do you think I should sue them for mental stress?” asks Morgan.
“You’re permanently mentally stressed,” says Simon. “No case.”
“I didn’t get any either,” bemoans Morgan with an Ancient Mariner like shrug.
“Lokks like you’re the only one,” says Simon, looking very suggestively at me and Kate. We, of course, give him the finger. Whatever we did last night is no ones business but our own.
“How about her?” says Morgan, cheering up at the sight of a rather attractive young lady pushing a snack laden cart up the aisle. “Reckon she’d go for a few rounds of Morgans Organ?”
“I dunno Morgan,” says Simon. “She doesn’t look retarded, so possibly not.”
“Huh! Bet she fancies me to you,” Morgan retorts. “You haven’t even washed or shaved this morning. I, however, and clean and furrymoan fresh.”
“Twenty pints to a tenner?” says Simon wearily.
Morgan doesn’t want to back down. “Done!” he says, and they shake on it as the girl stops by our seats.
“Any drinks or snacks?” she says, not very subtly eyeing up Simon in all his unwashed glory.
“Can I ask you a question?” says Simon disarmingly.
“What?”
“Have you ever heard of the mile high club?”
“Yeah,” she says with a flirtatious giggle. “What about it?”
“How high off the ground would you say this train is?”
“I dunno. About, um, four and a half feet?”
“So how would you like to join the four and a half feet high club Sophie?” he asks with a huge predatory grin, reading her name from her badge.
Me and Kate have had enough at this point, so we just turn off our ears and relax into a nice, long snogging session. Best start to a day I’ve had for years.

Sex Gods from the Planet Metal - Chapter Nine

2010-01-13T11:13:00.000-08:00

Chapter Nine
Then…
Kissing, I have found, is a very good thing. Be it the reassuring goodnight kiss from your mother (up to a certain age, of course) or the full blown first snog from a prospective sexual partner (and everything in between), kissing tends to be a nice experience. There are exceptions, but this is mainly when the kiss tends to be of the Glasgow variety, or when your partner in the deed seems more interested in devouring as much of your head as is possible than having a good old smooch. At the early stages in anyone’s kissing education, (something which really has to be self taught, as you really don’t want your mum to show you various techniques), the big question is to tongue or not to tongue. If you decide not to tongue, you might appear to be an inexperienced (whisper it) virgin. If you decide that the tongue is the way to go, where do you put it? It’s all very well diving in and seeing if you can work out what she had for breakfast, but if all she likes doing is sort of wiggling the tips together, she’ll think you’re an alien after her brain stem or something.
At fifteen, I was, I will admit, not the most experienced kisser in the world. I certainly got a few good ones in with Carolyn Thomas, but since then had sort of gone off the idea. As Kaz and I watched Americans destroy the subtlety of HG Wells’ brilliant socio political novel, albeit with some cool explosions, I was struck with the age old tongue/no tongue conundrum.

We had left the plough holding hands, which was a good start. Intimacy should never be underestimated, no matter how slight it is. The act of holding hands is possibly one of the most intimate things a couple can do, as it screams to the world “Look at us! We actually like each other, and are not afraid to show it!” Kissing, however, is not always a well appreciated spectator activity, depending on just how sloppy the kissing is. A romantic peck and a dewy eyed look into each others’ eyes will have passers by cooing and feeling all romantic themselves, whilst a full blown snog accompanied by a quick crotch grope or three will result in shouts of “Get a room” and rocks being thrown.

Sensibly, me and Kaz kissed in the cinema, away from prying eyes, mostly because there was hardly anyone there. My tongue/no tongue dilemma was nicely solved by the girl in question as I felt her tongue gently probing between my lips, allowing me to drift off and go to a happy place where tongues were not, as many think, slobbery, moist things you wouldn’t want to touch if your life depended on it, but lovely sensual organs with the hidden promise of future licking in nice places. I am not ashamed to admit that we paid almost no attention whatsoever to the film. In fact, I am quite proud of it, because it means that I was a young stud copping off with a fine filly. It’s always nice to get reassurance that you are attractive to the opposite sex, and things don’t get much more reassuring than a tongue sandwich and a good feel when you’re fifteen, so I was a happy chap indeed.

When we got out, holding hands that bit tighter now, it wasn’t even half nine, and I was at a total loss as to what I should suggest.
“So, um,” I faltered, unable to finish my sentence.
“You are such a silver tongued devil,” she remarked playfully. “Have you actually ever taken a girl out before?”
I looked appropriately indignant. “Of course I have.” My whole bearing was geared towards implying that not only had I taken many girls out, but I was doing this little country wench a favour by spending time with her instead of one of the many beauties in my harem.
“Okay,” she said. “More than one?”
Obviously I would have to work hard on my body language.
“Including you?” I asked, smiling as we walked along.
“Including me.”
“Yes.”
“How about not including me?”
“I refuse to answer that question on the grounds it may make me look a bit sad and lonely, unless you are irresistibly attracted to sad and lonely guys.”
“I love them. With a passion.” Her eyes bored into mine like lasers. I was not used to girls being this forward, and wasn’t really sure how to respond.
“Unm…” I stalled again, totally unsure of what to say. I had my moments, but in general I was more of a lead tongued devil that one of the silver variety. Fortunately, Kaz didn’t seem to mind this, and took my hesitation as a cue to kiss me deeper and more passionately than she had so far that night.
“Yum,” I said afterwards, a huge grin superglued to my face. “So, um, where do you want to go now? Is there anything to do around here?”
She thought for a second. “Well, we can’t go to my place, as my Nan would have a fit. We could go to a pub – I can get in most places round here.”
“Anything else?”
“Are you trying to get me to suggest we go back to you room or something?”
“What? No!” I was telling the truth here. Getting her back to my room was being reserved for a later fantasy, one in which I had the balls to ask her, she said yes, and there was sex. I had a lot of these fantasies, but would never dream of actually trying to make one come true.
“Shame,” she said simply, then let go of my hand and walked on ahead.
I stood doing fish impressions for a second, then jogged up to her, confused.
“Have I done something wrong?” I asked, and I would like to note that this was the first time I ever said those words to a member of the opposite sex, but certainly not the last.
She looked at my forlorn face, and I’m sure that I looked somewhat like a puppy who had shat on the sofa, then just grabbed me and hugged me, laughing.
“Of course not, you dick! I was just taking the piss.”
“So you’re not mad?” Slow on the uptake as ever.
“Duh!” she said with feeling. We carried on walking, hand in hand once again, and I realised that we were heading back to the Plough, and my room.

One of the lessons my Mum drilled in me when I was young was “If you don’t ask, you don’t get”, even though most of the time we didn’t get even when we did ask. I knew in my heart and my head (okay, and in my trousers) that this was my moment. I’ve never been the best at picking up on subtle signals from women, and even today require a woman to come up to me, flop her puppies out and say “Excuse me, would you like a shag?” Even then I would be struggling to comprehend exactly what she wanted, so imagine what I was like at fifteen,

“So,” I said nonchalantly, as if I was going to ask her to speculate on tomorrows’ weather. “Do you want to come up to my room then?”
She didn’t even look at me, just carried on walking. I couldn’t say anything else, as it had taken all my adolescent courage to just ask her in the first place, so assuming I had blown it I carried on walking with her, saying nothing. A few minutes later, we reached the Plough, which looked like it was having a busy night judging by the cars in the car park. Kaz stopped, then turned towards me, holding both my hands as we faced each other.
“Ask me again,” she said, softly.
To my credit, I did not say “Ask you what?” because I had been thinking of nothing else since I first asked.
“Do you want to come up to my room?” I said evenly, looking her straight in her eyes.
She leaned in and kissed me softly, before moving her lips to my ear, as she had done earlier in the restaurant.
“Sure,” she said, almost too softly to hear.
Oh. My. God.

I suppose now would be a good time to gently cut away, leaving you with subtle hints of romance and gentle uninterrupted lovemaking, of two souls meeting like the proverbial ships in the night and making sweet beautiful music together. If you’ve made it this far, you will be aware that things just don’t go that way for me. As the saying goes, if I fell in a barrel of tits I’d come out sucking my thumb.

The main logistical problem was, of course, my Mum. I knew full well that it didn’t matter whether she was awake, asleep or in a deep coma – the moment I set foot in my room she would be at the door, making sure I hadn’t done anything stupid like enjoy myself. Luckily, I had seen plenty of carry on films, and even a bedroom farce once at the local theatre.
“In the what?” asked Kaz incredulously.
“The wardrobe. It’s the classic hiding place.”
“And why am I hiding, exactly?”
“Don’t you remember? Evil woman, kitchen inspection and all that?”
“So what? Why don’t you just tell her to mind her own business?”
That stumped me. Why didn’t I tell her to mind her own business? Okay, so I wasn’t sixteen yet, but surely I was old enough to live my life without having to look over my shoulder all the time. We were at the bottom of the stairs that led to the rooms, and for some reason I was worried that my Mum would catch me with a girl! I was a strapping (ish) fifteen year old boy, a man even, and I decided there and then that I would stand up to my mother, and damn the consequences!
Starting the next day.

“Did you have a nice night, love?” my Mother asked, standing in my doorway.
“Yeah, it was fine,” I replied as naturally as possible, worried that “I have a girl in the wardrobe” was written all over my face.
“Did you enjoy the film?”
“Yeah, it was fine,” I said again, as this had worked the first time. She looked tired, and had obviously been woken up by me and Kaz creeping into my room. Now she knew that I was okay, and hadn’t fallen into a threshing machine, she would be able to go back to a proper sleep, hopefully.
“That’s nice, dear,” she said with a yawn. “Well, see you in the morning.”
“Night Mum,” I said as she left. When the door closed, the wardrobe opened and Kaz stepped out, an evil grin on her face. I held my fingers up to my lips and she came over to sit beside me on the bed. I don’t mind telling you that at this point I was rather excited.
“What would happen,” she whispered, “if I moaned in ecstasy right now?”
“For one, I’d wonder what you just sat on,” I whispered back. “And two, she would be in here and throwing you out in about, and this is just a guess, four seconds.”
Instead of moaning in ecstasy, she just kissed me, and I enthusiastically kissed her back. I risked an experimental hand wander, and was mildly delirious to find that she not only allowed it, but reciprocated in such a way that would allow her to realise just how excited I was.

Sometimes, just occasionally, I come out of that barrel not sucking my thumb…

Now…

“That was nice,” I say to Kate, meaning it.
“I think you’re right,” she agrees. “You’re much better at it than Wayne, you know. It’s all over in a flash with him. You just take your time, which is nice.”
I flush with embarrassment at the unexpected praise. I mean, all we’ve done is share our first kiss, and I’m already better than Wayne. Being better than Wayne may not be much of a target to aim for, but it’s nice to know I’ve hit the bullseye on the first go, and I wasn’t even trying to impress her. Kissing Kate is something I’ve been fantasizing about lately, and when the reality presented itself I couldn’t help but enjoy it and want to make it last. Just to show her how brilliant and better than Wayne I really was, I kiss her again.
“This is probably not the best place,” she says afterwards, looking at the same time happy and sad, which is quite a trick.
She has a point, as the lad himself is just through the door. I am sorely tempted to go through the door and dance around him chanting “I’m better than you, Wayne” in a silly voice, but realise that this may be seen as slightly immature, so I keep the impulse in check.
“What do you want to do?” I ask, hoping that the answer is “Go upstairs and perform exhausting sexual antics with you, studmonkey”, but suspecting it might not be.
“I have to break up with him.”
I don’t reply to this, just nod and stand back so she can go into the bar to do what amounts to kicking a man when he’s down. Naturally, I follow her, because I enjoy watching that sort of thing.

Inside the bar, Wayne is cradling his broken guitar and wiping away a few tears from his eyes. I do feel sorry for him, even though he brought all this on himself. In his defence, he did it with the best of intentions, even if those intentions were coupled with the smallest of brains. I do my best to hover at the bar and be as invisible as possible as Kate goes and sits down beside him.
“Wayne,” she says. “We need to talk.”
When a normal man hears these words, he knows that he’s going to be dumped, but to Wayne it just means she wants to talk, possibly about how brilliant he is.
“Sure babe,” he says, wincing as he speaks because of a nasty little cut on his lip. “What’s up?”
Kate looks him straight in the bloodshot eyes. “I’m up, Wayne. I’m sorry to bring this on you at this point in time, what with you having just been given a good kicking and all, but I don’t think I can be your girlfriend any more.”
Everyone is, of course, listening to all this, and we wait with traditionally baited breath to see if Wayne will cry or explode, the two main options in situations like this.
Instead, he just says “Okay babe. No worries.”
“Is that it?” she says incredulously, her brow well and truly furrowed. “No worries? Is that all I’m worth to you?”
I can’t believe that she’s the one getting upset here. She came in here to break up with him, and he was brilliantly okay with it, and now she’s the one getting upset, presumably because he didn’t break down in floods of tears and offer to top himself in his grief. I do not, and will not, understand women. If breaking up was always this easy, I’d certainly have been able to do it more often in the past, instead of having to rely on the tried and trusted male method of making the other person so miserable they dump you, thereby allowing you to be free of them and also letting you take on the role of wounded dumpee.
“I think you’re brilliant babe,” says Wayne. “But let’s face it, you’re a bit of a brain and you make me feel a bit stupid sometimes.”
Not the most difficult task, making Wayne feel stupid, one would think. I think the only way he can avoid it in the future is to go out with an amoeba. A particularly stupid amoeba from the slow reading class at amoeba school.

“To be honest,” he continues, “I was going to split up with you anyway, so you’re doing me a favour.”
Kate looks furious now. “Well I’m glad I could do you a favour, Wayne.” She puts the same love and affection into the word Wayne as George W Bush does into the word Terrorist. “Maybe I’ll just find myself someone who doesn’t think I’m too bloody brainy for them.”
Wayne seems to mull this over for a few seconds before answering. “There’s always Dave here,” he suggests to my utter astonishment. This is not how stealing someone’s girlfriend should go. At the very least, there should be an element of sneaking about.
“Maybe I will, Wayne!” snaps Kate, then she marches over to me, grabs me and kisses me hard. It’s not very romantic, but then again it’s not supposed to be. “Come on, Dave,” she says to me loudly, very much in performance mode. “Let’s go upstairs and have wild sex. You can show me what a normal sized penis looks like.” Then she flounces out of the bar and stamps up the stairs, leaving me rather dazed and confused.
“Right…” I say, not wanting to look at anyone else in the room. “I’ll just be off to bed then.”
“Dave,” says Wayne, and I turn to him, ready for whatever he has to offer. At least he can’t attack me physically. “I may be a bit dopey mate,” he says, “But I’m not blind. Go on, have a blast. She’s too bloody good for me. Maybe you’ll make her happy.”
I just nod, and leave, thinking that Wayne is not such a cock after all.

I trudge up the stairs, not knowing what to expect. I fully realise that Kate’s sexy suggestion was purely for the benefit of Wayne, and don’t expect her to be in my room in a slinky negligee with a ‘come and shag’ me look on her face. When I open the door I am surprised to see that she is in my room, although unfortunately without the sexy nightwear. In this sort of situation, however, I’m very happy at one out of two. She’s not sitting on the bed, but is instead standing at the window with her back to me. I walk over to her and put a hand softly on her shoulder.
“You okay?” I ask simply, feeling her shoulder shaking beneath my hand. I hate it when girls cry, as I feel like a useless waste of space because I am never any good at cheering them up.
She doesn’t reply, but I hear a little squeaking noise coming from her which doesn’t sound like any crying I’ve ever heard. Is she laughing?
“Kate?”
She finally turns around, and she is indeed laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Look in the car park,” she says, pushing me towards the window, which faces said car park.
“Wow!” I exclaim, because it’s definitely a wow moment when you see two blazing vehicles, both now rather blackened where once they were adorned with Idiosyncratic Routine logos. I turn back to Kate. “Is this a funny thing then?” I’m confused, because without the vehicles we’re rather stuck.
“No,” she says, still laughing. “It’s a terrible thing, but I think I’ve reached the point where if I don’t laugh I’ll have to kill myself, so I’m just going to laugh. If you feel like joining in, please do.”
I just stare at the burning wrecks, then look at Kate, then the flames again, then Kate again, and something clicks in my brain. This actually is pretty funny, and I start to laugh, then laugh a bit more, then join Kate in full blown hilarity as she comes over and we watch the flames get higher with an arm around each other. In the distance we can hear the sirens of fore engines, and Kate waggles her mobile phone at my quizzical look. For some reason I feel happier than I have in years. Okay, so it’s not exactly candlelight, but it’s much more memorable for a first date.

Sex Gods from the Planet Metal - Chapter Eight

2009-12-30T09:29:00.001-08:00

Then…

Personally, I was impressed by the rooms, especially the fact that I didn’t have to share one with my Mum. Okay, so I was next door, but in my mind I was a million miles away. With Farrah Fawcett.
The best part about the whole situation was that our rooms were not in St Ives, they were not even near St Ives, and they were not even in Cornwall. How so? Well, I couldn’t have planned it better myself…

My head was still spinning as we walked out to the car after the meal. It was like being drunk, but without the utter fear of being found out afterwards. I was so confused I didn’t know what to do. I could have tried to persuade Mum to forget about St Ives and stay exactly where we were for a few days, but I knew that once she had a plan there was no deviating for silly reasons like love and happiness, oh no. The only real option I had was prayer, and I felt that God might not grant and begging petitions from yours truly due to the tiny fact that I had spent much of my life not believing in him and calling those that did utter nobheads. Sod it, I thought, and prayed anyway to a new deity I had just invented. I called him Norman, and decided he was a benevolent God who granted all sorts of wishes and the like without any need for worship or sacrifices. I liked Norman, and to this day feel there should be more Gods like him.

Okay, so there wasn’t a thunderclap or anything, but the actual noise Norman sent was a lot more welcome. It was the sound of a car engine refusing to start, like a racehorse whose back legs have gone to sleep. Mum was determined that the plan was not going to be thwarted by a mere machine, and was stubbornly trying again and again, whilst the cars weak protestations the it wasn’t at all well got steadily weaker. Finally, inevitably, it went “floot” or something like it, and was pronounced dead. Mum gave a frustrated growl and dragged me back to the pub where she called the AA, who told her that someone would be there soon. Mum, whose body language hinted strongly that she would prefer if a mechanic was beamed down Star Trek style immediately, gritted her teeth and thanked them in the way a schoolboy being caned thanks sir and asks for another. Then we went back to the car to wait.

You know that noise mechanics, plumbers and the like make when they are about to give you expensive news, when they suck air through their teeth? Well, I don’t know how to spell that, but the closest I can get is “fffffffffffffftt…”. Just so we’re clear what it means, okay?

“ffffffffffffffffft…” said the mechanic, who had arrived within five minutes from his garage up the road. “I’m not going to be able to fix this, love.”
To her credit, Mum didn’t disembowel him for calling her ‘love’.
“Well what can you do?” she asked politely. “We have to be in St Ives later.”
“Not in this, sweetheart,” he replied, as I waited anxiously for him to call her petal.
Mum still didn’t disembowel him. “How long will it take you to fix it?”
“Couple of days, I suppose. It’s the parts, you see. I’d offer you a hire car but the only one I’ve got’s out at the moment. Looks like your stuck here for the duration, Petal.”
Mum quietly digested this information, whilst I silently cheered and promised Norman I would spread his gospels far and wide. Norman, nice God that he was, said I needn’t bother.
“Fine. Is there anywhere round here we can stay. Anywhere decent, naturally.”
“To be honest, darling, you’re already there. The Winchester here’s the best in town. They got some nice rooms up top, I’m sure they’ll have a couple for you and your lad here.”
“Thank you, Mr Beard. You’ve been most helpful, and I shall be checking up on your progress. As you have been helpful to me, I shall be helpful to you and give you a bit of advice.”
He leaned towards her, like a fly drawn to a carnivorous plant.
“In future, it would probably be best if you didn’t refer to female customers as darling, flower, petal or any other such nauseating sexist twaddle. Personally, if you refer to me as anything other than Mrs Banner, or Ruth if you manage to fix my car, I will disembowel you. With a spoon.”
I knew I’d heard that before I saw Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves.
Mr Beard just smiled at her, raised his oily cap and said “Certainly Mrs Banner,” then stomped off to his tow truck.
So we were staying. What a shame.

The Winchester, as well as having good clean kitchens and pretty kitchen staff (well, at least one), had good clean pretty rooms. The pretty part was mainly because they were decorated in nice colours with lovely paintings of coastal views on the walls. Mum was totally happy with her room, which was a rarity, because she only really seemed happy when she had something to complain about, but try as she might she couldn’t find anything. After she’d found her own room to be frustratingly clean, she inspected mine, which was similarly perfect. With a sigh, she sat on the bed next to me.
“I’m sorry about this, David,” she said. “We were going to have fun, but it looks like we’ll be stuck here for a while.”
“It’s not your fault, Mum,” I said, trying to look a little downhearted for appearances sake. “We’ll be okay.”
“Why don’t we take a walk around the town, see what’s here,” she suggested.
I nodded. “Sure.” So we did.

The town, it turned out, was called Culvernay, and although it wasn’t too big, it wasn’t the ghost town I had first thought. There were plenty of craft shops to keep Mum happy, and we pottered in and out of them so she could pick things up and admire them, whilst telling me not to pick anything up as if I was five years old. I still picked things up when her back was turned, but only because in some ways I was still five years old. There were a few grubby little pubs and the promise of a market on Wednesday morning, but not really a lot else. At least the biggest of the newsagents had some super hero comics, and I got a few without having to pester too hard, Mum still feeling guilty about having to stay here. The biggest saving grace was that it had a cinema. Not much of one admittedly, but to my delight Tuesdays was reserved for showings of classic films, and that night was War Of The Worlds, my favourite film since I first saw it on television. I really wanted the opportunity to see it on a big screen, and after noting it started at seven thirty, slowly and surely I drew my plans together…

We sat in the restaurant, having just enjoyed another excellent meal. Mum seemed tired and weary from the stress of the day. So much so she didn’t even complain when she realised her soup was seventeen degrees too hot. It’s that sort of uncanny temperature measuring that always stopped me being able to fake being ill. It’s not easy having a human thermometer for a mother, or a human vegetable for a brother for that matter.
“You look tired,” I said, playing the caring son. “Do you want to go and have a lie down?”
“I could do with one, I suppose. I just feel guilty about having landed you here – there’s nothing for you to do, really.”
This was my opening. She had walked right into my trap.
“Well, I did notice the local flea pit’s showing War Of The Worlds tonight,” I said brightly, as if I had just thought of it.
She groaned. “Not that old rubbish. I swear there should be a law against Americans stealing our books to make poor films out of them. You know I hate that film, David.”
Of course I did. That was why it was so perfect.
“You don’t have to come with me Mum,” I said, the voice of reason. “It’s not like I can’t go to the cinema on my own. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be better off just having a rest. We can go somewhere tomorrow when you’re feeling more up to it.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?”
“Mum, I’m fifteen. This place is hardly any bigger than Hinton really. I promise everything will be fine. I mean, if I can survive an Iron Maiden concert I’m sure I can survive a sleepy Devon town.”
“I suppose it won’t do any harm,” she said, giving in gracefully. “I want your word, young man, that you won’t try anything stupid like getting served in a pub.”
“Of course not.” Who did she think I was? Oh, right – fair enough. After my drinking escapade with Nick I still hadn’t touched a drop, and had no wish to, so it was an easy promise to make. “So can I go?”
“I don’t see why not. Just don’t stay out too late, and keep away from the locals.”
Inside me, there was a whole ballroom of people doing victory waltzes, so it was easy to lie through my teeth. “Yes Mum.” I looked down, but my pants weren’t on fire, so I reckoned I’d got away with it.

As I’ve got older, wiser and lazier, I’ve realised that choosing clothes for a date is basically a piece of piss. Pick a T-shirt that hasn’t got a band name on it, some clean jeans, whichever pair of boxers makes my cock look biggest and finish off with any old socks and trainers. If the occasion is formal, such as a royal reception, then substitute the trainers for a pair of shoes, preferably slip ons. Shaving is optional, depending on whether my stubble makes me look like George Michael when all the girls fancied him, or a tramp. In the end, as long as you are comfortable, you will appear to look good. It’s your attitude and confidence that wins over the girls, not the fact that your socks match, although if they are fussy about that it’ll be too late by the time they find out.
Of course, at fifteen I had no such preconceptions, determined that what girls liked was purely on the outside, and that a good heart and soul was nothing if not accompanied by a shirt with a little crocodile on the breast. With this in mind, I spent forty five minutes trying to tart myself up as best I could with the limited resources we had brought with us. There wasn’t that much to tart up, mind you, as I was a fan of the straight and boring school of haircuts, not yet introduced to the wonder of gel. The clothes I had brought with me consisted entirely of band t-shirts, but I reasoned that this hadn’t bothered Kaz earlier and wriggled into a tightish one with the Saxon logo slashed across it. That was it for dressing, as I had one pair of jeans and one pair of trainers, so I mainly practised looking as cool as possible in the mirror, which meant trying endless different brushes of my hair, all of which were useless as it invariably slid back to its natural flop soon afterwards. I decided there and then that I would get a decent haircut at the soonest opportunity, even if it meant being a less effective headbanger. At quarter to seven I slipped into my denim jacket. Luckily I had brought the one without the patches all over it. I think some of the local old boys might have had a fit of they’d seen some of the lurid images plastered one very available inch. I went to say goodbye to Mum, but she was asleep, so I quietly closed her door, composed myself, and went to meet my date.

One thing I am not a fan of is being late. Another thing I am not a fan of is people who use the word “actually”, but that’s another story, actually. I always like to arrive on time for things, which naturally makes me a crappy party guest, as everyone else knows to arrive at least an hour after it says on the invitation, at which point they will find me and the hosts putting up decorations. At fifteen I was no better, although excitement was a big contributing factor in me being in the bar fifteen minutes before I had to. Naturally, I wiled away the time with a few blasts on the Space Invaders machine, and after a few goes noticed that Kaz was late. Ten minutes late, as it happened, and my heart sank like a sinky thing. Ten minutes may not seem like a lot, but at fifteen it basically means you’ve been stood up, so I finished up my game and decided to plod back to my room. For some reason I didn’t feel like seeing the film anymore. Just as I turned to go through the door that led to our rooms, a voice came mercifully from behind me:
“Oi! Where have you been then?”
It was Kaz, naturally. She looked great, mainly because everything she wore was tight and she had a great body. “I’ve been here. You said meet me here at seven, so I’m here. Are you grasping the concept of here yet?”
“Think back, spazbrain,” she said, looking straight into my eyes. “When I said that, where were we?”
I though back. “Um, in the restaurant?”
“Ooohhh… well done. Now, and this is the tricky one, where have I been waiting like a twat for the last fifteen minutes?”
“In the restaurant,” I said, more confident of the answer this time. “Sorry.”
“So you should be,” she said, mock pouting. “So what do you want to do? There’s not much on round here, believe it or not.”
“How about the cinema?” I suggested. “They’re showing “War Of The Worlds.”
She looked at me for a brief second as if I was totally mental, but must have decided that putting up with what I now realise is a very crap film was an acceptable evening out.
“Sure,” she replied with a nice little smile. So we linked arms and off we went. I love it when a plan comes together.

Now…

Sid was right. Osmium are pretty fucking good, and heavier than an elephant who’s just eaten his yearly bun ration in two hours. At the moment they’re playing a lovely little ditty called “Sex Gods From The Planet Metal”, which contains the charming line “Showing off our metal tits cos sex gods don’t wear bras”. They are all wearing various leather strappy things and cod pieces, and all have visible burns due to the frankly insane use of pyrotechnics on display. As the lead singer screeches like a banshee and drinks blood out of a skull I can feel myself sink lower and lower, wishing I had never agreed to this stupid bloody trip. Surely even the love of Kate isn’t worth this shit, or more accurately the shit that is due to come flying at the band and everyone who knows them after they have been stoned to death on stage.
At least Simon is happy, as the crowd are his type of people, being long of hair and not ashamed to whirl it about whilst making devil signs and playing imaginary guitars. He barely notices as I slink away out to the front bar, thankfully separate from the band area. I’ll give Sid this, he’s managed a dynamite soundproofing job, as the ear shattering metal is reduced to background squawking as I sit on a stool and bury my head in my hands like a film drunk. I know that Wayne, Neil and Marlon will be upstairs getting ready, so it’s nice to just be on my own. On my own, that is, until a tap on my shoulder causes me to start and then turn to look at Kate, who has plumped herself down on the seat next to me.
“Aren’t you going to buy a girl a drink then, Mr Grant?”
“I may as well,” I say gloomily. “After all, dead men have no use for money, do they?”
“Never say die,” she says in a booming, Brian Blessed like voice that causes a few heads to turn our way. “You never know, they might just pull it off. You have to admit, Dave, they are very good musicians.”
“So are the Berlin Symphony Orchestra, but they wouldn’t fancy following that lot.”
“Are they really that, well, metal?”
“Go and have a look,” I prompt. “Go on. I’ll save your seat and order your tombstone.”
She goes out to the main bar, reappearing a few minutes later with a rather shocked look on her face. She sits down and chucks the vodka I’ve thoughtfully got waiting for her in one.
“We,” she says slowly. “Are fucked.”
It’s nice to hear someone else admit this, as Wayne nearly had me convinced that all was going to be peachy. I start to hum the funeral march, and Kate joins in with a sombre look on her face. We lock eyes as we harmonise, until we finally reach the edge of sanity together and dissolve into snorty laughs that must make a few of the locals think there’s a Porky Pig convention in town.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
She thinks for a few seconds. “Nothing.”
“That’s not a plan,” I say. “If anything, that’s an anti plan. A lack of a plan, if you will.”
“So why do we have to do anything?” she asks reasonably. “After all, you’re not actually their manager, are you? You didn’t lie through your teeth to get this gig.”
“Well… no, I suppose not. I just feel responsible, but I don’t know why?”
“Because you’re that sort of guy, Dave. You see someone fuck up, and you want to help. Believe me, this isn’t your fault, and if you’ve any sense you’ll keep away from it. Wayne should have known better that to come up with all that crap, and he deserves every piss filled missile that is no doubt coming to him.”
Wow, she sounds bitter. Trust me when I say that this is not the tone of a woman preparing to stand by her man, more that of one preparing to stand behind him with a bloody big carving knife in her hand.
“So, um, you’re not too happy with His Wayneness then, I take it?” I venture.
“Hmph!” she snorts. “Dave, describe Wayne to me accurately. Don’t pull punches, just say what you see, as if you were on Catchphrase in the Nineties.”
Now this is a dilemma. If she’s throwing a trick question at me, I could be rather fucked here, and also walking home. If she’s not, and I praise him to the skies, she’ll think I’m either blind or a suck up. Well, she’s the one who’s always going on about honesty, so I tell her straight.
“He’s a nice enough bloke, but he’s deluded, not averse to lying to get his way, and along with Neil is a totally sexist git. Oh yes, and he’s far too stupid to go out with you.” The last part, I admit, was me casting my line into the water to see if she would bite.
“Flatterer,” she says with a grin, taking the bait like a hungry pike. “You’re right, you know. He’s such a bullshitter. I don’t know why I’ve put up with it for this long. I’m ashamed to say that I’ve been much more interested in the contents of his trousers than the contents of his head, and I’m now convinced that the letter is probably the larger organ.”
“Thanks for sharing,” I say with a grimace. “I’ll add that information to the chart I have in my bedroom.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, he’d have to have a really tiny brain,” she says, her eyes twinkling.
We both laugh, and I feel the tension dropping out of me like a bomb though the bay doors, happy for it to explode on some other poor sod, because I’ve had enough of being miserable for one night. I decide that this is my time, my chance to steam in and take the girl of my dreams. Nothing can stop me now.
“Dave, you’re wanted,” says Simon, sticking his head round the door.
“For what?”
“Nobby and the Nobheads want you to introduce them to the baying mob. They’re setting up now.”
The correct response to this would be to tell them to fuck off, but for some reason there’s something inside me that wants to give Wayne and the boys whatever help I can before the inevitable happens.
“Tell them I’ll be there in a minute,” I say wearily, and Simon disappears with a happy grin, looking forward to the bloodletting.
“Wuss,” says Kate simply.
“I owe them this much,” I say. “God knows what’s going to happen, but I think they’ll be needing friends, even if they’re only fair weather ones. Are you going to come and watch?”
“I may as well,” she says with a sigh. “I mean, how bad can it be?”

As I stand up in front of seventy or so metalheaded lunatics I begin to regret wearing my Dave Lee Roth shirt, because Dave Lee Roth is not metal to these people. Not to many people, to be honest. Regardless, I launch into my piece, aware that Osmium were introduced by a man in a devil costume shouting “Are you ready to rock, motherfuckers!” then running off stage.
“Let’s have a big roar for the brilliant Osmium!” I shout, knowing this is a good way to get a reaction. Thankfully, the crowd cheer and whistle in appreciation of the opening act. “Okay… well, it’s not over yet, as It is my absolute pleasure to introduce to you possibly the best band in all of the street where they live, apart from Black Sabbath at number 28…” a few people laugh, which is a good thing. “Please welcome for the first time at The Plume the one, the only, Idiosyncratic Routine!!!”
As I get the hell of the stage and behind the crowd to the bar where Simon and Kate are waiting, the band strike up, surprisingly with the opening chords to Black Sabbaths “War Pigs”, not a song they are known for doing. The ponderous bassline rumbles through the bar, and when Wayne sings the opening verse it’s with passion and feeling, as well as more throatiness than I’ve ever heard him use. Amazingly, the crowd to not throw petrol bombs, they begin to shake their heads, and more amazingly so does Simon.
“What the fuck are they doing?” I ask Kate incredulously. “They’ve never played this down at The Moon.”
“I’ve never heard them play this sort of thing,” she replies, equally bemused. “Maybe this is going to turn out okay after all.”
And wouldn’t that be the most ironic thing? If all our fears came to naught and the gig was a roaring success? “Well,” I said, raising my glass. “Here’s hoping they know more numbers like this one.”

Marlon nurses a nasty gash on his head, whilst Kate dabs at it with a damp cloth. “I think I might be concussed,” he says forlornly, with the air of a man feeling very sorry for himself.
“How will we know?” I mutter, unsympathetically. “How about you, Wayne, will you be well enough for the big tour with iron Maiden?”
“Bog off,” he says miserably, all the chirpy optimism knocked out of his head with at least two of his teeth.
We’re all in the front bar, which has been closed to all others and is being used by us as a makeshift hospital, although it’s not quite up to the 4077th MASH standard, as there are no doctors making quips, just Kate and her damp cloth plus a lot of plasters.
Whilst “War Pigs” had gone down a storm, it was, sadly, the only heavy metal song the band knew. Following it with a ballad called “Be My baby Tonight” was possibly a mistake, as was following that with a cover of Slades “Coz I Luv U”. By that time the natives were definitely restless, and the spitting increased to bottle throwing. Marlon was stopped midway through the nest song (“Rock Me Baby”) by a Strongbow can to the head. This would normally not be a problem, but the assailant had neglected to drain the can of Strongnbow first, and as such Marlon got instant unconsciousness instead of instant refreshment. Wayne and Neil were their usual selves and failed to notice that they no longer had a drummer, prompting the crowd to inform them of the fact by getting onto the stage and grabbing their guitars and beating them about the head and body with them. With Marlon in the land of nod, and Wayne and Neil in sensible foetal balls, I decided it was probably a good time to call the police in case no one else had done so, but I was stopped before I could do so by a very loud bang, followed by silence only broken by the tinkling of ceiling plaster falling to the floor. At the bar was Sid, still without a shirt on, and in his hand was a gun, indeed it was the proverbial smoking gun, Sid having just emptied a live bullet into the ceiling.
“Right!” he shouted. “Anyone of you bastards left in the pub after I count to ten will get the next one in their kneecap. One…”
He only had to get to six.
The bar emptied of everyone but us and the band, and Sid casually went about locking the doors as me, Simon, Kate and Morgan helped the three twatsketeers to the front bar.

“I don’t want to be a roadie anymore,” states Morgan with finality. He escaped injury by sensibly hiding under a table and desperately peeling off his band t-shirt. The shirt was now a small pile of ashes.
“Ow,” says Neil, as he wobbles a loose tooth. “That was not a good gig.”
“Really?” I say, sarcasm mode on full. “Do you think? As your manager I would say that it was an absolute fucking disaster.”
“Do you still want to be our manager then?” says Wayne hopefully, looking for a final straw to grasp. I look at him in astonishment.
“Wayne. I just saw your band set upon by what can only be described as a hoard of metal fans who hated your music so much they would rather face a murder charge than listen to it. I think it’s safe to say that my enthusiasm for becoming a band manager has waned somewhat.”
“Oh,” he says, appropriately. “Well, thanks anyway, mate.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say, losing the will to do anything except go along with the flow. “Actually, if you want to thank anyone, thank Sid here, because without him we would be peeling you off the stage with a spatula.”
They all gracefully thank Sid for saving their lives.
“I should have let them have you, for that load of old shit you fed me,” he says, “but I’ll never get me license back if there’s another killing, so I thought I may as well step in. I can’t let you go out there now, so you can stay as planned, but I suggest an early start tomorrow so you can get away whilst all those drunken sods are still sleeping it off.”
Sid’s suggestions are taken with good grace, and I wonder where Simon has got to. On cue, he sticks his head round the door. His all is right with the world grin is still on his face, and I know he’s found the whole experience highly amusing.
“I’ve got something for you, lads,” he says, sniggering. “Do you want your guitars back?”
“Oh yeah,” says Wayne happily. “That would be great.”
“Possibly not,” says Simon, his grin wider than ever as he steps fully into the door with what remains of two guitars in his hands. He hands one each to Wayne and Neil, who couldn’t look more aghast if they’d been handed a dead puppy each. As they hold back the tears. Simon beckons to me and Kate, and we follow him into the corridor outside. Standing behind him is a very pretty girl who has obviously fallen under his evil spell.
“This is Lauren,” he says proudly. “Sid’s daughter. We’re going to retire now, but don’t fookin’ tell him or I’ll get a bullet in the arse.” He looks at Kate. “Have you finished with that donkey in there yet?” he asks her, gesturing towards the casualty ward.
“Well I haven’t told him, but yes,” she admits as my heart soars once again.
“Right. I hate people faffing around, so I’ll just tell you that Dave likes you, and if you like him give him a bloody kiss, because otherwise he’ll never get around to doing fook all about it.”
As I stand there like a startled chaffinch, Kate digests this information before turning to me.
“Is this true?” she asks. Her face is giving nothing away, but what have I got to lose?
“Yes,” I say simply, and she kisses me.

Sex Gods from the Planet Metal - Chapter Seven

2009-12-30T09:24:00.000-08:00

Then…

“Please Mum.”
“No.”
“Aw, go on, just for ten minutes.”
“I said. No. Now just shut up about it. I am not having bloody Iron Maiden songs on my car stereo. What’s wrong with Neil Diamond anyway?”
“What? Apart from the fact that he’s crap?”
“Mind your language David.”
“Sorry, I’m sure. I didn’t mean to bloody swear”
“I’ve warned you about sarcasm. If you take that tone again we’re going straight home. Understood?”
“Yeah. Sorry. You did say it first though”
“Do as I say, not as I do. Come on, David. Let’s just enjoy ourselves for a few days, shall we? Now you’ll like this one, it’s called “America”…

Sometimes, given the choice of water torture or a trip in the car with my Mum I would gladly say strap me down next to the dripping tap, as it’s a slightly preferable way to go insane than my Mum’s Neil Diamond torture, which consists of her playing the wretched mans entire back catalogue to a captive audience, getting their hopes up before each song by saying, totally incorrectly, “You’ll like this one…”

In this instance, the captive audience was me, strapped safely into the passenger seat in her car as we drove south for a “Nice, relaxing few days.” This was what my Mum had prescribed after her and Dad had a good chat about my behaviour that fateful Monday. I was extremely grateful that neither of them blamed me for what I had done, with my Dad even lamenting that I didn’t “Kick the bugger in the nuts as well” whilst I had the chance. Mind you, he had a point. They weren’t really sure what exactly should happen to me, with my Dad retreating into his traditional position of listening (or pretending to listen) to whatever my Mum said, then nodding his head and agreeing with her. She’d either never cottoned on to this, or (much more likely) she had decided that this was an ideal way to have discussions with her husband. The outcome of this one sided conversation was that Mum was going to whisk me away for a few days so we could have some fun and relax, although when she put it to me she didn’t mention the Neil Diamond torture. That was an added bonus.

So there we were, in the car, studiously pootling down to Cornwall and going exactly five miles below the speed limit on any given road. She still does this, and it’s a given that at the front of any queue of traffic is my Mum, speedometer fixed at thirty five or so, saying in a loud voice (so as to be heard over whatever Neil Diamond tape is currently slotted in) “I’m going at a legal, safe speed you know.” As the saying goes, she’s never had an accident, but she’s seen thousands.

As my Mum is the sort of person who thinks the D Day assaults were a poorly organised mess, we had an itinerary. Well, maybe not, as only Americans have itineraries (“Gee, honey – what’s next on the eye-TIN-er-ary?”). We had a plan. The plan consisted of the long, long trawl all the way to St Ives, where we would settle in at a nice bed and breakfast, go shopping and just enjoy ourselves. Now I realise this doesn’t sound much fun for me, but I had the promise of being allowed to do just about anything I wanted, including fun parks and jet skiing. It was a genuinely nice gesture on her part, I like to think, and I was prepared to put up with the aural invasion of Mr Diamond if it kept her happy. Of course, she might just have seized on the opportunity of a few days away from the rest of the family and used me as an excuse, but what sort of a son would I be if I thought that of my Mother? Okay, a realistic one, but I’ll keep my illusions, thank you.

Almost exactly half way, we stopped in a small Devon village for lunch in a pub cum restaurant called the Plough that Mum had checked out in her AA guide and was prepared to risk eating at. As we pulled up, I couldn’t help but be impressed, as the place was a large, spacious building with three different entrances and a car park that seemed to be as long as our street back home. Mum parked up and we walked up to the restaurant entrance, with me doing my best to give the impression that I wasn’t with her, of course. People who wear Iron Maiden tour shirts do not go to lunch with their mothers, I was sure of that, and I managed to get away with slouching close behind her whilst wishing I was allowed to smoke, until that is she noticed what I was doing and told me in a loud voice to pick my feet up. I don’t know why I gave a damn about what a bunch of Devon yokels thought of me, but when you’re a teenager you care about what everyone thinks, even though you will swear at gunpoint that you don’t.

Inside, we sat at a solid wooden table and I marvelled at the amount of crap on the walls. There were shelves of dusty old books, but when I examined them I didn’t recognise any of the titles, or even the authors. This wasn’t because I was not well read, but because someone somewhere supplies pubs with bucketloads of crappy old books that no one has ever read or will ever read. They, along with various farming implements that would be seriously be regretted if a coach load of football hooligans decided to have a ruck, were supposed to give the pub an ambience, and I suppose it did sort of work, but it all seemed so forced to me. I determined that if I ever ran a pub I would resist that impulse to put potentially lethal weapons and crappy books all over the place, maybe instead settling for a few Iron Maiden posters and a small lending library of Sven Hassell books. If you don’t know who Sven Hassell is, then believe me you’re quite lucky.
I ordered a nice Gammon steak, whilst Mum stuck to salad, as she refused to eat meat without first inspecting the kitchen. When she had suggested such an inspection the waiter had politely refused, then slightly less politely refused, then just said no in a grump the third time before marching off with our orders, no doubt to gob on the food.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” I said, trying to make conversation. It was like a bloke on a blind date trying to be polite to a woman who has just informed him that she might go home early because her balls itched.
“I shall be writing to that AA guide,” said Mum firmly. “It’s my right as a customer to ensure that the kitchens are clean before ordering.”
“It’s just a bit of food Mum,” I implored, noticing that when she’s in a stubborn mood her face looks just like an Easter Island statue.
“Just a bit of food!” she said, at a volume that caused a few heads to turn. “You tell me that when you’re writhing in agony tomorrow morning because your steak was cooked in a dustbin lid with a Bunsen burner!” More heads turned, and I tried to make myself invisible. It didn’t work, partly because I was wearing a shirt three sizes too big with a gun toting cyborg on it, but mainly because it’s impossible. I still gave it a bloody good go, though.
An official looking man came over to us, and I was convinced we were going to get thrown out, but instead he introduced himself to my Mum as the manager, and asked her what the problem was. Some English people, when asked this question, say “Oh, nothing,” and look embarrassed for causing a fuss, all because the waiter stabbed them several times with a fork. My Mum, as you may have gathered, is not most people, and unfortunately for the manager she informed him exactly what the problem was, going on to mention what a hazard the farm implements would be if a coachload of football hooligans got hold of them. Well, I knew I got it from somewhere.
To the managers credit, he didn’t laugh in her face. I was glad of this, as I didn’t want to have to visit my Mum in prison for the next twenty years as she served her sentence for impaling a bar manager with a handy farm implement. Even more amazingly, he went on to say how much he sympathised with her, as he was something of a hygiene nut himself, having worked as a kitchen inspector for some years in the past. At this point my mother was actually smiling at him, which meant that she either liked him or she was about to tear him a new arsehole. Seriously, the woman has no middle ground.
“So of course,” he concluded, “I will be happy to allow you to inspect the kitchens. Please, come with me.”
With the smug look of one who has got her own way, as usual, Mum went with him, the kitchen doors swooshing behind them, and I sat and waited, prepared for a long sit down as Mums idea of an inspection wasn’t just running her fingers along a counter looking for dust. There would be urine samples, I was sure.

Now for a teenager, sitting quietly comes as naturally as being intelligible does to a Geordie. To my credit I lasted seventeen seconds, at which point I decided I really need to go to the bog. More accurately, I needed to do something, and as I had noted the toilets were on the other side of the dining area, I could have a good nose about on my way over. I had also noticed, as all good teenagers do, the sound of a Space Invaders machine that was in the bar area. Operation ‘Not Sitting Here And Being Bored’ was underway, and I strode purposefully across the dining area, noting that not one customer was writhing about in agony after ingesting poisoned food. To be honest, though, that rarely happens except in Motorway service stations, and even then the writhing in agony is more often than not due to the customer being presented with the bill, realising that he’ll have to remortgage his house for the sake of a cup of tea, two bits of toast and some jam.

After a good slash (my definition of a good slash was now one where I didn’t find a dead body – talk about lowering your standards) I left the toilet and, noticing Mum wasn’t back at the table yet (probably still checking for nits), slipped into the main bar. The bar was still nice, like the restaurant, but with that underlying seediness that is always easily obtained by having several men slouching at the bar who look like the only reason they haven’t butchered you yet is because their pantry is full. They all looked at me as if I was some alien from another planet, the looks getting more and more severe as I dropped a coin in the machine and it started making the sort of ‘Bloop’ noises that probably made their trigger fingers itchy. Sod ‘em, I thought, and got into the game, intent on saving the human race from a bunch of badly animated aliens.

“Good shot,” said a female voice beside me as I nailed a tricky saucer a few minutes later. I quickly glanced beside me and was surprised to see a girl my own age peering at my alien zapping efforts with a knowledgeable eye. Smooth as a really smooth thing, I said “You must be Kaz,” and could almost feel the surprise.
“How do you know?” she asked as I eliminated the last invader on the screen. With a couple of seconds grace, I turned to get a good look, and was pleasantly surprised, if ‘pleasantly’ and ‘surprised’ are words you would use if you woke up one morning to find Cameron Diaz chomping down on your old man (ladies, please use your own analogy here, as I can’t be arsed to think one up).
“I just guessed,” I confessed. “It’s the name on the high score.”
“Aren’t you the clever one,” she said, and the little voice inside of me that talks bollocks screamed at me that I’m being flirted with.
“Uh, what’s it short for?” I asked, like a boy scout going for his ‘Being Crap At Talking To Girls’ badge.
“Kazza,” she replied with a cheeky grin that got wider as the new screen full of invaders dropped a missile on my last ship. I didn’t care, because my breath was definitely taken away at that point.

“So,” I said after I had told her my name and she had gloated about the fact that I hadn’t got anywhere near her high score. “What do you do?”
“I work in the kitchen,” she replied. Thought I’d escape out here cos there’s a right bloody nutter in there at the moment thinks she’s the fuckin’ health inspector or something.”
“Hmmmm,” I hmmmmed, noncommittally
I mean, I bunked off school to get a bit of extra cash, but there’s no way I’m letting that cow inspect me for nits just cos she’s got some precious little boy who might get, and this is her word mind, infected. Couldn’t see him in the restaurant, so I reckon the little twat must be in the bogs, probably trying to have a dump without touching the seat.”
She laughed, and I hmmmmed again.
Whilst I was obviously waiting for the inevitable moment when she would find out exactly who the precious little boy was, I was also enjoying the close company of a very pretty girl. If she looks like this in her work clothes, I thought, I really want to see her when she’s actually trying.
“When do you get off?” I asked, smooth bastard that I was. Okay, I knew I couldn’t actually do anything, but I just wanted to know if she would respond ina good way. I mean, how could she not?
“You chatting me up, Dave?” she replied with a cheeky grin (told you so). “Gonna take me out and whisk me off my feet?”
“Well, um…” I faltered. “I would, you know, but I’m here with my…”
“DAVID!” came the barely contained screech as my Mum burst through from the restaurant. “Where the hell have you been? Come on, your food will be ready in a minute. All things said and done it was quite a clean kitchen.”
Yeah, I know – the Universe has really good timing.

I didn’t even bother to introduce them. I just grinned helplessly at Kaz, whose mouth was open and suitably gaping, then went with my Mum back into the restaurant, where we had an admittedly fine meal. She didn’t press me on Kaz, and I didn’t venture any information, allowing her to believe that all I had been doing was playing the space invaders machine. I basically had resigned myself to never seeing her again.
Until, that is, she bought the bill over.
Whilst Mum looked at it, searching for hidden charges, Kaz leaned over to me and said:
“I get off at five. Meet me here at seven,” then gave me peck on the cheek and left.
So the good news was: I had a date with a total fox.
The bad news? I wasn’t going to be there, I was going to be in St Ives, possibly meeting a man with seven wives on the way.
Bugger.

Now…

“You,” I say to Simon, “are never going to get through all those in three days.”
“Whether I do or not is not the case,” he replies, stuffing another pack of condoms into his suitcase. “The point is that I am bloody well going to try.” He zips up his case, whistling a happy tune (“Killed By Death” by Motorhead), then flops back onto the sofa.
“So what’s the plan then, Davey boy?”
“Simple,” I reply, holding my hand up and ticking off the fingers. “First we pile into the minibus with the band, then we go and watch them do a few gigs in some truly skanky holes. Whilst doing this, you shag as many women as possible, and I dazzle Kate with my charm and sophistication.”
“I can go along with the first three”, he says seriously, “but I think that you should really have an alternative to option four, such as you sitting alone having a wank.”
“Duly noted,” I agree solemnly, marking off my thumb, then raising the middle finger of my now closed fist in his direction.
“What’s the time?” he asks. Simon never wears a watch, as he doesn’t live by the clock like other people. Anyway, it gives him a very simple approach with women.
“Time they were here,” I confirm, and on cue we hear a parping horn from outside. Even more embarrassing than most novelty horns, this one plays the immortal first twelve notes of “Smoke On The Water”. We brace ourselves for the worst and leave the house, which for the next three days will be occupied only by Pixel the cat and the neighbour who will be feeding her.

“Waheeeeeeeyyyyy!” is the unsurprising welcome we get from the minibus parked outside the house as we walk up the path. The whole thing is a bit of a shock.
For starters, it has been painted in a very crappy fashion by someone with the artistic talent old a four year old on day release from the School For Four Year Olds Who Are Crap At Art. The bands logo is plastered everywhere, joined by various demons, dragons and the like, all as metal and scary as a Tellytubby. The second shock is that nestled inside, drinking from a can of cider, is Morgan, wearing an Idiosyncratic Routine t-shirt over his Bristol City Top and waving like a member of the Royal Family on speed. Behind the minibus is a van for the bands equipment, driven, I am pleased to see, by Wayne, with the bands drummer Marlon sitting next to him. It will give you an idea as to Marlon’s mental capacity when I say that he is considered the stupid one in the band. The van is similarly daubed, and I dread to think of what a spectacle we will look on the way down to Cornwall in them. On the plus side, Kate is in the minibus, the only one not waving, giving us a friendly smile and drinking a can of coke.
“Fookin’ hell,” says Simon, expressing what we are both thinking. “It’s the Twatmobile.”

After lobbing our cases in the back, we climb aboard and get underway, happy to join in the general alcoholism with some Newky Brown and a few cans of cider. In the back with us are Morgan and Kate, with Neil up front driving. The car stereo is blasting out some obscure European metal band, who I am sad to say are doing a cover of “Love On The Rocks”. Some things never change.
“So what the fuck are you doing here, Morgan?” asks Simon, quite reasonably.
“I’m a roadie,” replies Morgan, with the sort of pride people normally reserve for when they win a Nobel Prize. “They asked me Saturday and I thought why not.”
“I don’t believe it,” says Simon, deadpan.
“What? That I’m a roadie?”
“No. That you thought.” We all cackle at this, and Morgan grins stupidly, as he always does when he’s the butt of a joke.
“Be fair,” interjects Kate. He’s learned his lines and everything.”
“What do you mean, his lines?” I ask.
“Show ‘em, stud,” she says, giving Morgan a nudge.
“One…” he says seriously. “One… Two…”
The rest of us clap and cheer this, because we’re going to have a good time regardless of how lame the jokes are.

An hour later, we’re rolling down the motorway, the sounds of Journey wafting out of the speakers, much to Simon’s disgust. Simon is not a big fan of keyboards. Behind us, Wayne is keeping the van close, waving like a cock at anyone who looks him in the eye from the rear of the minibus. I am glad to see that Kate doesn’t do this very often, and sit beside her whilst Simon teaches Morgan pulling techniques on another seat.
“So you came,” she says simply.
“I came,” I agree. “I will be Peter Grant to their Led Zeppellin.”
“You know I hate lies,” she says disapprovingly. “There is no way you actually want to manage them, is there.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Well…” I hold the L for a bit too long and her brows furrow cutely. “Okay, probably not. To be absolutely honest, I quit my job today, and I need a bit of fun, and I actually quite like the lads, and you never know they might change my mind.” As well as the overuse of the word ‘and’, I carefully leave out that first and foremost I want to steal her away from her boyfriend.
“Hmmm…” she hmmms (we have so much in common). “Okay, I’ll go with that. Why did you quit your job?”
I tell her, in great and accurate detail, and she thoroughly enjoys the story, agreeing that Lindsay does sound like a bitch, and that I should have walked out ages ago. She is, I decide, a good audience.
Suddenly, she launches into song, joining in with a particularly difficult chorus that only a few women and the squeaky voiced Journey vocalist can manage. I sit there agape, and afterwards give her the obligatory slow handclap as she goes red and looks embarrassed.
“Stop it. It wasn’t that good.”
“Not that good?” I look incredulous, because I am. “That was fucking great. You, little lady, can sing.”
“No I can’t” she protests, peeking out now from between her fingers.
“Take it from a soon to be internationally renowned band manager,” I assert. “You are good. Try another one.”
And she does. The next song on is similarly awkward, but she handles it beautifully, matching the singer melody for melody, even causing Simon and Morgan to stop talking and look back.
“Hey Neil,” I ask, hoping that he doesn’t turn his head round. He doesn’t.
“What?”
“How come you don’t get Kate to do a few backing vocals for you?” I deliver this quite normally, which is a feat considering Kate is whacking my arm with some force and hissing at me to shut up.
“Kate?” he says incredulously. “Kate can’t sing.” The last is delivered with utter conviction. Neil, along with Wayne, likes girlfriends to sit in a very specific box, which allows them to do girly things like giggling and shagging, possibly knitting, but nothing of any importance or artistic merit.
Kate sticks her tongue out at me in an I told you so sort of way, so I just shrug and enjoy the ride, hoping that Journey never did a cover of “I Am, I Said”.

At six we finally pull up at our destination, a battered pub called The Plume Of Feathers in some small Cornish coastal town that has definitely seen better days. The Plume itself reflects the towns attitude, being as it is a run down, no doubt rat infested dunghole. Believe me, I’m being unkind to dungholes here by including them in the comparison. The bunch of us congregate beside the minibus, Wayne and Marlon joining us, with Wayne giving Kate what I thought was a totally unnecessarily snog. Bastard. After trying to give her a tonsillectomy, he turned to me.
“Right, Dave. This is the place. The owner’s some bloke called Sid.”
“Okay,” I reply, not quite getting the gist. “And?”
“Well… give it a go. Go and tell him we’re here and stuff. That’s what managers do.”
“Is it? I thought managers sat on their arses and creamed off ten per cent.”
“Nice one,” he says, and to my horror gives me the thumbs up. Fonzie he ain’t.
“Okay…” I sigh. “I’ll go get him. By the way, where’s the guest house we’re staying in? Is it close?”
“Well, yeah,” says Neil. “We’re staying here.”
“Here?” I can feel the plague starting to kick in already. “Seriously?”
“It’s brilliant!” enthuses Wayne. “A real metal pub. We managed to get accommodation for all of us instead of being paid.”
“You really do need a manager don’t you,” I say, then walk inside, wishing I’d had my jabs before we came.

Inside, the Plume isn’t actually that bad. As Wayne said, it’s a real metal pub, with band posters and the like plastered everywhere. They have way more bands on than we do, and my eye is caught by a poster advertising tonights gig. This is what it says:
‘Heavy Metal Spectacular!! Featuring Osmium and Idiosyncratic Routine!! Come Down And BANG YOUR HEADZ’. In metal, misspelling is very important – just ask Slade.
Heavy Metal Spectacular? I think we’re in trouble, and I debate whether to just scarper when a bloke pops up behind the bar and asks me if he can help me. Sensing that he probably hasn’t got any poison, I instead ask for Sid.
“That’s me mate,” he says, smiling. He looks like a lovely, sound bloke, just your everyday Mr Normal barman. Except, of course, for the fact that he has no shirt on, the top half of his body being covered completely in tattoos. Naturally, there is one featuring a topless lady on a motorbike.
I introduce myself, trying to stop myself staring and of course failing miserably. He is obviously used to this sort of thing, and graciously stops me in my tracks to fill me in on all his body art. Once that’s done I feel a lot more relaxed, able to appreciate the gentle subtlety of a picture of a policeman with a knife through his head.
“Nice decoration,” I comment, waving a hand vaguely at all the posters.
“Ta. We used to have farm implements on the walls but a coachload of football hooligans came in and… well, you can probably guess the rest.”
God, I love being right.
“So, what are Osmium like then,” I ask innocently.
“Oh, they’re really heavy fuckers,” he replies. “They called themselves Osmium cos it’s the heaviest metal, see. They’ve played here a few times. Set the stage on fire once with all their bloody pyros and the like. Normally they’d headline, but I put your lads on the top spot as they’ve got the record deal and everything.”
“The what and which?” I reply, my head spinning.
“The Vertigo thing. You know, the five album deal and the tour with Iron Maiden.”
“Oh,” I say lamely. “That. Wayne told you did he?”
“That’s the fella. Said he’d play for accommodation, even when I offered him some cash on top.”
I sigh inwardly and bang my inner head against my inner brick wall. “That’s Wayne all right.”
“Well, glad you’re here. The bands play on the stage in the main bar. It’s not massive but it’ll do you okay. Must seem a bit of a comedown after Hammersmith, but there you go.”
“Hammersmith. Yes.” I mumble, feeling impending doom descend like a huge vulture. “I’ll get them to bring the gear in.”

“Wayne, you fucking twat!” I shout, back in the car park. “He thinks you’ve got a fucking record deal!”
“Okay, I may have exaggerated a bit, but we got the gig didn’t we?”
“He’s put you on with a really heavy metal band. You don’t play heavy metal Wayne, you play poodle rock. They’re going to kill you.” I am quite serious here, but Wayne doesn’t seem to grasp it.
“We’ll be all right,” he says calmly. “We’ll just let the music do the talking, you know.”
“That would be great, if your music didn’t say ‘Look at us! We have perms! We know about melody! Please stone us to death!’”
“I ain’t got a perm,” interjects Marlon. To illustrate this, he runs his fingers through his hair, which is so naturally curly it looks just like a perm.
“Okay, so we’ll put it on your tombstone, Marlon” I say sarcastically. “By the way, Wayne, when does the tour with Iron Maiden start?”
“Um..” he mutters, actually looking embarrassed for once.
“Oh, bollocks to it,” I say, throwing my hands up in a very stereotypical gesture of frustration. “Just get your gear in.”
As the band and Morgan lug the gear from the van to the pub, me and Simon sit and have a fag on the minibus.
“We’re gonna have to check this thing for car bombs when we come out,” he says.
“You think? What the fuck am I doing here with that bunch of idiots?”
“Well, look on the bright side,” he says cheerily.
“What fucking bright side,” I reply with a sneer.
“At least your best mate’s here to support you, watch over you and then embarrass the fuck out of you when we get home by telling everyone all about it.”
“Thanks Simon.”
I wonder what our rooms are like.

Sex Gods from the Planet Metal - Chapter Six

2009-12-30T08:56:00.001-08:00

Then…

Mondays are never great, but Mondays that come two days after you’ve found a dead body on a school trip are slightly worse, if you catch my drift. Despite two nights of pretty much sleeplessness, I had managed to actually catch some zeds on the Sunday, probably through exhaustion. Unsurprisingly, Monday morning hit me like a hammer. A big hammer. Mum had made it quite clear that if I didn't want to go to school I didn't have to. A free pass! Such a thing is rare from most parents, but my Mum was normally of the opinion that the only real reason to miss a day of school was death, and even then she’s want a second opinion.
It had been a pretty weird weekend for me, with everyone badgering me about the whole thing, when all I want to do is forget it, like I could. It seems the guy had died of a heart attack, no foul play involved, but because of the commotion the performance was halted. I knew it wasn't my fault, because he would have been found by someone else soon enough, but I still felt guilty, as well as petrified the police would bang me up for it. Like any teenager I was convinced that the police were evil, and was quite surprised when the one that chatted to me turned out to be a really nice bloke who didn’t at any point try to throw me down a set of stairs then make me sign a statement confessing to the great train robbery and the murder of Archduke Ferdinand.
I guess I've just got a naturally guilty conscience. I'm a prime target for anyone with a collecting tin, they seem to sense my weakness, like a lioness pouncing on a crippled gazelle. I try to resist, but all they have to do is show me a picture of a starving child or injured puppy and I can't shove the coins in fast enough.

We all went home in silence, the coach seeming more like a hearse, and I knew that everyone was dying to ask me about my unusual experience but they were too aware of being the First To Mention It, so all I got was continued sideways glances, even from Peter, who should have known better. Instead, he called me later that night and we have a good natter about it all. Naturally, he found it exciting, and predicted much female interest in me as a result. Every cloud and all that, but at that point I wasn’t really that cheered up for some reason. Probably the whole dead body thing. Instead of rejoicing at my probable future sex prospects, I just went to my bedroom and sighed a lot, like you do, waiting for the weekend, and wondering what Monday would bring.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and my Mum came in.
"David?" she said tentatively, as if I had a gun to my head and a mad gleam in my eyes. "Are you going to go to school?"
"I suppose so," I affirmed reluctantly. "I have to face this thing out, and get it all out of the way."
"Okay. If that's what you want, love. Breakfast in fifteen minutes, okay?"
"Okay."
She left, possibly on tiptoe, and I got myself washed and dressed, all the time wondering if I'd made the right decision.

Breakfast was a subdued affair. We didn't have family breakfasts at the weekends, as there was never a reason for everyone to get up at the same time. I usually languished until at least midday on Saturdays, and spent Sundays listening to music and reading. That weekend gone, however, I just couldn't relax. If at any time I started to get into my groove someone would stick their bloody head around the door to ask me if I was alright and I'd start to feel awful again, whilst assuring them that everything was fine. I thought by Monday things would start to be normal again, but even Nick refrained from bugging me, because he'd obviously been told not to. At least I knew that he'd be the first one to crack. Indeed, he was no doubt storing up in his mind a million and one cruel jibes about dead bodies to torment me with as soon as he thought he could get away with it. With this in mind, I tried to pretend it was a normal breakfast time, except that my Brother had had his mouth glued shut, which was a nice thought, and waited for my chance to escape. Finally it came, and I picked up my bag and made for the door.
"Dave?" said Nick.
"What?"
“Do you want me to walk down with you today?" Oh Christ, this was just embarrassing. How feeble minded did they think I was?
"Why?" I asked pointedly. "Just because I discovered a dead body three days ago does not mean I am suddenly incapable of functioning. Just stop treating me like a little kid, both of you. I feel like the fucking Elephant Man lately!" I stopped suddenly, aware that I had broken a taboo - we did not, ever, swear in front of our parents. We may well have been foul mouthed little urchins in our own time, but not here, and not now. Nick looked at Mum, as aware as I was that a line had been crossed. At least, I thought, this might actually get a voice raised at me, a first step on the road to normality.
”Go on, David," is all she said. "I'll see you when you get home."
And that was it.

Dumbstruck, I left the house to call on Peter, who lived a couple of streets away. After I'd rung the bell his mother came to the door.
"David," she said, obviously surprised to see me. "Um, Peter's already gone to the precinct. He didn't think you'd be going in today. Are you okay?"
I gritted my teeth when I heard those very over used three words, and forced myself to be polite.
"Yes, thank you. I'll just see him down there." With that, I turned and left. It made sense that Peter would think I wasn't going in today, because I had told him that Mum said I didn't have to. To Peter, going to school when you don't have to was as bad as admitting that not only are you gay, but you fancy the Headmaster. Peter was of the firm opinion that the ultimate insult you could ever use was to accuse another boy of being gay. To be honest, I didn't understand it all myself. How could a bloke fancy other blokes when there are girls about? It beggared belief to me, but I wasn’t as obsessed about it as Peter. My Dad told me in a serious voice that his attitude meant that he was probably a latent homosexual, but despite laughing with my dad about it I figured it wouldn't be a sensible thing to say to Peter, at least not if I wanted my nose to stay where it was.

When I arrived at the precinct, I got looks. There's really no other words to describe it - I got looks. I really did feel like the Elephant Man, one of the weird movies my parents made me watch. At the time I thought it was a load of old bollocks, but standing there with all eyes on me I had the tiniest inkling of what the lumpy freak felt. I wove through the throng, all waiting for their coaches to arrive, trying not to meet anyone's eyes. To get away, I sloped into the newsagents, where the proprietor immediately eyed me like a hawk. I sympathised with the man, having a shop besieged by schoolchildren every weekday, most of them with the intent of nicking whatever they can get their grubby little paws on, but I really despised him as well. It was an odd sensation, because the rational side of my brain said I knew why he hated kids, because a lot of us are thieving scumbags, but the non rational side of my brain kept insisting that he was, in no uncertain terms, a git. To make myself feel better, I swiftly pocketed a bottle of Tippex from under his beaky nose. Not to sniff, I must point out, I just liked writing on the toilet walls with it.

When I came out of the shop, Peter was waiting for me, a confused look on his face.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked, straightforward as ever.
"I'm on a pilgrimage to Mecca," I replied sarcastically. "And as you know, pilgrims need their Monster Munch. What the fuck do you think I'm doing here?"
"But... you don't have to go to school today," he said incredulously, in the same tone an archaeologist might say “It’s the holy grail.. and we found it in Ikea”.
I could see the cogs of disbelief grinding against each other in his head.
"Yeah well, I thought why not. I've got to get all the shit over with, haven't I?"
"Yeah, but you don't have to go in today," he asserted again, just in case this was a fact that had somehow escaped me.
"I know Peter," I said firmly, looking him in the eye. "I want to go in. I know it goes against all your instincts, but I actually want to go to school today."
He stared at me like one would a wolf that is foaming at the mouth and looking uncomfortably hungry with it.
"You're mad!" he exclaimed, obviously glad to have reached this conclusion and thereby explained away my mysterious actions. Maybe he was right, but there wasn’t any time for debating my sanity as our coach arrived and we joined the general crush to get on.

"'Thomas Covenant," read Miss Wright aloud, "in an attempt to stay sane, went into town and got knocked over by a car.' What is wrong with that sentence?"
Silence.
This was the none too insightful book report by Big Bob Pullar, written about some fantasy nonsense he’d read but no one else would touch, a ludicrously hefty series of books that looked dull as anything. Big Bob always did his reports on this kind of book, and was rarely seen without the company of some two inch thick fantasy tome. Personally, I thought then and think now that all the wizards and warriors stuff is stupid. I refused to join the select handful of nerds who gathered at lunchtimes in a maths classroom and threw twenty sided dice around whilst pretending they were elves, wizards, plumbers or whatever. Bloody spanners the lot of them if you ask me.
Nobody seemed to have grasped the silliness of Bib Bob’s sentence, so I tentatively stuck my hand up.
"Yes David?"
"It sounds like the way he tried to stay sane was to get hit by a car," I said confidently. "What he did to stay sane was go into town, and whilst there he got hit by a car. There is definitely a lack of comma somewhere"
"Very good, David," she said with a smile, and continued with her reading.
God I was glad the day was nearly over. Once people got it in their heads that I wasn't going to crumble into dust if asked about last Friday they came out in force to quiz me about finding the body. It wasn’t too bad, I suppose, but mentally I felt like I’d played Gary Kasparov at chess. Peter stuck by me when we shared a lesson, and he'd successfully diverted a few people who got a bit morbid or pushy. Friends are important. Of course, he had a fair few questions of his own, but I didn't mind. Miss Wright let us know that the theatre had refunded our money, including travelling costs, and had also invited us all back for free near the end of the plays run. She gave everyone a week to decide what they want to do, but I was confident that most would be happy to give it another go, if only in the hopes of finding their own dead body. Several people had unsurprisingly asked me what my decision would be, mostly girls with sympathetic looks on their faces. Each time I assured them that I would be going, and that I was grateful for their concern. I suppose Peter was right, and it was a nice flip side to the morbid interest of the boys, which seemed to concentrate of exactly what the body smelled like, and whether its cock was still in its hand. Peter was now very happy that I came in, as it gave him an opportunity to reflect in my weird glory. I really wasn’t worried at all about going back, although I suppose I should have been. All that happened was a man died from natural causes and I found him. After the Carolyn Thomas experience I’d been careful not to bullshit about everything, and I told the same true story to everyone who asked, with no embellishments whatsoever. Predictably this didn’t stop other people from adding their own embellishments, and Peter faithfully reported a few interesting variations that he'd heard, including one where the guy had been savagely beaten to death, and I came out covered in his blood. Nice. Oh well, I thought, as long as I deny any of this shit I'll be happy with myself. Just Geography to go now and I can go home.

The Boomtown Rats had a big song called "I Don't Like Mondays", which you must have heard, as it’s great. It came about after a girl in America was so pissed off that she took a rifle, found herself a cosy vantage point, and proceeded to pick off her schoolmates one by one until a SWAT team finally bagged her. Bear in mind that this was way before violent video games. It may seem incredible that anyone could have such deep, powerful feelings that they'd actively put a bullet in the people they spend most days with, but standing where I was standing I really thought I knew how she felt. At that point I'd have gladly sat on top of the Admin building and taken potshots at a select few of my fellow pupils, one fuckwitted bastard in particular, and possibly the Deputy Head as well. You see, I was standing outside his office, awaiting a bollocking, as you do. Despite a reasonable start, the day had turned into a right shitter, and somewhat predictably, it was my big gobbed nemesis Carl Lewis that managed to push me over the edge.

It was in Geography, and the lesson was only about ten minutes old when he started off.
"Heard you fucked a dead guy, banner," he sneered.
"Funny man, Carl," I replied calmly, determined not to rise to his baiting. "I found a dead guy, big fucking deal. He still stood a better chance of getting laid then you do, though."
"I heard you gave him the kiss of life and tried to stick your tongue in," he said, snorting at his own comic genius. "Bet he was more receptive than Carolyn Thomas."
"Shut up, Carl," I said. He was really beginning to piss me off by this point. Okay, so I was determined not to raise to it, but you really had to be near this guy to realise what an absolute genius he was at making you want to punch him.
"Banner kissed a dead guy, Banner kissed a dead guy," he chanted softly, all the while a stupid leer on his face.
"Carl," I said. "If you don't shut the fuck up I'm going to smack you in the face." I said this in a low growl that was supposed to be menacing, and like to think I did a good job.
At the front of the class, Mr George was, as usual, droning on, lost in a world of volcanoes and different types of rock. When I was in junior school I thought Geography was all about Capital Cities, not all the bollocks it actually is about, Cumulonimbus my arse.
"You haven't got the guts, Banner," came back Carl. "All you’re good for is kissing dead guys, same as your Mum."
And that did it. What is it about guys that we can take almost any insult about ourselves, but if someone says anything slightly derogatory about our mothers we go nuts? Well, he said it, and I went nuts. I stood up, propelling my chair out behind me, then I pulled back by fist and gave Carl a thump right on the nose. Looking back, I am still proud of that punch, and still get a warm glow thinking of it. He, naturally enough, collapsed back in his chair, blood spraying from his nose. I don't think Mr George could believe his eyes. He stopped his monologue and just stared at us. I was still on my feet, fists clenched, and Carl was staggering back onto his chair, one hand on his nose and howling with pain and not a few choice swearwords. I'll tell you this much, it felt really fucking good.

Of course, It got me in the shit, as Mr George sent Carl with a chaperone to the school nurse, whilst he dragged me up to see the deputy head. As I waited outside to “think about what I had done”, Mr George was inside, no doubt explaining in gory detail what I did. I didn't really care what happened to me, because the bastard deserved what he got and I was glad I was the one to finally give it to him. It made me realise that there had been a lot of rage and frustration building up in me over the last couple of days, and by pure luck I had found a very healthy way to let it all out. I mean, I could have lamped someone who didn't really deserve it, at least this way I’d done the world a favour.
The door to the office opened and Mr George asked me to come in. I entered and sat down opposite the Deputy Head as Mr George left quietly to return to the class, most likely praying to himself that they hadn’t reverted to savagery and started worshipping a pigs head in the ten minutes he’d been gone. Some chance. We sat in silence for a minute, and I studied my opponent. Mr Maynard was not an imposing man, physically. He was stick thin and must have been sixty years old at least. His main distinguishing features were a mop of very wispy grey hair and eyes that could bore into your very soul. Those eyes were doing a very good job of tunnelling into my own soul, and I suddenly had a horrible urge to bust into tears. I swallowed very purposefully to keep them down. As if this was the sign he was waiting for, Mr Maynard finally spoke.
"What am I going to do with you, eh David?" he said. I figured it was a rhetorical question and kept silent. The only thing I could have possibly said is "Dunno, Sir," and I wasn’t going to get into that, because it reminded me too much of Grange Hill. All the kids ever seemed to say when they got a bollocking on that show was "Dunno, Sir," and I was not going to do it, no way.
"Well?" Mr Maynard pushed after a few seconds. "Any suggestions?"
”Dunno, Sir," I mumbled. Shit.
"Why did you do it David?" he asked, not unkindly. So I told him.
I didn't pull any punches, and poured it all out, like Hitler suddenly deciding that after killing millions of Jews and assorted others it's time to go to confession. He just sat there and nodded occasionally, as I told him that I was sick of being treated like a freak, that I wasn't going to take any shit from Carl Lewis. I actually said "shit", and didn’t even realise I was doing so. I told him exactly what Carl said, and he didn't bat an eyelid. When I finished, he leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. I think he honestly didn't know what to say, and we sat again for a minute in silence as he no doubt considered what the heck to do with me.
"You know David," he said eventually. "I really do sympathise with you. I've had Carl Lewis up here far too many times than is healthy for either winding people up or bullying them. My problem is that you punched another pupil in the middle of a class. I can't let that go unpunished, no matter how much I realise why you did it. I want you to understand that I'm doing this as much for you as for appearances sake. I'm going to suspend you from school for the rest of the week."
I didn't say anything, but my mind was in a whirl – forty degree quick wash with extra powder. Suspended? Doesn't that stay on your permanent record or something? I knew my parents would go apeshit. "I'll have my secretary call your mother or father, and they can pick you up today and take you home. Who would it be best to call?"
"My mother," I said immediately. She was close, and she had a car. Unfortunately, she also had a temper that made a hurricane look fluffy.
"Okay. If you could go back outside and take a seat, I'm sure she'll be here soon. Have you got all your stuff with you?"
"Yes." Sniff. Now the tears were really getting close.
"David. Don't worry about this. It's better for all concerned that you take a few days off. Relax, read a book or two. Don't think of this as a bad thing. I know you're not a bad boy, all I ask is that you get this out of your system, and make sure it never happens again. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good. Don't worry, David. I will be speaking to Carl, and I'll make it very clear that if he tries anything like this again I'll have his guts for garters. By the time you come back it will all have blown over, and that's for the best. Now go on, I'll call your mother."
"Thank you, Sir," I said, not knowing what else would be appropriate, then I went back outside, feeling like an aristo on his way to the guillotine. A few of the tears crept though, but I wiped them away with my sleeve and ordered my thoughts. I knew damn well this could have been a lot worse, and I also knew that he was telling the truth when he said that suspending me was the best thing to do. It struck me that Peter would be jealous as hell, and that thought made me smile a little. I figured that if I explained it to my Mum and dad like I did to Mr Maynard, they'd understand. Sometimes parents don’t have to be monsters, even if their children can’t help it.

Now…
“Fuck off, y’little bastards!” I shout, with passion and belief, at the two schoolkids who think that calling me gay as they pass the level crossing in front of me is the height of humour. I want to take them aside and tell them that calling someone gay is sociologically wrong, and that one day one of them may discover that he has feelings that way, and he will rue the day he once used the term as an insult. Instead, I just tell them to fuck off again, which is quicker and makes me feel like the big man.
Yes, it’s that old favourite, Monday morning, hated by Garfield and anybody who has a shit job. I faithfully count myself amongst the latter, and as I leave Mini all alone for another day (hopefully less) in the staff car park I wonder why I bother to come here five days out of seven to write letters to a load of idiots who can’t grasp the fact that if you own a car it should be serviced at least once between ice ages. The answer, of course, is money. Money allows me to buy the shiny things that make a mans life complete – I shop, therefore I work.

After flirting badly with Clare on reception, I settle at my desk at precisely one minute to nine, as I do every working day. I may not have many talents, but arriving at work on time is one of them. The worst timekeepers will arrive about twelve minutes or so early, which is too late for breakfast, but too early to sit down and start work without feeling you’re somehow being cheated. Lindsay, my fat, lazy supervisor glares at me as if I am an hour late, but them she probably glares at her husband like that when she is in the throes of the best orgasm of her life – she’s got that sort of face. We don’t, it should be said, get on. The problem is that I think she’s a fat lazy bitch, and she knows I think she’s a fat lazy bitch. So far I’ve proved to be beyond her reach, as I am an expert in knowing just how much work to do so as to allow myself ample skiving time whilst looking nicely efficient. Truth be told, I could clear twice my workload if I wanted, but there’s just no incentive, save that it would make the bitch queen look good, so I don’t.
“You like putting the tea towel in the anal tea towel holder” flashes up on my screen. I grin and quickly delete it, peering over my computer to catch the eye of Greg on the other side of the room. He smirks like a twat and flashes me the wanker sign, then ducks down to type on his keyboard.
“Well you are” flashes up on my screen.

I think one of the biggest mistakes the company made was to allow instant messages to be flashed up on staff members screens. Each member of staff can type in a message and have it appear on someone else’s screen, supposedly so that important messages can be easily relayed to several people at once. Yeah, and the Internet isn’t just a massive porn database, it’s there for research and education. Naturally, certain members of staff abuse the facility for their own amusement, and I’m one of them. Greg is another. I feel it is necessary to explain why he sends me messages of a distinctly homosexual nature, beyond the obvious reason that he’s a twat. Greg, you see, is fascinated with double entendres and the like. He was educated in a public school, miraculously emerging liking girls, but the environment still managed to twist his brain up a bit, leaving him the sort of bloke who will fall into a fit of giggles if anyone says the word “nob” too loudly. Thus, every day he tries to ensure that he finds as many ways of calling me gay as possible without actually saying the word. I, of course, am far to mature for this sort of thing. Am I bollocks.
“You like driving down the Marmite motorway” I type carefully before finding his ID and pressing send. I am rewarded with a snort of laughter from his side of the office. Job well done. Well, it makes a change from Battleships, which we usually play in the afternoon if we get really fed up of actual work, which equates to nearly every afternoon.

Speaking of work, I decide to reply to a few letters before asking for the rest of the week off. You know, show willing and all. We have what is known as a paperless office, and all letters are scanned onto computers. You just choose the type of letter you want (or have) to work on, and the nest in the queue will pop up. Great stuff, unless it’s a letter from the likes of Mr Patel. Now I don’t know Mr Patel personally, but I know his ilk. He’s a taxi driver in the Midlands, and since taking out breakdown cover three weeks ago he has required assistance six times. This generated an automatic latter telling him in no uncertain terms that we were revoking his membership because he was taking the piss. Of course, I’m reading between the lines here, and the actual letter is more like “…although we value you as a customer…” or some such bollocks. Mr Patel is not a happy bunny at this, and so writes a shitty letter because he is one of those people who thinks that customer service people just love letters that are half written in CAPITAL LETTERS. In fact, the first time a customer service person even glimpses capital letters in a missive they automatically think “wanker” – this is a scientific fact.

Mr Patel, it turns out, is a wanker. He drones on about terms and conditions (it’s in them as it happens – he just didn’t read them), fair play, and the fact that of course he’s going to break down more because he does more miles than other people. Like I said – wanker. There’s a standard reply to this sort of drivel, but I feel creative, and I’m still in a mood from yesterday, so I bash out a reply to soothe the itch in my subconscious:
Dear Mr Patel etc. Thank you for your letter, which, after it has been laughed at by the entire office, will make good, if misspelled, toilet paper. I understand your reasoning as to why I should bow down and worship the grass you float above, but I do have a few queries: If you make a living from your car, how come you don't feel the need to actually service the piece of shit every once in a while? I know that people like you think that we're here to subsidise your lack of maintenance but, and I hate to break this to you, we're not. You are a cancerous boil on the backside of my company, and I would feel better about myself if I allow you to be lanced. Go and take your rusting piece of fucking gnats piss car to another company please. I would like to take this opportunity to stress that it's not your race, religion or occupation I object to, it's just you. Now fuck off, and don't come back. Love and kisses, Dave Banner.
It is so tempting, but of course I don’t send it, I just print out a copy to show Greg later, as it should give the uphill gardener a laugh.

I quickly run off a “Thanks, but no thanks” reply to Mr Patel and a few others, and decide it’s time to chase the dragon about getting time off. I saunter over to Lindsay, who puts the phone down as I approach.
“Ah, Dave,” she says, all smiles and fluttering of eyelashes. “I was just talking about you.”
“Good things, I hope,” I say with a smile. “Actually, I was wondering if we could have a little chat. I want to ask you a favour.” All staff and immediate bosses have this little fake respect dance, because if they actually said what they really wanted to there would be bloodshed, and that’s just not a great way to run a business.
“Well,” she says, stretching the word. “I was going to ask for a meeting myself, but in a bit. Hang on.” With this, she picks up her phone again and dials an internal extension. “Hello? Yes it’s me. Look, Dave Banner has just asked me for a meeting about something or other, so are you free now for ten minutes so we can sort that other matter out? You are? Good. We’ll see you in a minute.”
Other matter? What the fuck is going on?
“We’ve just got to go and see Tina in Personnel, Dave, and we can talk about your little favour as well.”
“Why do we have to see Personnel?” I ask, quite reasonably.
“”You’ll see,” she replies happily, which is the big neon warning sign saying ‘You are in the shit and I am absolutely loving it’. “Coming?” So off we go.

We sit in one of the small offices set aside for staff meetings with Tina shuffling my personal file in front of her like a Nazi commandant. I half expect her to bend over me and shout “So! You think you can escape, pathetic Englander!” but she doesn’t, and I resolve not to read so many Commando comics.
“So,” I say, trying to break the ice. “You found the body, then.” Nobody laughs, possibly because it was a shit joke.
“I’m afraid we have something to discuss with you, David,” says Tina solemnly. She’s normally quite nice to me, so I know she’s not mucking about. I look at Lindsay, and inwardly admire her for not jumping around the room letting off fireworks.
“Go on then,” I say, half worried and half not caring. After all, it can’t be that bad or I’d remember it.
“Well,” Tina continues, “you know we allow staff to communicate via the instant messaging system?” I nod. “It has come to our attention that you have been using it to send, how shall I put it, offensive remarks.”
“Like what?” I ask, purely because I know I’m bang to rights and want to hear her say it.
“Well, there’s ‘browneye bandit’, ‘anal adventurer’ and ‘backdoor botherer’ to name a few.”
“I have a good excuse,” I say.
“What is it?”
“I thought it was funny.”
“Funny?” cuts in Lindsay. “As a gay person myself I must say I find it extremely offensive.”
“You’re not gay Lins,” I say. “You’re married.”
“It’s a loveless marriage,” she says huffily.
“I’m not bloody surprised,” I snort. This is mental.
“We’re getting a bit off topic here,” Tina interjects. “You admit to sending these messages, Dave?”
“Yes. I was having a laugh with a colleague.”
“And who would this colleague be?” asks Tina.
“Don’t you know?”
“Well, to tell the truth we haven’t set up monitoring on all the computers yet, just the ones in Lindsays team, as a test.”
“Well I’m not going to tell you if it’s gonna get him in the shit as well, am I?”
“We would be more lenient on you if you did.”
“This is like being arrested!” I exclaim. “We’ll knock twenty years off your sentence if you’ll squeal on the Godfather and all that bollocks. Look, I’m not in the mood for all this, so give me a written warning or whatever, slap me on the wrist and I’ll promise not to do it again, okay?”
“Actually, there is another thing,” says Lindsay, really working hard on the not smiling thing. She takes out a letter and hands it to Tina. “This was in our printer tray this morning.”
Oh shit. Mr Patel’s letter. I forgot to take it out of the communal printer tray, and the bitch queen got her claws on it. I watch as Tina reads it with horrified disbelief. An official letter, on official paper, with my name and computer generated signature at the bottom, telling a customer to fuck off. Whoops.
“Dave?” says Tina, aghast. “Why on earth did you write this?”
“Look,” I way reasonably. “I wasn’t going to send it. I wrote him a proper letter as well. I just wrote that to get some of the frustration out of my head. I have just had a very nasty weekend and it helped calm me down. I only printed it out to show to my mate. No harm done.”
“No harm done!” shrieks Lindsay in triumph. “Do you realise someone could have put this in the post? If the papers had got hold of it the company would face a major backlash.” I swear she couldn’t be more like a cartoon villain if she had a speech bubble coming out of the side of her head with “Bwah Ha Ha!” in it.
“Was it sent?” I asked calmly.
“Well… no.”
“Then as I said. No harm done.”
“I’m afraid that as it has been brought to my attention I have to act on it,” says Tina. “I understand why you did it, but you have to consider the potential ramifications.”
“You are in it up to your neck, Dave” says Lindsay gloatingly. To my credit, I don’t punch her, mostly because she has about ten stone on me.

And then I snapped.

“You said what?” asks Simon, wiping tears from his eyes.
“I said ‘Fuck you and fuck your job’” I reply, as if it’s something I do every day.
“Then what?” he asks.
“Then I called Lindsay a fat evil bitch, which I have wanted to do for sooo long, and I went downstairs, picked up my bag and left.”
“You my friend, have balls of steel,” he says admiringly. “But no job.”
“Yes,” I confirm. “I am unemployed, and I feel great. I’m sure when it hits me I’ll feel depressed, melancholy and even suicidal, but for now I’m going to enjoy it, and whenever I feel down I can just revisit Lindsays face in my mind and I’ll cheer up all over again. Get me a beer”
“Yes sir, Mr Unemployed Balls Of Steel Man,” he says, saluting and going to the kitchen.

It’s only been an hour since my rather sudden quitting, and Simon is enjoying my dramatic representation, which is, I would like to say, totally accurate. My phone has almost continually rung since, all workmates wanting the dirt, so I turned it off, leaving an answerphone message that says “Sorry I can’t come to the phone, but yes I did quit and yes I did call Lindsay a fat evil bitch.”. That should give them something to gossip about, if nothing else. Thoughts of my phone remind me of why I wanted the meeting in the first place, and I turn it back on as Simon comes back with a couple of beers.
“Simon?” I say, taking mine gratefully. “What are you doing this week?”
“Nothing that can’t be put off,” he replies, reading my mind as ever. “What did you have in mind?”
“Let’s go for a road trip,” I say, and dial Waynes number.

Sex Gods from the Planet Metal - Chapter Five

2009-12-30T08:53:00.000-08:00

Then…

When I was seven, my grandfather taught me to play chess. He was a ludicrously intelligent man, whose patience and forward thinking allowed him to beat a chess computer on the highest level. Before he died, I beat him just once, and I like to think it was on my own merit, genius obviously having bypassed my father and been downloaded straight into me. Okay, so he probably let me win, but if he did, he did it with such subtlety that I'll never know for sure. I mention this because I discovered the real joy of chess from my grandfather - the fact that the outcome depends on moves, countermoves, forward thinking and knowing your opponents strengths and weaknesses. This translated well into real life whenever I wanted to get money out of my parents. My parents, nice as they were, had wallets that were tighter than the proverbial gnat’s chuff. It was so long between openings that any moths in there would have long since died of suffocation. The case in point is a play of "Of Mice And Men" in London, which I wanted to see. Obviously, my parents were against giving me money for anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary, including food and air, so I had to use tactics, or “sneaky bastardness” as my brother succinctly put it, to achieve my aims.

Firstly, I moved my pawns, by making tentative inquiries about how much I had enjoyed reading "Of Mice And Men" in class. I’m not saying I overdid it, but if they had printed all the praise I lavished upon it on the back of the book it would have had to be about ten feet big. With very small writing. The object of this was to get my parents to agree that it's a good book, even a very good book, and worthy of study by their offspring. Next, I brought my bishops, knights and rooks (that's a castle to the uninitiated, or a “thingy” to my brother) into the fray. They formed the front line that wore my parents down, slowly chiselling away at their defences as I introduced the topic of the class trip to see the tale on stage in London. Of course, they initially said “No” (parents have to say no the first time you ask – it’s a law or something), but with skilful play I whittled down their defences and manoeuvred them into the desired "maybe" position. Every kid knows that once you've got the word No changed to Maybe then you're on the home straight. As long as you keep at it and don't let your guard down then you're in like Flynn. With this in mind, my queen started bullying her way around the board, reducing my parents arsenal to a few lowly pawns and their king, other wise known as "Money doesn't grow on trees". This is a standard argument of all parents, easily negated by the fact that money (or money that matters anyway – keep your coins, paupers!) is made of paper, and paper is made of trees, so there. I finally got them in checkmate, albeit with a pretty impressive sulk and the obligatory promise not to ask for anything “Ever again”, or “a week” as it translates, and they let me go to London, after only three days asking. My game, I think, and I apologise for all the stupid chess metaphors.

Anyone who's ever taken a coach to school will know the power of the Back Seat. It deserves its’ capital letters, as it's the seat of power on the coach. Every morning as we waited for the coach to school we were like a pack of wolves fighting over the last scrap of lost schoolchild, snarling, biting and occasionally marking our territory with a well aimed gob. The coach would pull up, the driver would open the doors and then everything would descend into chaos as all the boys tried to squeeze on first so they could sit on the Back Seat and lord it over the peasants. I managed it a few times, but never really saw it as worth the effort, settling most of the time for a seat about three quarters of the way back. Not a seat of power, but a good position to still have a laugh nonetheless. As we travelled to London on the mini coach, however, I was firmly ensconced on the Back Seat, slouched against the window, thanks to Miss Wright. She didn't actually know she was doing me a favour, but she made everyone line up alphabetically to go onto the coach, and as a Banner I was the first boy in the queue. Peter found himself fifth, so we were both able to acquire a seat of power without doing anything to actually earn it, a bit like the royal family. I felt like Ming The Merciless in the old Flash Gordon serials my Mum goes on about, sitting on my throne, cackling and plotting evil plans. Miss Wright was sat at the front, circled by creepier members of the class. I may have been good at English, and yes, I had a mad crush on the woman, but I knew full well that if I started sucking up to the teacher I'd soon lose a few rungs in the ladder of hierarchy that us kids have. Instead, I contented myself with firing off spitballs at selected students in front of me and singing borderline dirty songs with the rest of the lads at the back. All credit to Miss Wright, as she just let us get on with it, coming back only once, when Mike Parker decided to try and get everyone singing "Frigging In The Rigging", even going so far as to pass out lyric sheets, which I felt was a mark of genius. He’s an investment banker now.

After a few hours of travel, we finally started cruising through the outskirts of London, and I could feel the tension mount. I looked at Peter, ready to discuss the pluses and minuses of the sprawling metropolis, but he had his head wedged between the two seats in front of us. As those two seats contained Chloe Hamilton and Karen Thompson, I wasn’t surprised. They were the undoubted princesses of the class, being not only very pretty, but also very partial to the sort of boy who sits on the back seat. Not for them intelligence and witty conversation, the much prefer the brute force and ignorance approach. I suspect they are both married to Premiership footballers today. I knew that normally Peter wouldn't bother with them, but since we went out with Carolyn and Jane he'd been chasing girls like Benny Hill with ADHD. Personally, I hadn't tried it on with anyone, mainly because the memory of Carolyn's brothers was still all too fresh, and I didn’t fancy another helping of vomit and boot polish. I left Peter to his flirting and turned back to the window, content with watching the World go by.

I love London, and I think the affair started with that trip. It was the first time I'd been, but I was in “brilliant” mode, enthusing over everything like a rock frontman pretending that every venue and audience are the “best ever!” I could not believe I was standing in Trafalgar square, with Nelson towering above me and pigeons pecking at the food in my outstretched hands. Peter stood a few meters away, taking a photograph, whilst the rest of the class climbed on the giant lions and pretended to push each other in the fountain (This never gets old). Miss Wright kept a beady eye on everyone at the same time, occasionally stepping in to lend a hand when someone was being just that bit too much of a dick. She was being helped by Joanna, a student teacher. Normally, student teachers are fair game, but Miss Wright was very clear on what would happen to anyone who messed Joanna about. Personally, I didn't fancy missing the play to sit in the coach with the driver, so had treated Joanna like royalty, and by that I don't mean taking pictures of her when she's not looking and selling them to the papers.
When the birds had finished with me, flapping their way across the square to pick on a soon to be crying her eyes out little girl, we both went to sit by the fountain and just watch everyone else. Peter seemed to be content to stare at Chloe Hamilton, and although she had more air in her head than brains, I could see why: she was very pretty, and had got long blonde hair that seemed to defy gravity. Reason enough, in a hormonal schoolboys mind, to stare at her until your eyeballs dry up.
"You in there, then?" I said, nudging him conspiratorially.
"Nah," he admitted with uncommon honesty. "She's alright to chat to, but she won't do anything unless you play for the rugby team."
"You seemed to be getting on alright on the coach."
"I would've been chatting to you, but you just sat there looking out of the bloody window. What's up?"
"I dunno. I've just got things running through my head. Everything just seems so fucking futile. What's the point of it all?" This was a deep thought for one so shallow.
"Girls and music," Peter stated with the confidence of someone who absolutely knows that he's right. "Or music and girls for you, as you haven't even had a sniff since The Incident."
We called it 'The Incident' (remember the capitals) because I couldn’t bear to hear in any detail about what happened. I walked around in a permanent state of alert, always looking over my shoulder, always afraid that they'd come back and finish the job. I hadn't dared even speak to another girl, like there was some sort of mental block inside me. It was two months since The Incident, but whenever I closed my eyes at night I ran through the whole thing and realise what I should have done differently to affect a more satisfactory outcome (such as not puke on his shoes). I wondered if I'd ever be able to let it go.
"I just don't fancy anyone at the moment," I lied.
"Ah, you're just a wet blanket," said Peter, and made as if to push me backwards into the water, like you do.
Although he stopped at the last second, I reflexively jerked away from his hands, and suddenly found myself overbalanced and at the point of no return, like someone leaning on the back two legs of a chair who suddenly realises he is about to be very embarrassed and very on the floor very shortly. The world slowed as I toppled backwards. Peter grabbed for me when he realised what was going on, but his hands couldn’t get a secure purchase on my jacket, and I fell with great indignity into the water. The correct sound effect in the comic book of my life would definitely have been “sploosh!”
It wasn’t very deep, and I ended up for a millisecond with my head submerged and my legs sticking comically up against the edge. Immediately, I pushed my hands behind me and propelled my body up, gasping for air. Peter reached over and grabbed me, pulling me back up, and I just sat on the edge, looking like a half drowned puppy. I could not believe what had just happened. Everyone, and I mean everyone in the world, not just the class, was staring at me, most of them laughing their asses off, and not without justification. I knew full well that if I was in their place I would be pissing myself, but from where I was sitting (and dripping), it was just not funny, dammit! Why couldn't they see that? As I rubbed my hands over my face and hair, trying to wipe the excess water off, I saw Miss Wright running over. She didn't look very amused, unsurprisingly, and I thought perversely that she was the only person I'd rather have actually laughing.
"What on Earth is going on here?" she said harshly when she reached us.
"I fell in," I replied simply. "It was an accident."
"An accident?" she exclaimed incredulously. "You don't just fall backwards into a fountain by accident. You fall in a fountain because someone pushes you, and I can only see one person here who could have done that." She glared at Peter, who had the good sense to look very ashamed.
"He didn't actually push me, Miss," I said, preparing the case for the defence. "We were just messing about."
"Messing about?” She made it sound more like ‘Multiple Homicide’. “Did it not occur to you that this was a pretty stupid place to be messing about? What if you'd banged your head? What if we'd had to fish you out and take you to the hospital? Don't you think about these things?"
Teachers are great at these questions, along with parents. They can take a harmless incident and make it seem like you were trying to start World War Three. They can't just tell you off, they have to take it to the next level. I swear they're all out to get me.
"Sorry Miss," we said in unison, aware that there really was no other answer we could give. We were both painfully aware at this moment that our future hung in the balance, with Miss Wright as our judge, jury and executioner. She just stood for a few seconds, mulling over her options, as we put on the most grovellingly apologetic expressions we could find in our repertoire.
"Right," she said finally. "Peter, you stay here. David, come with me." I stood up, and she led me away.
"Take your jacket off," she ordered when we were out of earshot of the rest of the class. I obediently too it off and handed it to her. She put it in a carrier bag and we continued on to a souvenir shop. Inside, the shop was mass of Union Jacks, with 'I Heart London' plastered on everything it could possibly be plastered on. Jesus, I wondered, who actually buys this crap, and even worse, who wears it? Without a word, Miss Wright picked up a t-shirt bearing that very legend and handed over a fiver to the shop assistant.
"Right," she said when we get outside. "Take that wet shirt off."
I complied silently, still aware that she hadn't actually let me off yet. She put my shirt in the same bag as my wet jacket and handed me the souvenir shirt.
"Put this on. There's not much I can do about your trousers, but they're not all that bad. Just promise me you won't catch pneumonia, okay?"
"Yes, Miss," I replied with a smile. "Miss?" I added tentatively. "It wasn't Peter's fault really. I just fell in, that's all. Can we still see the play?" Oh please please say yes. She looked down at me and smiled. One of those God is in his heaven, angels trumpeting kind of smiles, so I knew it was going to be okay.
"I suppose so," she said. "I'm sorry I got mad, but it was a bit of a shock, seeing you sitting there all wet. To be honest, I don't know how I stopped myself from laughing, but that's between you and me, okay?"
"Okay," I promised, and we walked back over to Trafalgar square. When we got there, everyone was quiet, all wondering what Miss Wright would do to punish me and Peter. I ignored them and sat next to Peter again.
"You alright?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"So what's happening?" He was dying to know.
"About what?" I said innocently, playing with him like he was an inquisitive kitten.
"Are we getting bollocked or what?" he hissed, exasperated.
"Nah," I said nonchalantly. "I reckon having to wear this shirt is punishment enough, don't you?"
He laughed, and we both reflected silently on how lucky we've just been. Why can't girls be more like Miss Wright? I thought to myself. On cue, she blew her whistle, the signal for us to be rounded up. It was time for the play, and not a minute too soon.

The George Theatre was a beautiful place. It was filled with schoolkids as it was a special matinee showing of the play. Miss Wright bought a programme, which was passed round once we’d taken our seats. As I read the cast list I couldn’t believe my eyes. The part of Curley, the short, terminally pissed off ranch bosses son, was being played by Christopher Ryan. Nobody else could work out why I was so worked up about this, until I explained that he's the same guy who played Mike in The Young Ones. A collective 'Aaaaahhhh...' went through the line, as everyone had seen The Young Ones, or at least pretended to, as either not watching or not enjoying it was a sure social death. As the lights darkened and the curtain went back, I was mesmerised. The first scene opened with Lenny and George by a stream, and they actually had a stream running across the front of the stage! I sat, entranced, for the first act, but halfway through the second my bladder urgently insisted I leave for a few minutes or risk my trousers becoming damp again. With great regret, I shuffled past the others and scurried to the gents, looking over my shoulder until I turned the corner and could no longer see the stage. I knew every word, or just about, but it was such a magical performance to me that I didn't want to miss any more than was completely necessary.
The theatre toilets were rather posh, with golden taps and pristine walls. I was more used to school toilets, where you don't dare touch the walls the only toilet paper is that tracing paper style medicated stuff that doesn't absorb at all, it just sort of smears the shit over as much space as possible. There were urinals, but I've never been able to go in those, still can’t, so I headed for the nearest cubicle and pushed open the door. In my hurry, I didn't see the man on the floor until I tripped over him. My arms flailed wildly, and I planted them on the cistern so I didn't brain myself on it. Then, I looked down in horror. There was a man on the floor. He was fully clothed, smartly so even, and was just lying there, motionless. I could not believe what I was seeing here, my brain resisting the urge to shout “He’s dead! He’s dead!” at me. I backed out of the cubicle and squatted down to look at his face. There was no blood or bruising to suggest he fell and knocked himself out, but there also seemed to be no sign of life. I really didn't want to touch him, but I couldn't help myself. I tentatively reached out a hand and poked him, wishing I had a stick instead. Nothing. I looked at him for a few seconds, and registered that he really didn't seem to be breathing. With a shaking hand, I checked his pulse, like my mother had shown me how. I couldn’t feel anything, and hoped beyond hope that I was incompetent, because if I was doing everything right he was definitely dead. His vein was completely empty of rhythm, like Wham. Suddenly, I was paralysed. What the heck was I supposed to do? I broke free of the fear, jumped up and shot out of the toilets. A few yards away there was an usher, who looked my way and registered surprise at my panicked expression, as well he should.
"Help!" I squeaked, stuttering slightly. "There's a dead guy. In the toilet. Quick!"
I grabbed the usher by the sleeve and draged him into the toilet to show him. He assessed the situation and got out his radio. Although I knew I'd done nothing wrong, I felt wretched. I also knew I hadn't got a hope of seeing the end of the play now. What a day.
Now…
As I get on the coach, everyone goes silent. Then, softly, the theme music from 'Fireman Sam' comes over the speakers, and one by one everyone starts to piss themselves laughing. I move down the aisle, giving each and every one of the bastards the wanker sign, and take my seat next to Simon, who is grinning like a loon.
"Well," I say deadpan. "That was hilarious."
"Oh come on mate," he says. "You can't blame them. You put on quite a show last night."
"I know, and to be honest I'd rather just forget about it. The sun's shining, we've got plenty of booze and we're on our way to Weymouth for the day - does it get any better than this?" In case you were wondering, I am very easily pleased.
"Nope," he agrees. "In fact, the only way I could be happier right now is if I was wearing Cindy Crawford like a feedbag whilst Kylie did athletic things with my nether regions."
"But failing that you're quite happy as you are?"
"Well, I'll live with it," he grins.
"Morning boys," says Irene, settling herself down in front of us.
"Morning Irene," we chorus, like two obedient schoolboys. She may be a bit batty, but we love Irene.
"Morning boys," says Sally sarcastically, sitting herself next to Irene.
"Morning lezza," we chorus, like very sarcastic but still obedient schoolboys. Sally sticks her tongue out at us and waggles it suggestively.
"Only if you bring a friend," says Simon with a leer.
"I've got a friend in my handbag, Simon," she says, reaching for it.
"NO!" I shout. "Trust me Simon, you don't want to see her friend."
"I do," says Irene. "What is it, a pet mouse or something?"
"Are you sure you want to see it, Irene?" Sally says with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Go on," says Irene. "Give us a look, love."
With this, Sally delves into her handbag and brings out her favourite vibrator, the green one with the interesting knobbly bits, and waves it at Simon, who sits back down in his seat like he's been shot.
"Fookin' hell!" he exclaims.
Irene, however, seems to be studying the vibrator with more than a passing interest.
"What do you think, Irene?" asks Sally.
"It's very nice, dear," says Irene. "Not as big as mine, though."
There's really nothing to say to that.

We depart the coach right on the sea front, at about five past eleven, perfectly timed for the pubs to open. I find it odd that every year we come on this trip and just spend the day drinking, something we could just as easily do at home, but without the extra costs, especially for me and Simon, as no one gives us free pints in Weymouth. This has never occurred to me before, and I've always been perfectly happy to charge around with everyone else from pub to pub, generally behaving like a tourist. I once heard that Weymouth centre has more pubs per square mile than anywhere else in Britain, and although I don't know if this is correct, I can believe it. There's absolutely loads of pubs here, from the traditional horse brasses on the wall sad old men at the bar types all the way up to the now popular cheap beer, cheap food, no atmosphere type made numerous by Wetherspoons and other offspring of the Devil. Okay, the food’s cheap, but by Christ they are soul destroying if you just want to have a laugh. Come to think of it, I think they’ve banned smoking, along with juke boxes, pool tables and excitement. We get dropped off outside McAndrews bar, a large establishment on the sea front which has plenty of room for all. Tradition has it that the landlord gets the first round in, and Harry obliges by buying twenty seven pints without a hint of animosity. Me and Simon take a seat with Sally and Irene, relishing the cold alcohol sloshing down our throats.
"What's the plan then, boys?" asks Sally.
"Drink!" shouts Simon, causing a few heads to turn.
"Drink!" I agree, though not so loudly.
"Sandcastles," says Irene, quietly between sips.
"What?" I say, puzzled.
"Sandcastles," she repeats slowly as if to a member of parliament. "Well. Sand sculptures they're called. Someone does them on the sea front. They take ages, they do. I thought I'd take a look. Who wants to spend a lovely day like this cooped up in pubs?"
"Me," says Simon with conviction.
"Yeah, me as well," agrees Sally.
I'm about to agree, when I look into Irene's eyes. They shine with a fierce intelligence that I've never seen before. I don't doubt that the old girl's senile, but today she seems to have full control of what marbles are left rattling around inside her withered skull. I feel an unspoken plea from her that matches my earlier feelings. Sod the pubs.
"Er, actually, I think I'll join Irene," I say, as if this had been my plan all along. "She's right. There's more to a day out than getting pissed."
"Who are you?" says Simon, making the sign of the cross at me. "And what have you done with the real Dave. Begone foul fiend!" With this, he starts chanting in Latin, or what he thinks Latin should sound like anyway. Sally joins in for a few seconds, then they both collapse with laughter.
“Well," says Simon, downing his pint. "Have a good time, mate. If you get bored or thirsty, just give me a call and I'll tell you where we are. Seeya."
"Bye Dave. Bye Irene. See you later," says Sally, and they troop out with the rest, in search of pastures new. I look at Irene.
"That's another fine mess you've gotten me into," I say, twiddling with an invisible tie.
"Oh shut up, David," she says, smiling. "Shall we go and explore?"
"Why not."

It really is a beautiful day. As we walk along the sea front I do the usual male thing of surreptitiously scoping out at the many scantily clad females frolicking on the beach. Irene plods along beside me, seemingly happy to just be here. We find the sand sculptures, and Irene spends ten minutes admiring them. They really are pretty good, and have been here for years, although my boredom threshold for such things is two minutes maximum. I let her have her time, though, as it would be rude not to, and there's something about Irene that just doesn't let you even consider being rude to her. I find myself wondering just what she's been though in her life. She must be eighty if she's a day, but all we really know her for is being the slightly batty old girl who lives next to the pub. There must be more to her than that.
"Oi!" she says, poking me in the ribs and bringing me out of my daydreaming.
"Sorry," I say. "I was miles off."
"Come on," she says, taking my hand like she's a mother leading a small child across the street. "Let's get a cup of tea."
Although I'd definitely prefer something stronger, I let her guide me across the road to a little tea shop, which is predictably busy. We squeeze into a small table and Irene orders a pot of tea for two and some teacakes. There's something very safe and secure about Irene today, it makes me feel like I'm out with my Gran, even though she's been dead for fifteen years now. We sit in a comfortable silence until the tea and teacakes arrive, at which point I feel I just have to say something.
"So. How old are you exactly, Irene?" I ask. It doesn't feel like a rude question, even though I know you're never supposed to ask a lady her age. I've always thought that only concerns people who might actually be offended because they still think of themselves as young. When someone reaches seventy I think they stop giving a toss who knows how old they are. On the contrary, once you start getting well into old age you become eager to let people know exactly how old you are, especially in shop queues.
"I'm eighty seven," Irene answers, with a definite hint of pride in her voice. "Eighty seven years young," she adds with a cackle.
"I don't know how to put this," I say. "But you seem very, well, lucid today. You're not normally this animated."
"I get tired in the evenings," she replies. "My head gets a bit fuzzy, but in the daytime I'm fine. You only see me when I'm a bit out of sorts, don't you, you're at work when I'm like this."
"Huh, I wish I wasn't?"
"Don't you like your job, David?"
"I can't stand my job," I say emphatically. "I go in five days a week, answer letter from idiots on behalf of other idiots, get bollocked for stuff I have no control over then get stuck in motorway traffic on the way home. What's not to like?"
"You should do something you enjoy. You like working down at the pub, don't you?"
"That's different," I say. "That's not like work, I enjoy it. In an ideal world I'd have my own pub, not working for anyone but myself."
"Would the Full Moon do?" she asks, smiling.
"Only the Moon would do." I reply sincerely. "It's my second home."
"What about your friend?" she asks. "The oversexed one?"
"Simon? Yeah, he could come in with me. I'd have to take measures to stop himself drinking himself to death, but I reckon he'd be brilliant. Never going to happen, though."
"It's nice to dream, though, isn't it?"
"Yeah, and maybe I'll get Iron Maiden to play on a Saturday as well, eh? You know, whilst we're living in fantasy land. Come on, let's talk about something else. Tell me about you."
"Ooooh, I'm pretty boring, you know. I don't get about that much now, just potter around the village and have a couple of drinks in the evening."
"Have you got any family?"
"No," she says sadly. "I'm the last one. When I'm gone there'll be no one to remember me."
"Come on," I say. "We'll all remember you."
"Oh yes, and what will you say?"
"I don't know. Probably something like 'Remember old Irene, she was brilliant, lived through the war, she did, lovely girl'. You know, something like that."
"Two wars, you mean," She says, quietly.
"What?"
"I was born in 1914, so I lived through two world wars, although I don't remember anything about the first one, obviously. I remember the second one, though. That was a belter."
"What was it like?" I ask, genuinely interested.
"They used to say 'War is hell', you know, and they were right. I was in my early twenties, just got married to my Jack, and all happy. Then that Hitler went and started it all off and everything went crazy. They took Jack away from me, put a uniform on him and sent him off to fight the Germans. Seven months I'd had him for, that was all, and they took him away from me. I lived in Cleeveton even then, so we never had any problems with the bombings. We were always ready, mind. I put up an Anderson shelter in the back garden, with a little help from the neighbours, and every time we heard the planes going over we'd hide in our shelters just in case one of them thought to drop one of his bombs early. You can't imagine the terror we felt, just waiting for death to come and get us. The shelters wouldn't have stopped a direct hit, and although it would be a million to one thing, we were all afraid anyway." She stops, a faraway look in her eyes.
"Did they send evacuees here?" I asked.
"Oh yes. We had quite a few running around. They loved it here, but they were all worried about their folks back in the cities. I took in a little girl called Abigail. Pretty little thing she was, only eight when I first met her. She was one of the lucky ones, because after the war she was able to go back to both her parents, alive and well. Her dad was in the Navy, and every time we heard of a ship being sunk on the wireless she'd cry for hours, worried her dad had been on it and nobody had told her. She was alright, though, in the end. We kept in touch for years afterwards, but that tailed off, as those things do."
"What about Jack," I ask tentatively. "Did he come back?"
"No." she says simply. "Jack was killed in France. I remember getting the telegram. Of course, I knew what it was before I opened it. You didn't get telegrams from the war office for any other reason, did you? I thought I was prepared for it, because it's something you can't help thinking about. You tell yourself that if it happens, it happens, and that you'll be proud that your man gave his life defending our country from evil, but you can't really prepare for it. I never did get married again. I don't think my heart could have taken it. I would have always been afraid of losing out again, so I just sort of gave up.”
"What did you do?"
"Well, after the war I threw myself into work. There was a lot of rebuilding to do. Not just houses and things, but lives. Without Jack I couldn't function unless I was busy, so I got busy and stayed busy. I've been everywhere in my life, David, done a lot of things and made a lot of money, but I'd trade it all just to have my Jack back."
I don't know what to say. A simple chat has turned into a depressing soul bearing. Nonetheless I feel kind of privileged to be told these things. I look Irene in the eyes, and she suddenly smiles.
"What a couple of miserable old buggers eh?" she says, eyes twinkling. "Come on, David, tell me a mucky joke and cheer us up." So I do. I dredge out one of the filthiest jokes I know, and tell it to my eighty seven year old friend, who laughs like a drain.

"Come on," I say when we've finished our tea. "Let's go and find the others and have a laugh. We deserve it."
"Okay," she agrees. "But give me an hour or so to myself will you, there's some stuff I need to do. Give me your number and I'll call you when I'm ready, then you can all buy the poor old lady a drink or three."
I give her my mobile number and leave her at the table. I call Simon and make my way to the pub, realising that although it was a bit depressing, I had a good time with Irene. Who'd have thought she'd turn out to be a groovy old chick?

It's eight o'clock when we stagger off the coach outside the Full Moon, ready to round off a very drunken day with, surprise surprise, a few more drinks. The journey back was a continuous singalong, and unlike my school days, 'Frigging In The Rigging' was positively encouraged. I couldn't help but smile when I saw Irene joining in the chorus.
"You coming in, then?" I ask as I help her down the coach steps. The light in her eyes has dulled now, and I admit to myself that the confused old lady I know best has returned.
"Hmmm?," she says, looking dazedly at me. "Oh. Yes. Of course." Recognition seems to register as she peers at me. "I've just got to go home first, dear. I'll be round in a few minutes, okay?"
I watch her slowly walk into her house and, satisfied she'll be okay, join the rest in the saloon bar, which is a whirlwind of noise, mainly the clinking of glasses. I spot Morgan at a table in the corner and after collecting the pint Simon has got for me I go and sit by him.
"So what happened to you today?" I ask, knowing full well he went to a match.
"Sunday game, wasn't it?" he says.
"Really?" I say, feigning complete surprise and overacting like a Neighbours extra. "How did you get on?"
"Not too good," he admits.
"Was it..." I say, "Four nil? Just a guess, mind." Actually, I heard the score on the coach radio, and have been dying to take the piss ever since.
"Bastard," he says with feeling. "We were robbed."
"Robbed? You were robbed, fucked up the arse and tied naked to a lamp post mate. Why do you do it, Morgan? I'm sure Manchester United would welcome such a mentalist as you with open arms. Sure, you'd have to buy a new set of shirts and have a couple of very dodgy tattoos burned off, but at least you'd smile occasionally."
"I'm loyal to my local team," he says stubbornly.
"Morgan," I say slowly. "You were born in Manchester." It's true. His parents had him at home, literally a sharpened coins throw from Old Trafford.
"Yeah," he admits. "But I live here, don't I? Anyway, I'm a City fan and that's that."
"Never mind, mate," I say, standing and patting him on the back. "Your day will come." I leave him to his moping and go over to Simon, who's in full flow.
"...I'm not kidding. I would've strapped a board to me arse if I had one handy. I went down on her and there was an echo..." Everyone is laughing and having a good time, but I feel a bit out of it, probably due to all the sodding cider currently sloshing around inside me. Irene finally rejoined the group this afternoon after a couple of hours doing God knows what, probably old lady things like visiting a museum or something. We all converged on Wetherspoons for a meal, sending the staff into a minor panic, and I'd hoped that the steak and chips would sooth my guts, but they're gurgling happily like a maternity ward. I tap Simon on the shoulder.
"Have you seen Irene?" I ask. "She was supposed to be coming in."
"Nah. She probably fell asleep or something. She knocked back a fair few shorts - they've probably put her out cold."
"Yeah," I concur. "Look, I'm just going to check on her anyway, okay?"
"Sure. Careful with the old lady fixation, Dave, you could get in real trouble, especially if by some miracle she's still fertile. You'd have to marry her!" Around him, everyone hoots with laughter, although I suspect they'd laugh at anything by this point in the day.
"Bottom!" I shout, which brings a fresh round of giggling. Okay, so at least I've proved my point.

I traipse outside, revelling in the crisp air that floods through my lungs. I consider for a moment just going home and collapsing into bed, but I know that if I disappear Simon will come and drag me back, and if I go back in and tell him I feel like going home he'll call me a lightweight, tie me to a chair and force feed me alcohol until I'm so drunk I let Morgan sign me up for the Bristol City supporters club. No, I decide to just do what I came out to do, and proceed to ring Irene's doorbell. There's no answer, so I ring it again to no avail. I decide that, as Simon suspected, she must have fallen asleep, and am about to go back to the pub when I notice that the door isn't closed. My conscience wrestles with itself for a minute, trying to decide whether to just pull the door closed or to go inside and take a look around. It's a bit of a fixed fight, mind, as I'm a terminally nosy bugger, and I slip inside, reasoning to myself that It's because I want to make sure Irene's all right, and not because I want to see what her house is like. Yeah, right. I'm immediately surprised by the immaculate condition the house is in. There's a couple of beautiful original paintings in the hallway, and not a speck of dust to be seen. I surmise that she must have someone in to clean for her, as I can't see her keeping a whole house clean by herself. I open the door to the living room, and the first sight that greets me is a forty inch projection TV, which takes me back a bit. I know she told me today that she's made a lot of money, but I thought it was just the ramblings of an old lady. Obviously she wasn't shitting me. Facing the TV is a luxurious recliner chair, and sitting peacefully in it, dead to the world, is Irene. I smile, and decide that the best thing would be to wake her and see that she gets to bed, otherwise she'll wake up sore and confused in the morning - I know I have often enough.
"Irene?" I say, gently rocking her. "Time for bed Irene." I rock a little harder, and her head lolls to one side. I then notice that she doesn't seem to be breathing.

Oh Christ, not again.

I quickly check her pulse, and as I expect there's nothing. Straight away, I move her from the chair onto the floor and start mouth to mouth, praying that the air from my lungs is enough to start hers. I hammer on her chest, as if by brute force I can cajole her heart into beating again, but to no avail. After a minute I give up. I know she's long gone, that her heart has just given up after all these years, and there is nothing I can do or could have gone. I sit on the sofa, strangely squeamish about using the chair she died in, and use my mobile to call an ambulance. Then I settle down to have a cry, and to wait.

Sex Gods from the Planet Metal - Chapter Four

2009-12-28T03:13:00.000-08:00

Then…

I sat on my own on a typically dreary Friday lunchtime in Sedgemoor house, finishing off a plate of chips and listening to the general ruckus coming from the battered old table football machine in the corner. It was being played with the usual vigour by a group of fifth years, and that was how things were, back then. Anyone in any other year wasn’t allowed anywhere near the machine, although a select few (after the appropriate crawling) were allowed to watch and offer appreciative comments in the utterly wasted hope of actually getting a game one day. As I finished the last of the chips and pushed the plate away with a satisfied belch, Peter came strolling in, and there was something very different about him. After a few seconds I put my finger on it - Peter was grinning. Actually, Peter was smiling the sort of smile that in less civilised times would get the perpetrator locked up in a rubber room with the sort of jacket you need help to fasten. I was quite amazed, really. Peter was known to grin insanely, often at the sight of something he finds cruelly amusing, like an old lady tripping over a rock, but he almost never smiled properly, with genuine happiness over something nice happening. He was the junior equivalent of the archetypal Dour Scot, a trait inherited from his Caledonian parents, both of whom would rather crack a tooth than crack a smile. So there’s me, lounging in our homeroom, dithering over a plate of soggy chips and pondering the fate of the world, and he comes bounding up like the cat who not only caught the canary but also got the South West of England canary franchise. He sat down opposite me and continued with the manic looks, so I decided to take the bait.
"What," I asked. "Has made you so happy?"
"She said yes," he replied, twitching like a four year old on Christmas morning who's been told he's got to wait for everyone to finish breakfast before any presents are opened.
"Who said yes? What the fuck are you talking about?" I never was very good at suspense.
"What are we doing tomorrow night?" he asked, completely unconcerned by my obvious bafflement.
"We're going to see 'The Colour Of Money'" I replied confidently. I'd been looking forward to it all week. Peter's dad was going to drive us to the cinema, and we would watch Tom Cruise and Paul Newman playing pool. Easy question, or so I thought.
"Nope," he said. "We're going to see 'Hannah And Her Sisters'."
"Yes," I said. "Ha ha. As usual you're almost as enjoyable as leprosy. Why the fuck would we see that? It looks shit." I was being very sincere here, as the comic genius of Woody Allen has always gone right over my head. My parents liked to make me watch his films when they come on the telly, and they would sit there with manic grins on their faces, occasionally going "Ooh... this is a good bit next," only to be disappointed when I failed to raise a smile.
"Two more questions," he continued, "and all will become clear. Who is your favouritiest girl in our year. I'll give you a clue - blonde hair, dazzling smile, nice pointy tits."
"Carolyn Thomas," I replied immediately, drifting off into my Carolyn Thomas inspired dream world. She was indeed my favouritest girl in our year, as Peter put it. I was determined that one day I would ask her out, and was just waiting until I was the last boy on the planet so that I could do so.
"Okay," said Peter, snapping his fingers in front of my face to get me back to the real world. "Final question: guess who is going to see said shit film with us tomorrow? I will be accompanied by none other than the lovely Jane Nicholls, she of the ludicrously advanced cleavage, whilst you will be joined by her best friend, who is none other than?"
"Carolyn Thomas," I completed, my smile stretching so much it threatened to break my face in half. "How the fuck did you arrange that?"
"I was just chatting to Jane, mentioned we were going to the flicks tomorrow, and she jumps in, saying that they were dying to see the shit film, and then asked what we were seeing. Naturally, I told her 'Hannah And Her Sisters', and asked if they wanted to come with us. So, as I told you five bloody minutes ago - she said yes."
"You," I said seriously, "are a beautiful, beautiful guy, and I love you for ever."
"No less than I deserve," he preened, pretending to polish his nails on his shirt. The buzzer buzzed as it did, and we trapsed off for English, both lost in fantasy Worlds that would have our mothers washing our minds out with soap.

"Good afternoon to you all, my name is David Banner, also known as The Incredible Hulk," pause for laughter, "and I think I should be the one to stay in this balloon." As opening speeches go, it’s pretty weird one, I must admit. As most people who know me are aware, I don't take kindly to Hulk references, and was even more sensitive about it back then. When the TV show came out it was, admittedly, quite amusing - I'd roar fiercely at people and generally tell them not to make me angry, assuring them that they really wouldn't like me when I was angry. Predictably enough, the joke quickly wore thinner than Bobby Charlton's hair, and after a while I was living up to my namesake's reputation, creating mayhem and property damage wherever I went, although I never got to rescue innocent young children from life threatening situations and wasn't hounded by a horrendously persistent investigative reporter. When it comes to having the same name as a famous fictional character I certainly got the shitty end of the stick, and people have learned not to use the H word around me, or at least not in my hearing. So what was I doing bringing up in front of a class full of grinning loons? Simple - Miss Wright asked me to. What she actually did was suggest a Balloon Debate, in which three people pretend to be three famous people, real or fictitious, in a balloon which is about to crash into the middle of the ocean. The three must each present their case for being the one to stay in the balloon whilst the other two are lobbed over the side to the ravenous sharks below. The week before, Miss Wright picked me and two others to take part, with the rest of the class asking questions and making the final vote. Unfortunately, we never got to choose our own characters, and the class were asked for suggestions. Cue Peter's hand shooting up and suggesting The Incredible Hulk/Dr David Banner for me, a suggestion accepted amongst much sniggering and look from me dirtier than than a tramps pants. My two partners in crime were similarly assaulted by the wit and wisdom of our classmates. First up was Stephen Taylor, a boy cursed with the twin deformities of a big intellect and a small body that the cruel amongst us might call rather weedy. It's this body, coupled with a pair of small, round glasses, that has earned him the highly amusing nickname of Ghandi, and of course that was who he immediately became for the debate. Our erstwhile opponent was Tracey Collins, also highly rated intellect-wise, but possibly the most opinionated, bossy girl in the history of opinionated, bossy girls, and that's a long history indeed. I believe that if it wasn't for opinionated, bossy girls cavemen would never have got off of their hairy backsides and got on with evolving and inventing things like vacuum cleaners and washing machines. Anyway, Tracey was known by the name Thatch, after the queen of opinionated, bossy girls, our very own Prime Minister of the day, Her Royal Nastiness Mrs Thatcher. Unlike most blokes I wasn’t scared by the Iron Lady, but I must admit her hairstyle still gives me nightmares to this day. I'd love to have been a fly on the wall when she was shown the cover of the Iron Maiden single "Sanctuary", showing her lying prone at the feet of Eddie, who's just killed her for tearing down a band poster. Not very subtle, but very funny if, like me, you're of the sick, twisted variety.

Anyway, so there we were, me, Ghandi and Mrs Thatch, all arguing our case against a watery grave. Tracey and Stephen had already had their say, and if I'm honest I didn't think I would have a problem kicking balloon debate ass. Stephen started off with a predictable ramble about his great work in the field of peace, and his reputation as a great humanitarian and all of that old guff. I swear that his five minutes seemed like five hours, and by the end most of the class would have stoned him had there been any available missiles. Sod world peace, seemed to be the attitude, let's kill him. Tracey made a better showing, having actually done some decent research into the wonderful things Mrs Thatcher had done for the country. It didn’t hurt that her father was a local MP, and that she actually believed every word she said. The thing is, they'd both lost the point of a successful debate, which is entertainment, especially when your audience is of average age fourteen. Move over guys, I thought, and make way for the master.
"Before I start, I'd just like to get one thing clear: Don't make me angry..." I waved a hand at the audience, and on cue Peter led them into the standard response: "You wouldn't like me when I'm angry." To my surprise, even Miss Wright joined in. "Whilst I'm sure you appreciate the points my learned colleagues in distress have made, I feel there may be one or two things about them that should sway your opinion in my favour. First, Mr Ghandi, or Norman, as he's known to his friends. Forgive me if I'm wrong, Norm, but under your principles you cannot do anything else but lay down your life for others, meaning me and Mrs Thatch here, so I suggest you start swimming. And coming to the lovely Mrs Thatch, I have only one thing to say that will, I hope, lead you to feed her to the sharks: IT'S MRS THATCH, FOR CHRISTS SAKE!" The last was delivered at just the right volume so as not to get me in too much trouble, and the crowd, such as they are, went wild. "MAGGIE MAGGIE MAGGIE," I chant, and still staying on cue Peter led them in the response "OUT! OUT! OUT!" with the precision of a watchmaker. When they calmed down, I knew I had them. I had some other stuff prepared, but didn't bother with it, happy to take both my bow and my seat. The questions from the class were no real problem, with my standard response to anyone saying Mrs Thatcher is better than The Hulk - "It's Mrs Thatcher, for Christ's sake!" - getting more cheers each time. Tracey was the only real competition and her supporters tried their best, but in the end the vote was overwhelmingly in my favour. Miss Wright congratulated me on my "eloquent delivery" with a very knowing glance, and although the whole thing was bound to bring on a fresh rash of H word usage, I was glad I’d done it.

As I stood outside Carolyn's door, with Peter at my side like a faithful but spotty retainer, I felt, it would not be unfair to say, a tad nervous. I'd never been on a date before, and standing outside girls houses was the sort of thing only normally done by the two of us if we were well hidden behind the hedge trying to peer through a bedroom window, trying to get a glimpse of something we almost certainly wouldn't know what to do with. Carolyn and Jane were inside, and we were bang on time, thanks to Peter's dad. He was sat in his Toyota at the end of the drive, no doubt trying to work out a way of asking us all for petrol money at the end of the night. I wore my ever present jeans, with a new black denim shirt, with Peter going the whole hog by changing his t-shirt for one without swear words on, actually a great sacrifice on his part.

I reached forward and rang the doorbell, which played "Oranges and Lemons", and we both took an instinctive step back, trying not to stare at the twitching curtains at the front room window. After about half a minute during which my bladder announced its desire to pee really really soon, the door opened, and there they were. Carolyn was in a simple outfit of jeans, a plain black (and nicely tight) t-shirt and a denim jacket, whilst Jane had a blue skirt and a nice safe high necked jumper. They smiled at us whilst we tried to speak.
"Hi," I finally blurted out. My brain decided to take control and reached out my hand automatically, and I was relieved when Carolyn took it in hers rather than shaking it politely. Peter followed my lead and we led the girls back to the car. As I won the toss earlier, I got to sit in the back with the girls whilst Peter smouldered with adolescent hormones in the front. I'd never been this close to a girl before, and it was rather nice, to put it mildly. She smelled very nice, she looked even better, and she smiled at me, which is all I required for a perfect world at that moment in time.
It took twenty minutes to reach the cinema, during which time I darted between feeling like the luckiest man in the world and hoping to God my uncontrollable erection behaved itself when we got out of the car. I didn't care if we were going to see a Woody Allen movie, and I didn't even care that Peter's date had bigger tits than mine. All I knew was that it was going to be a great night.

"So how did it go, Banner?" asked Carl Lewis, who I had the misfortune to sit next to in Geography. He was a big lad, at least six foot tall, slightly pudgy, with the sort of voice that would have had people label him a poof if he wasn't so handy with his fists. He never picked on me, but he liked to push it sometimes.
"How did what go?" I asked innocently. At the front of the class Mr George was extolling the virtues of different types of cloud, seemingly oblivious to any amount of chatter.
"Don't give me that. I know you went out with Carolyn Thomas on Saturday night and I know that you went to the pictures with her, Jane Nicholls and that Scottish mate of yours. What I don't know is how far you got." He leered like a Frenchman at a junior school. "So come on. Spill the beans - is she easy or what?"
"That," I said, looking him square in his piggy little eye. "Is none of your business."
"That means you didn't get anywhere. What a loser, couldn't even get off with Carolyn Thomas." He snorted like a constipated pig, contempt dripping from his every molecule.
"I didn't say I didn't get off with her," I said defensively, hating myself for allowing my buttons to be so easily pushed. "I just said it was none of your business."
"I bet," he said slowly. "You didn't get to touch her up. You wouldn't have the guts."
"Bloody would," I said defensively, as if I was Rudolph Valentino.
"Come on then," he goaded. "One to ten. How far did you get, with one being a peck on the cheek and ten being a blow job in the back row."
"Fuck off Carl," I sneered in a bored voice, wishing the buzzer would go.
"So that's a one then," he said in a resigned tone. "I knew it. If you can't tell me different I'll just have to tell everyone you didn't get anywhere at all. I just thought you'd have more balls, Banner, but it seems you're just as big a poof as everyone else tells me you are."
I simmered in silence. I hated him. I had three choices: I could tell him the truth, which is that I only got a couple of snogs (although I was quite happy with that); I could shut up and be called a poof, or I could lie. I knew full well that if I take either of the first two options the bastard would take pleasure in spreading it around that I'm crap with girls, something that might have been true but also something I didn't relish being reminded of every day. At thirteen I wanted my peers, however moronic they may have been, to respect me and my gargantuan ladykilling techniques, so I predictably went for option three, because as we know, all men are twats. Tell us what's behind door three, David...
"Eight," I said, because I'm just as much of a twat as every other guy, and was even then. Sorry Carolyn.

My stomach really hurt. It hurt like someone had driven a fist into it really really hard, and that must have been because someone just had. I folded over and wheezed like a geriatric old man as Chris and Mike Thomas stood over me, their Doctor Martins boots inches away from my face. One thing I may have neglected to mention about Carolyn is her two brothers. Chris and Mike were sixteen, twins, and very protective of their little sister, probably because they knew exactly what thirteen year old boys are like. They must have been staking me out, because as soon as I came down to the local playing field for some quiet contemplation they appeared like a couple of very nasty ghosts. I knew I only had myself to blame, of course. Carl had been studiously telling everyone about my "eight" night, and instead of denying everything like a sensible person I'd been lapping up the adoration from all the other boys who didn’t realise I was still as sexually frustrated as they are. It started to go downhill on the Friday afternoon when Jane accosted me between classes and had a right go at me for spreading rumours about her best friend, who incidentally never wanted to see me again. I weakly protested that it was Carl who had spread the rumours but had no answer when she asked why I hadn't denied them. It was a right sod to realise that I’d blown it with Carolyn, but it was my own fault, and I figured I'd get over it. No problem, really, except that I'd forgotten about Chris and Mike. Tales of the twins were legion at school, and I was one of the many in awe of their legend when I was in the first year and they were in the fifth. In between leading the rugby team to numerous victories and cups they swore at teachers, bullied as many other kids as possible and skated on that thin line between detention and expulsion like Torvil and Dean.
"What shall we do with him Chris?" said Mike conversationally. He had his right boot on my head, so I could only listen to my fate being casually discussed. "I reckon a broken wrist will do the trick. Very painful, but not crippling, and it would certainly stop him playing with himself for a few weeks. Would that teach you a lesson, Mr Banner?"
"Yes! Definitely!" I said, realising the last was directed at me. "Actually," I added, "a lot less than that would teach me a lesson. I can faithfully say that I have already learned my lesson at this point."
"Talkative, innee?" said Chris, the intellectual of the two. He bent down and shoved a hanky in my mouth. It wasn’t very fresh and I was able to tell he obviously had had a cold recently. Why couldn't he be the sort of person who wipes his nose on his sleeve! They talked quietly to one another for a minute, then Chris hauled me up by the scruff of my neck. I was so close to shitting myself it's not even funny. Mike pulled the hanky out of my mouth and as a result I proceeded to be violently sick, unfortunately all over his shoes.
"Oh shit," I muttered, looking at the furious expression on his face. He grabbed me by my hair.
"We was going to let you go, but I've changed my mind. You have two choices: either have your wrist broken, like I suggested earlier, or you can clean my shoes."
"Shoes," I gasped. "Definitely shoes." With that he forced me down to ground level and made me lick his boots clean. I don't know how, but I managed it without heaving all over again.
Mike dumped me on the ground and they both gave me a parting kick in the ribs for good measure.
"If you ever speak to our sister again," Chris growled as they stomped off, "we'll put you in fuckin' hospital." I believed him, and thereby resolved to be entirely truthful when dealing with members of the opposite sex in future. So help me God.

Now…
When I was younger, about seven or eight, my Dad got a CB radio. Such a term will mean nothing to the youth of today, but the CB was the internet of its day, although the availability of porn was substantially less. CB, which stands for 'Citizens Band', was brought to our attention in Britain by a very popular film in 1978 called 'Convoy'. In the film a bunch of American truckers drove "a big old convoy across the USA" according to the theme tune. Naturally, the police were all nasty bigoted bastards and the truckers big hearted good old boys, and whilst they drove their convoy they would talk to each other on their CB radios, calling each other silly names, like Rubber Duck and Spider Mike. I am not making these names up. The film wasn't up to much, but for some reason a lot of people thought that having a little radio in your car was a Really Exciting Thing, because it enabled you to talk at your leisure to other road users, many of whom had the personality of a watermelon. The problem was that most conversations between CB enthusiasts was limited to where they were from, where they were they going, what were they going to do when they got there, and how much had they paid for their CB set up. My Dad has always been a complete sucker for anything new, electronic and expensive, so he wasted no time in buying the full set up and stuffing it in our Morris Minor, maybe thinking it would transfer it into an eighteen wheel Mack truck or something. His initial enthusiasm was unsurprisingly daunted after a few months, and so the CB radio, which had been out of bounds to me, was set up in my bedroom. As you can imagine, I was rather chuffed at this, and regularly chatted to dull people passing through the area, or dull people actually living in the area, most of whom had gained their sets the same way as me. For some reason that escapes me now I called myself Bert Badgerac, because on CB you couldn't just call yourself by your real name, you had to have a Handle. A Handle was your CB name, and in a lot of cases you could tell a lot about a person from their chosen handle. There was a natural reverse law in effect, and you quickly found that anyone calling themselves Sex Machine or Shagmaster were blatantly indulging in a little wish fulfilment. It really didn't matter, though, because you hardly ever got to meet the people you spoke to, you just chatted, and in a ridiculously geeky way it was all quite a lot of fun for a kid. Interestingly, most people would pick up on my requests for a conversation because my adolescent voice made them think I was a girl, so about half way through the chat they would hesitantly ask me "Er, are you a lady breaker, come on back?" (don't ask about the lingo, it would take forever) and I would reply in the negative, and after that the conversation would dry up a bit. For a while, CB was big business amongst a certain type of person, but inevitably the fascination faded, and the CB shops that had sprung up closed their doors whilst dust gathered on mine and most other people's radios, with the exception of genuine truckers, all of whom were probably glad that we'd all finally got bored and buggered off.

Nowadays we have the Internet, and we all agree that the Internet is a Really Exciting Thing, as once again we can talk to complete strangers about absolutely nothing at all, but this time with the added interest of readily available porn. When Simon moved in with me, he naturally bought his computer with him. Personally, I had never been on the internet, not really giving much of a toss before, but slowly he taught me what to do and like so many before me I was hooked. Of course, I spent the first few weeks scouring the World Wide Web for free pornography, as you do, but after a while it actually got a bit boring unless you're prepared to give your credit card details to God knows who, so I branched out into chat rooms. Now a chat room is the modern equivalent of the CB radio, except much, much bigger, with much more potential for misuse and general skulduggery. Any person in the world on the net can go into a chat room and type messages to everyone else in their particular room. The rooms range from general to specialised, and of course I spent many a happy hour cyber spanking what in all honesty were probably forty year old men, but as far as I was concerned were very nubile sex starved young nymphets. After a while I got to know the tricks, and became a lot more adept about getting the kind of conversational partners I desired. Then, one night, I hit on an idea. In these chat rooms you have to have a pseudonym, much like CB again, and these could be changed at any time as long as nobody else had the same name. Again like CB, there are a lot of very very sad individuals with very very sad chat room names, but I figured there had to be a name that would get all the nice young ladies coming to me, so I had a think. What I came up with was the realisation that every girl loves a fireman. They go nuts over firemen, and happily giggle at really bad helmet puns. So I called myself Fireman Sam, which miraculously nobody else had used yet. What I would do is log into a chat room and wait for people to notice I was there. Almost every time I would soon be greeted with a personal message from a girl asking me if I was a real fireman, to which I would of course reply yes, after which I would flirt outrageously and generally enjoy myself in a way that only the terminally sad can. Anyway, it was through this not too noble method that I came across Amanda, although not in a semen/body interface kind of way, obviously. She was in an adults only room when I popped up, and she immediately latched onto the whole fireman thing. We chatted via our keyboards, got more personal than any two people really should, and agreed to do it again. And again. And again. After a few days we exchanged telephone numbers and talked for many an hour, with me being absolutely honest about everything except for the teensy fact that I wasn't actually a fireman. Rather than playing it down, I embellished to the point of high fantasy, getting off on the fact that she was ludicrously turned on by my personality and my lies. Then came the crunch: she wanted to meet up. Basically I couldn't say no - we'd exchanged photos and were agreed that if we did meet there would be more sex than previously thought possible for two people. Of course, I couldn't let her come down here because if she found out my little secret she'd cut my bollocks off, so one day I arranged to go and see her in Reading. I thought that it was completely safe because she lived seventy miles away. I was due to go up, if all went according to plan, next weekend. And here she is, this weekend, in my local. Surprise!

"Amanda?" I say, incredulously, all sorts of thoughts whirring round in my mind.
Yes!" she shrieks hobbling towards me on heels that bring her height up to about five feet.
I swear she told me she was five ten. The only photos I've had have obviously been carefully chosen to obscure the fact that Amanda could give a Munchkin a blow job without having to kneel down.
I stand up, aware of Kate's bemused gaze, and Amanda envelops me in a hug that makes me feel like a man sized icing bag, although my nervousness is at such a high peak that if anything comes squirting out of an orifice it definitely won’t be icing. I tentatively hug her back, my mind racing. As long as she doesn't find out about me not being a fireman I'll be okay. I haven't lied about anything else, except possibly penis size, and by the time she finds out about that one it'll definitely be too late. Hell, if I play this right I'll actually get to take a girl home for a change. So what if she's a squeaky midget - she's certainly no nightmare in the looks department. We separate, and to my horror she sits down at the table with Kate, who seems to be treating the whole thing like a small bedroom farce put on for her personal amusement, watching intently to see when Ronnie Corbett is going to turn up.
"Gin and tonic, please darling," says Amanda, flashing me a smile that is all teeth and, if I'm honest, very little charm. I have no choice but to get the drink, so I frantically flag Mel down at the bar and get a gin and tonic on the table in front of Amanda within thirty seconds. Surely nothing could have happened in that time.
"So," says Kate. "Amanda tells me you're her boyfriend?"
Boyfriend? I've never met the woman before. Okay, so I may have given her the impression that I was her boyfriend over the phone, perhaps she misunderstood when I said "Of course I'm your boyfriend", to mean exactly that, and not, as I meant, "I really need to get laid, and you're well up for it, so I'll agree to anything".
"What?" I say, my brain still trying desperately to catch up with reality.
"Of course he is, aren't you, sweetie," says Amanda, gazing into my eyes. I nod, not trusting myself to say anything. "He's my little snugglebunny!" Oh my god, I think, she's mental. Nobody uses words like snugglebunny in real life except porn starlets who are marrying near death millionaires.
"So how long have you known each other?" asks Kate.
"You won't believe it," says Amanda in conspiratorial tones. "But we've just met. Tonight!" she adds with a squeak like a mouse being stepped on. Kate gives me a look, and I try and give the sort of weak smile that says 'Go along with her, she may have a gun'. Amanda notices Kates obvious confusion. "We met on the Internet," she explains, as if explaining calculus to a small child. "He charmed me with his wonderful words." Kate looks as though she wants to vomit at this. "So," continues Amanda. "How long have you known my little fireman?" Aaaggghhh! Say something you fool!
"Wuuh.." I slur, my mouth turning traitor on me.
"Fireman?" says Kate, bemused. "Is that another pet name?"
"No, silly!" Amanda is shrieking again. "He IS a fireman. He's my brave baby." With this she gives me a hug, and at the same time puts my fate squarely in Kate's hands. Kate is fully aware of this, and I suddenly wish I'd had only good things to say about Idiosyncratic Routine. Kate mulls over her reply for a second that stretches time like a drum solo, then decides that I deserve everything I get.
"He's not a fireman," she says, staring Amanda in the eyes. "He works in an office."
"Of course he's a fireman," says Amanda indignantly. "Tell her Dave."
"Ummm." I say eloquently. "Actually, I'm not technically a fireman, Amanda." I admit. "More sort of a non fireman, I suppose. I can explain," I add hurriedly as she stands up, furious. "I just got sort of carried away! Come on, it doesn't make any difference, surely! Ow!" The last is caused by a small fist bouncing off my nose. Amanda is standing in front of me, drink in hand, a furious look on her face.
"Bastard," she says with venom.
For a split second, I can see her contemplating throwing her drink at me, but instead she picks up my near full pint and pours it over my head before flouncing into the hall without a look back. I slump back in my seat, taken aback at what I feel is a rather extreme reaction. I look at Kate, who seems quite amused.
"Your nose is bleeding." she says. She's right - it's dripping onto the table. She offers me a tissue, which I stuff up the offending nostril.
"I think," I say sarcastically, "that the whole bleeding nose situation may be because I’ve just been thumped." I gingerly prod my nose, wincing at the stabbing pain. "Why did you grass me up?"
"I don't approve of lies," she answers simply. "My father seemed to think that lying was a preferable alternative to telling the truth. He had more affairs that a Tory minister. My mum finally kicked him out when she found him in bed with one of the neighbours. Mr Johnson, his name was. My father lives with him now."
"Come on," I protest. "It was only a little fib. I haven't lied to her about anything else."
"How about the size of your..?"
"Apart from that, of course," I admit. Damn her intuition.

I smile despite my soaking head and throbbing nose, and she smiles back. Gradually, the smile widens and she starts to laugh. One second there's nothing, then she's snorting like an excited piglet. As soon as she gets going, I can't help but join in. This entire situation is too ridiculous to feel anything but amusement. I feel like I'm back at school again, with globules of snot flying, although this time there's a fair amount of blood mixed in with it. Eventually, we manage to calm down, and sit there looking at each other, lips pursed, each determined not to be the one to start if all off again.
"Is it a bird?" she says, softly, eyes locked with mine.
"Is it a plane?" I reply, knowing exactly where she's going with this, unable to stop myself joining in.
"No..." we both say, voices rising. "It's FIRE MAN!", and we're off again.

"So why did you do it?" she asks, when we've finally got the laughter out of our systems. "You must have known you'd get found out."
"It just sort of got out of hand," I say, more sheepish than a shy shepherd.
"Just for a shag." She’s using that intuition again.
"Basically," I admit. "I suppose that beneath this sensitive exterior I'm just like all the rest of us. I want love, companionship and casual sex. It's not all Iron Maiden and Dry Blackthorn, you know. I get lonely, and I reach out, like anyone would."
"I appreciate that, but it's still no excuse for lying to the poor girl."
"Poor girl?" I say incredulously. "You did meet her? She was a shrill midget with a temper and a mean right hook. You probably did me a favour."
"Then you won't mind getting me another drink then?" she says, holding out her empty glass and tilting her head in an infuriatingly cute way. My nose is bleeding and my hair is dripping, but she makes everything seem immaterial. Okay, so it's soppy, but I can't help it. She will be mine.
"Let me dry myself first," I say, and proceed to do as much damage limitation as I can in the pub toilet. Afterwards I'm still a mess, but a passable mess rather than a cross the road to avoid mess. I go back in, stopping at the bar to get a fresh one for both of us. Hopefully I'll get to drink this one.

"Your drink, Milady" I say, placing it front of her and doing my best Parker from Thunderbirds impression.
"Thenk yew Parkah," she replies in a ludicrously over the top posh bird accent.
"Oh well," I say with a sigh, sitting down. "At least things can't get any worse."
Why do I say these things? It's like walking out five minutes before the end of a football match when your team are two nil down, only to miss their brilliant three goals in extra time.
"Shouldn't you be in the hall?" says Kate.
"Why?" I say, puzzled.
"Well, the band are just finishing 'Love You baby', and that's always the last song. Don't you go out and do the old 'Give them a big hand weren't they great' type of thing?"
"Oh shit," I exclaim, leaping up and knocking my pint off the table. It's certainly not my night for actually getting to drink my pints. As I open the double doors, a terrifying sight greets me. Amanda is on the stage. She knows all about what I do here, because I just had to blow my own trumpet, even if I DID exaggerate the size of said trumpet. My stomach sinks like one of my Mums sponge cakes. The crowd are looking suitably bemused.
"Well," she says hesitantly into the mike. "Weren't they good. Give them a big hand."
There is a smattering of applause, and people give me odd looks as I push past them towards the stage. When I'm half way there, Amanda sees me and points an accusing finger. Two hundred heads swivel towards me.
"This guy," she says, "is a bastard. I just thought that everyone should know. Bastard bastard bastard.” She repeats it like a mantra, then stops and looks at me. The hall is eerily silent. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Fight or flight? Be a man or a mouse? For a start, I've got to stop thinking in cliches and make a fucking decision.

I've always wondered that if, as has been pompously said, all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players, then who serves the choc ices? More to the point, who would they sell choc ices to? The point of a stage is to perform, and you can't perform unless you have someone to perform to, even if it's just a smelly old tramp and his dog who's just sneaked in though the fire excuse to get out of the rain. It's still an audience, even if it's an audience who will no doubt leave the auditorium smelling of piss for the next few days. The world is the world, and the stage is the stage. It's amazing what people will consider wisdom if it's said with a big enough dollop of pomposity and preferably the sort of beard you can hide rabbits in. To stand on a stage in front of an audience is always a great thing even if, like me, you're only there as a prelude to the main event. For the first time, however, I now am the main event. Two hundred expectant faces look up at me as I climb on the stage to face Amanda. They have a delightedly expectant look on their faces, not, I imagine, unlike the looks on the faces of ancient Romans as they watched lions munch their way through Christians to see if they came in different flavours. The Ancient Mariners are looking on bemusedly, waiting to plug in their gear and tune up for their set. Wayne and Neil from Idiosyncratic Routine look thoroughly entertained, like I put on the whole thing for their benefit. I feel like a bizarre street performer, specializing in humiliation. Part of me wonders if when it's all over I should pass a hat round. I always wanted to strut on the stage like some rock and roll messiah, a combination of Roger Daltry and Robert Plant, but instead I've set myself up for crucifixion unless I handle this just right.

Amanda steps away from the microphone as I approach, and I take it from the stand and face the audience. These, I remind myself, are my people. Amanda can't waltz in here and insult one of their own and expect to get away with it. Once again, it's my time to stand up for myself, to win others over to my side, to absolutely shit myself with nerves. It seems that all I ever do is react to stimulus, never having time to put myself in the position of being the stimulus that other people have to react to. Just once it would be nice to watch someone else make a twat of themselves on impulse. Sod it, here we go again.
"Hands up," I say, thinking fast, "all the blokes in here who can genuinely say they have never lied to a woman." Unsurprisingly, no hands go up. It's not that all men are lying scumbags - we just tend to make life easier for ourselves by only telling what we have to. A man has to have secrets. They don't have to be big, nasty secrets, just something that is his own. For men, lying to women is as natural as breathing. Mostly, our lies are harmless, designed to avoid conflict or argument. We don't really care how big a girls bum looks in a certain dress, so the last thing we are ever likely to say is 'By Christ luv, it looks like an explosion at the bouncy castle factory!' The three words men use most when they are waiting, as ever, for their better half to get ready to go out are You, Look and Fine. Be honest ladies, when you've come out in the fourth dress, the clock ticking ever closer to the point when you'll miss the film, has your man ever said, 'Tell you what, try the blue one again'? No, he hasn't. He tells you that you look fine. We lie, end of story
"Okay," I continue. "So we're a bunch of liars. Amanda here," I continue, nodding towards her, "thinks I am a bastard because I lied to her."
"What about?" comes a voice from the crowd.
"That's not important," I say, and am immediately drowned out by people shouting for a proper answer. It's like Prime Ministers Question Time but with more tongue piercing.
"Okay," I say, gesturing with my hands to quieten them down. "I said I was a fireman. Happy?" From the laughter, I gather they are very happy indeed. "In my defence I say only this: I wanted a shag." The mostly male crowd roars it's appreciation at my admirably low moral standards. Many of them no doubt file away the fact the pretending you are a fireman will increase your chances of a shag. As I bask in the glow of a job well done, Amanda snatches the mike from my hand. I may have the battle, but she's not willing to concede the war that easily.
"What are you cheering for?" she shouts. "He's a lying bastard! He abused my trust, how can you defend that sort of behaviour?" She glares daggers at me and gives me the mike back as the crowd shut up and wait for my answer, enjoying the show.
"Okay. Firstly, this manic midget here told me she was five foot ten, which I do believe officially makes her a lying bitch to my lying bastard, yes?" A roar of agreement goes up." Secondly: I wanted a shag." The place erupts with cheers and laughter, and for a few seconds I am the rock and roll messiah I wanted to be. Two hundred disciples support my divinity, and I bask in their praise, shallow as a teardrop. Behind me, Amanda stomps off the stage like a tornado in high heels and leaves the pub, hopefully never to be seen again. I take a bow and signal to Ferret to put some music on. The familiar bass rumble of Metallica's "Enter Sandman" comes through the speakers, and I step down from the stage. The Ancient Mariners come onstage and start to twiddle with their instruments and I retire to the bar at the back of the hall, getting more pats on the back than a puppy that's gone a whole day without shitting on the carpet. Simon is waiting for me there and shakes my hand when I get to him.
"Fucking brilliant, mate," he says. "Better than dancing girls, that was. You should do it every week."
"Bollocks to that!" is my emphatic reply. "I'd rather sit through your ten volumes of 'Anal Acrobats' with my Grandmother than go though that sort of crap again. How come internet dating is so popular when everyone on it seems to be a complete mentalist?"
"Except you, of course, Mr I’m A Fireman" says Simon sarcastically.
"It's like all those mad lesbians Sally meets,” I protest. “They're all completely bonkers."
"Never mind, mate," he says, draping a consoling arm around my shoulders. "Somewhere out there is a woman who actually wants to have sex with you because you're a talented, caring, sensitive guy, and not because she wants to measure the length of your hose."
"You reckon?"
"Nah. They're all shallow cows after looks or money. Fortunately I'm a shallow bastard who has both. You, however, need help. Have you considered chloroform? I got Morgan some last week, but he still has the problem of getting close enough to a woman to actually use it."
"I'll be alright," I protest. "I thought I was in with Kate. After you left we got on like a house on fire."
"What, you mean with people screaming and running around in a panic?" he asks, his sarcasm head well and truly on now.
"Very droll. No, it was great. Unfortunately, Amanda came in, which was pretty bad, then Kate let slip that she's Wayne’s girlfriend, which was worse."
"What - poodle boy Wayne?" he says incredulously. "How can any bird prefer him to me?" He is genuinely baffled. Simon is convinced that he is God's gift to women, and can't understand why a select few of them would rather have had a nice pair of shoes instead.
"To be honest, mate, I think she'd prefer The Elephant Man to you," I say.
"No taste, obviously."
"Or too much, methinks." I say.
"Ouch. Kick me while I'm down why don't you." He nods over my shoulder towards the stage, where the band are waiting expectantly. "Hadn't you better go and introduce the band?"
Shit. I quickly push though the crowd and climb onstage, motioning for Ferret to turn the music off. "I hope you enjoyed our little halftime show," I say. "But now it's time for the real entertainment. We couldn't afford Iron Maiden, so we got the next best thing. Please welcome for the first time at The Full Moon, the Ancient Mariners!" Predictably, everyone goes mental, and as I slip off the stage the band launches into "The Wicker Man". After all this, they'd better be damn good.

"So how were we?"
Wayne, as ever, is fishing for compliments. Wayne does not fish with any degree of subtlety. The equivalent in real life fishing would be leaping into the water with a huge mallet, shouting 'come and get it you scaly bastards'. It's 11.45, the concert is over, and me, Wayne, Neil, Kate and Simon are having a few after hours drinks in the main bar. The curtains are closed, we are trusted enough to pour our own drinks, and it's a welcome antidote to the rigours of the evening. The Ancient Mariners were every bit as good as I hoped, and the crowd went away happy. A happy crowd is a good crowd, especially as a lot of them will come back next week. We're all getting nicely sozzled, and I decide to be nice to Wayne, perhaps in my drunken state I imagine that if I compliment his band he'll let me sleep with his girlfriend.
"You were great, Wayne," I say. "If I never see another band, at least I will go to my grave knowing that I have witnessed the supreme majesty of Idiosyncratic Routine, perhaps the finest purveyors of melodic rock the planet will ever see.
"So you liked it?" he says. Wayne thinks sarcasm is something that happens to other people.
"Yes Wayne," I say as if to a child. "You were very good. I don't always give you the credit you deserve, but Kate has shown me the error of my ways."
Wayne looks at Kate, confused, but as confused is a natural state for Wayne nobody really notices anything different to normal.
"Actually," interjects Kate, "David was in here with me whilst you were playing, weren't you David?"
Damn this woman and her penchant for telling the truth.
"Well, yes," I admit, "but people told me afterwards how good you were, so well done."
"Well," says Kate. "If they're that good, then I'm sure you can offer them a headline slot for their next gig here can't you." She simpers at me. I never really thought about what simpering actually was. For me it's always something that Walter the softy does in The Beano, but now I appreciate the true meaning of the World. Adolf Hitler could have done with someone like Kate when he was trying to bully everyone into doing whatever he wanted. Although he got away with it in Germany, everyone else quite rightly thought that he was a bit of a loony. All he needed though, was Kate, who would say to the opposing leaders of state 'Go on, what harm can it do - let us have your country', and they'd have been falling over themselves to appoint a potty little ex house painter emperor of the planet.
"Right ," I say. "Sure. Headline gig you say? Erm... how about the 28th?"
"Brilliant!" enthuses Wayne. "Cheers Dave, you're a mate. You sure you don't want to manage us?" Oh God, here we go again.
"Why don't you get Kate to do it?" I ask, not unreasonably. "She's smart, she knows how to take advantage of drunk promoters, and she looks great in jeans. What more do you want?"
“No offence, mate," says Neil, "but people aren't gonna take us seriously if we let a bird manage the band are they?" His contribution, as ever, to the conversation is delivered with the subtlety and forethought of a dead halibut, only less smelly. I look at Kate, who shrugs, obviously used to the fact that Neil is the male equivalent of a supermodel, except without the brainpower, if such a thing is possible.
"Go on, Dave," says Wayne with his usual puppyish enthusiasm. "Look, we're doing a couple of gigs in Dorset this week, Monday Tuesday and Wednesday. Why don't you come with us, get a feel for it, and if you say no afterwards we'll never mention it again."
"Yes you will Wayne," I say. "You always mention it. If the phone rings in the middle of the night, it's not serial killers or bad news I worry about, I panic at the thought that I'll pick the phone up and you'll be on the other end asking me to manage the band. Do you know how many times you've asked me?"
"Dunno," says Wayne with a shrug. "A few?"
"Simon?" I say. Simon gets out a notebook.
"Thirty nine, including twice tonight," he says with an air of authority
"Thirty nine, Wayne. Much as I love the idea of spending three days or so with you and the band, I'll have to pass."
"We'll pay your bills," says Wayne, making a last ditch attempt to sway me. "Beer and board on us, and I promise on my lovely girlfriends life that I won't ask you again afterwards."
Hang on a minute. Lovely girlfriend? An evil thought creeps into my head, opens a few doors marked 'bastardy' and leaves through one of my ears.
"Uh, will you be going with the band, Kate?" I ask innocently.
"Why?" She says. "Does that matter?"
“No, no," I insist, about as convincing as scenery in Blakes’ Seven. "Just asking."
"As a matter of fact I am going," she confirms. "So will you be?"
"You know," I say, as if I've been mentally pondering the whole idea, "I just might. I'll go into work on Monday and make up some bullshit to get me the rest of the week off, and I'll call you at lunchtime Wayne. As long as there's no technical hitches I'll meet you Monday afternoon."
"Fuckin' brilliant!" says Wayne, genuinely pleased. "Look, we've got to be off now, but I'll see you on Monday, yeah?"
"No problem, mate. See you Monday."
With that, Wayne, Neil and Kate leave by the back door, and me and Simon are left to finish our drinks and trundle home.
"You absolute muppet," says Simon. "It's a good job the poodle boys are slower on the uptake than the American public, or they'd never let you near her. It won't work, mate."
I suppose he would know. Simon is to stealing girlfriends what Kylie Monogue is to showing your bottom. I, on the other hand, have never even considered stealing someone else’s girl. It seems wrong somehow, but I've never felt so ludicrously attracted to someone physically and mentally as I am to Kate. I look Simon in the eye.
"She will be mine," I say, adding a manic cackle that is usually associated with evil super villains as they dangle Mr Bond over a shark infested fish tank. "Just you wait and see.
“Yeah, right,” he says, not meaning a word. “As if I give a toss anyway. As long as we have a good time on the beano to Weymouth tomorrow, you can shag Wayne for all I care.”
“Well…” I muse, deadpan. “He has got nice hair, and a very tight bum…”
“Ahem,” coughs Simon.
“And those eyes…” I continue dreamily. “Like limpid pools of molten something…”
“AHEM!”
“What?”
“Fookin’ poofter.”
“Fair enough. Let’s go home.” So we do.

Sex Gods From The Planet Metal - Chapter Three

2009-12-27T15:46:00.000-08:00

Then…

Some people believe in a sixth sense, that bizarre instinct for unknowing the unknowable, for seeming to read minds or predict disasters, but not me. I always wonder why no one ever predicts good things, like "On the 4th of January 1987 Mrs Edith Johnson of Cambridge will have a really great time", that sort of thing. The only time poor old Mrs Johnson and people like her get to be involved with publicity seeking psychics is when her house gets flattened by an asteroid or she's abducted by wild dogs. Even then they only crawl out to say "Well, I knew that would happen," and waffle on a bout Nostradamous or something. No one ever thinks of warning these people beforehand, except the sort of raving nutters who thinks every powerful person in the world is an eight foot lizard in a really good human suit. I’ve never had a sixth sense, having enough trouble with the five I’ll own up to, but as I was sitting doodling away in English class one day, something made me look up, to be greeted by the not unpleasant sight of Miss Wright, although she did look a little pissed off, to tell the truth.
“What," she said, "are Iron Maiden?"
Potentially, this is rather a bizarre question to be asked during an English lesson, especially when the lesson concerned has so far consisted on listening to Miss Wright read a passage from "Of Mice & Men", a classic by John Steinbeck. I knew it was a classic because I’d already finished my copy the night before. This would account for the fact that instead of listening (or pretending to) along with the rest of the class I was much more interested in drawing band logos at the back of my English book. I'm no artist, (as my art teacher would have happily confirmed), but I was proud of my ability to draw perfect band logos. Of course, this takes great concentration, with no small measure of tongue sticking out and the like, which probably accounted for my ignorance of the teacher's impending presence. I smiled at her, which has all the impact of a raspberry jelly on a charging rhino. Whilst I squirmed under her gaze, the rest of the class hovered in silent anticipation of a good bollocking, like vultures over a particularly tasty but not quite dead animal.
"They're a band, Miss," I offered helpfully
"That's a pretty severe name for a pop group," she replied. "Do you even know what an Iron Maiden is?"
"Sure. It's a medieval torture device, sort of like a coffin with spikes on the inside. Not very nice. And they're not a pop group, Miss," I added, not knowing when to quit as usual, "they're a heavy metal band. Proper music."
"Proper music?" she said with a very deliberate raise of the eyebrows. "Isn't heavy metal an excuse to write terrible songs about riding motorbikes and worshipping the devil?" An amused smile played round her lips - she loved a good debate - and the class giggled.
"A common misconception," I said, trying to do a convincing Rumpole of the Bailey impersonation. "Hang on a mo." I rummaged around in my bag, which was, naturally, plastered in immaculately drawn rock band logos, and produced a cassette tape in it's case, which I held up like Indiana Jones after a good hard rummage round a tomb. "This," I explained, "is their new album, 'Somewhere In Time'. It contains songs about lots of different things, but not one about riding motorbikes, worshipping the devil, or both." My smug grin announced my triumph in the face of authority. I really should have known better by then.
"I'll tell you what, David," she said in a horribly reasonable tone. "As you obviously think Iron Maiden are way more fascinating than my poor rendition of one of this century's classic works of literature, why don't you take the rest of the lesson, and tell the class exactly why this is."
Oh shit. I now knew how a knight felt when the biggest, hairiest, nastiest knight came up to him, slapped him round the chops with a massive studded gauntlet and suggested they wave pointy things at each other until one of them decides breathing is not really all it's cracked up to be. If this was a comic strip, my character would definitely be making a noise not a million miles away from "ulp".
"Ulp," I croaked, fully appreciating the irony. I checked my watch - 10 minutes left until the buzzer - then I looked Miss Wright square in her oh so pretty eyes and picked up her metaphorical gauntlet. "Okay," I said simply, then I stood and walked purposefully to the front of the class. When I turned around, it was to see Miss Wright sitting at my desk, with Peter trying really hard to stare at her legs without actually staring at them. He wasn’t succeeding, but luckily her attention was on me.
"When you're ready," she said politely.
"Quiet at the back!" I snarled in my best authoritarian growl. This got a chuckle running round the class, so I decidde that the best thing to do was just to dive in head first and hope that I didn’t drown.
"Iron Maiden," I began. "Are interesting. Not neccessarily as interesting as Miss Wrights superb reading of "Of Mice & Men", but as I finished it last night I really wasn't paying that much attention, as you may have gathered." This got another laugh, and a grin from Miss Wright. "Don't worry Miss," I quipped, "I won't give the ending away, suffice to say that it's a killer." She kept on smiling, and with my audience happy I launched into an explanation of why I thought Iron Maiden were interesting. I concentrated on the lyrics, and explained how Iron Maiden were the reason I read Coleridge's 'Ryme Of The Ancient Mariner', because they had based a lengthy song on it. I described some of the many serious subjects covered in their five albums to date: The Charge Of The Light Brigade; World War 2 Spitfire pilots; Prostitution; Egyptian burial; The treatment of Indians in America by settlers and many more. I explained how listening to the songs gave me a thirst to find out more about the subjects covered. "Except, of course, prostitution," I said, gaining another laugh from the surprisingly captivated audience. I told them how much I was looking forward to seeing the band the next day. I quoted lyrics and poetry, then finished with a timing that would put Groucho Marx to shame as the buzzer for lunch vibrated around the classroom mere seconds after my last word. It was very hard not to do a victory dance, but I contained myself admirably.

The class filed out for lunch, with only me and Miss Wright left, her still sitting in my seat. As I approached she stood, gave me a slow, measured handclap and favoured me with a huge smile. I bowed theatrically, causing her to laugh softly.
“Well done," she said simply. "I really had no idea that heavy metal music could actually help people learn things, except maybe how to look very scruffy and smelly. You should be proud of yourself - you just kept that class entertained and quiet with a monologue on a band they would never even think of listening to. In fact, you even entertained me, and I'm normally a right troublemaker! All I get in my house is chart music. My daughter’s too young to have her own opinion yet, so she just likes whatever's played on the radio."
"It was fun," I admitted, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Maybe I'll become a teacher when I'm older."
"It's a great and noble profession," she deadpanned.
“Well," I continued. "That or a rock star." I grinned and started to walk out of the classroom with a loony smile that showed the world that I had won a famous victory for pupils everywhere. Yes, I know, I was still a slow learner.
"David," she called softly.”
“Yeah?"
In case you thought you'd got away with it, your punishment for not paying attention in class is a five hundred word essay on the Iron Maiden concert you said you were going to tomorrow. By Monday please."
"Yes Miss," I sighed, and trudged out to lunch, my balloon well and truly popped. Teachers!

At eight pm on Saturday, the car stopped outside the Bristol Hippodrome. Inside, me and Peter were so excited we almost shook. I know that today parents send twelve year olds off to drug addles raves and the like, but back then it was different. We were both in our uniforms - jeans, Iron Maiden t-shirts and patch covered denim jackets, and after looking through the window I realised we were far from the only ones.
"Now remember to be careful, and be out here at eleven on the dot so I can pick you up. Okay?" said Mum, understandably worried by the sheer volume of denim and leather clad long haired lunatics milling around outside the venue.
"Yes Mum," I replied obediantly, rolling my eyes theatrically to demonstrate to Peter my total disregard for my parents. Naturally, inside I was really grateful to them for letting me come to the gig. Not only was it my first ever concert, it was an Iron Maiden concert, the biggest and best heavy metal band in the world. All the nonsense I’d spouted the day before in class was true. I had all of their albums and I knew all the lyrics off by heart, (I still do) even though I found it nigh on impossible to memorize a few simple physics equations. At that point I was on a perfect high - way past cloud nine, I was perched on cloud ten looking down on the people on cloud nine, sticking out my tongue at them and going "ttttthhhhpppppttttt".

We got out of the car and as it drove away we took in the scene: It was awesome. All around us were heavy metal fans, which is an amazing thing to witness when you're the only two in your year at school, like me and Peter. Every person had something different to offer, from multi coloured t- shirts with a multitude of different band names plastered across them and worn with pride, to beautifully painted pictures on the backs of leather jackets, an interesting number of which featured semi naked women either wrestling with giant snakes or riding motorbikes. Very cold, I would have thought. Everyone looked happy, which certainly tuned in with what we were feeling, and for five minutes we just stood there, soaking in the atmosphere like denim clad sponges. We knew we looked like little clones in our own get ups, but for the first time we felt like we actually fitted in. I realised that I had found my place in life, as wasn’t about to let go of it without a fight.
"This is cool," said Peter, moving forward and breaking my concentration. Nudged out of my thoughts, I joined him and we made our way towards the entrance, threading our way through the crowd.

He was right, of course, but it went way beyond cool. We were at an Iron Maiden concert, beyond any parental guidance, and every other person in sight liked the same music as us. I, however, have never been a straw sucking country boy that I would show any indication that I was overawed by the whole experience, so I affected an air of laid back nonchalance, ruining it somewhat by allowing my mouth to gape open like some hillbilly who attends his sisters wedding and is informed at the last minute that he is the groom.
"It's okay, I suppose," I admitted, trying out a 'Fonzie meets Paul Newman' look, and failing miserably. I imagine I looked more like 'Fonzie meets Velma from 'Scooby Doo', and as a result runs off screaming whilst she scrabbles around in the dirt looking for her glasses, which she has unsurprisingly dropped’. I always wondered why the hell Velma is allowed to go on cool adventures with the rest of them when she's such a dozy tart. If I was part of the gang the first thing I'd do is tie some string to her glasses so she can't lose them. It's not a mentally challenging solution to the problem - even Shaggy could think of it, but each week she ended up crawling around looking for her sodding glasses whilst the Janitor or whoever is under the ghoul mask that week stood in front of her waving his arms around, going "Raaarrrgghhh!" and looking about as scary as a bowl of cornflakes. I know it's wrong, and admittedly a little scary, to be worked up like this over a cartoon, but I like to think that these people who solve a mystery every week would have at least a couple of brain cells to share between them. I think that the only reason they haven't burned Velma at the stake by now is that she owns the van or something.
"Okay?" replied Peter, looking at my faraway expression in bewilderment. "This is better than okay - this is METAL!"
You could hear the capital letters in his voice, and I agreed with every word. I dropped all pretence and allowed a big, manic grin to spread across my face as I drank in the sights and sounds of the Hippodrome foyer. The main draw was the souvenir stand, with a vast array of t-shirts, badges, programmes and patches. The theme for the tour was the future, and there were some beautifully painted designs, all featuring Eddie, the bands skeletal mascot, in one outrageous pose or another. I only had ten pounds with me, painfully withdrawn from my savings account after I failed to scrounge any from my parents. We stood and gazed at the myriad of goods on offer for a few minutes, each mentally earmarking what we were going to buy. Personally I set my sights on a cool t-shirt featuring a gun toting cyborg Eddie in front of a futuristic hover car with the tour dates on back underneath the legend “Somewhere On Tour. It only came in extra large, but I was fully prepared to grow into it, even if for a while people would no doubt think I was wearing an Iron Maiden dress.

Peter caught my eye and motioned towards the bar area, and enjoying the pretence of being real men for a night, we went inside.
"Fancy a cider or two, David?" he said, cackling like some B movie hunchback who's just returned from a hard night down at the cemetery collecting brains for his master.
"Fuck," I replied. "Off." I had not yet forgotten my misguided adventures in ciderland a few weeks ago. We went to the bar anyway to get a coke each, then retired to one of the side walls to watch the world go by.
"Jesus!" Peter exclaimed as a tall, blonde goddess in a tight vest top and even tighter leather trousers sauntered by, blatantly well aware of the effect she was having on men’s evil little hormones. "I wouldn't climb over her to get to you, mate," he continued, giving me a look so lecherous Sid James would be ashamed of it.
"Get down, Shep," I admonished. "I think she's slightly out of your age range, Pete. She probably prefers her men to shave, or at the very least have pubes." For this I got a ‘shut the fuck up’glare, as Peter was acutely aware and just as acutely embarrassed about the fact that the only hairs yet to sprout on his body were the blonde ones on the top of his head. Aware I was about to step over an imaginary line if my taunting continued, I wisely and smoothly changed the subject. "Have I told you how Eddie got his name?" I asked.
"What? Iron Maiden Eddie?" he asked, somewhat stupidly I feel, given we were at an Iron Maiden concert and the bands mascot is called Eddie.
"No," I said, putting all the sarcasm of a gym teacher in my voice. "Another Eddie. Possibly the one that lives at the bottom of your garden with the pixies and the fairies, you complete and utter spastic. Uuunnnggh!" This last noise was accompanied by me sticking my tongue solidly in one cheek and gurning for all I'm worth, just in case Peter doesn't understand the full extent of his spasticity.
"Har de har," he said, deadpan. "You're so mature I want you to have my babies. Go on then, let me in on the big secret."
"Right," I said happily. I always get a perverse pleasure from telling other people useless but interesting stuff. "When the band started they just had a skeletal head for a mascot, which was put over the drummer and would puke blood on him during the gig."
"Cool," said Peter. Fair enough.
"Anyway, there was a joke going around at the time that made them call the head Eddie: Mr and Mrs Smith, or whatever, had a baby boy that was born with out a body, so they called him Eddie, as in Eddie The 'Ead, and put him on the mantlepiece. They kept him there for eighteen years, and eventually saved up enough money to buy him a body. So on his eighteenth birthday they decide to surprise him, and they go downstairs and Mr Smith says 'Guess what we've got you for your birthday , son", and Eddie goes..."
"Oh no, not another fucking hat!" roared a voice behind me, accompanied by the kind of laughter normally reserved for super villains who have just got a new shark infested swimming pool for christmas over which to dangle Mr Bond and tell him all their nefarious plans.
"Huh!" was our unsurprising response as we looked at the enormous giant of a man standing behind me, who has obviously been listening to every word. Not only that, the bastard stole my punch line. I decided to let him off, though, considering he could no doubt use me to pick his teeth or, worse, as a rectal thermometer considering his huge arse. He was at least seven feet tall, with his beard making him look like a man peeking out from behind a bush. He had on a tattered three year old tour shirt that was trying unsuccessfully to cover his impressive gut, the size of which lead us to believe that he hadn't seen his feet, among other things, for many a year. As we gaped, he gave another hearty laugh and clapped me on the back.
"Now where did a shrimp like you learn that story?" he asked in a surprisingly soft voice tinged with a West Country burr.
"It's in the book," I answered politely, as if he was my headmaster. "Running Free". I meant the bands biography I got earlier in the year, written by a fine young journalist called Garry Bushell, who, in my naïve young opinion, I though would go far and be well respected in his profession. Little did I know.
"And true it is too," admitted the man mountain. "It's nice to meet one so young and yet so well informed about the important things in life, namely heavy metal music. My names Stumpy, but you can call me Sir, or I'll tear each of you a new arsehole." He laughed again, like Blackbeard the pirate after a good walking of the plank. "Only kidding, son. You can call me Stump. I work for the band."
We slowly absorbed this information: he worked for the band. A cool night had just got cooler.
"What do you do?," asked Peter.
"Nicko's drum roadie," replied Stump, knowing he was impressing us. Nicko was Nicko McBrain, Maiden's drummer. "Tell you what, lads. How would you like to come on stage with the band?" this last was thrown in almost as an afterthought, and we scrabbled at it like piranhas at a missionary.
"Yeah!" we both exclaimed, not able to believe what we're hearing.
"How?" I asked, never too shocked to be practical. Stump seemed like the genuine article, but I'd never met a roadie before. For all I know they could really be built like stick insects and quote Shakespeare all the time.
"Well," he said. "On the new album there's a song called 'Heaven Can Wait'. You know it?" We nodded like we belonged on the back shelf of some sad cases Ford Escort. "Okay, so in the middle, where there's all the chanting, the band need extra people to come up and give 'em a hand. Normally us roadies do it, but tonight they're letting some fan club members have a go cos they won some competition or other. If you come to the side of the stage during the second song, I'll see you there and let you join in. How does that sound?"
"Us?" spluttered Peter. "On stage? With Maiden? That sounds brilliant!"
"Why us?" I said sceptically, being the sort of person who not only looks a gift horse in the mouth but puts on a long rubber glove to rummage around in it’s arse as well.
"Why not?" he said jovially. "I like you, you're obviously new to this concert thing, and I remember what it's like to see your first band. Let's just say I'm in a bloody good mood today and I want you to have a good time you'll remember for years to come. If that's not good enough for you I'll say goodbye and you can pretend we never met."
"No!" I protested. "Don't go. We'd love to do it. Second song you say?" He nodded, amused. "We'll be there," I continued.
“I'll see you later, then," he said and lumbered off.
Me and Peter looked at each other with smiles so large they would send the Cheshire Cat stomping off with it's tail between it's legs. I raised my hand, palm out, and Peter high fived me silently. We were literally too excited to speak. We were going onstage, and I knew that whatever else happened in my life I would always belong on a stage, with music for my blood and guitar strings for tendons. One day it would be me addressing the crowd. One day…

Now…

It's six in the evening on Friday when Simon and I walk into the hall at The Full Moon. Simon shouts "Drink!" like it's a remotely cool thing to say anymore and heads to the bar, whilst I have a word with the headline band, who are tuning up their instruments on the stage. Tonight’s band take me back to my misspent youth, as they're an Iron Maiden tribute band, known as The Ancient Mariners. Although at the moment they look no different to any other band, I have it on good authority that when they play they don fright wigs and scarily tight spandex to take the audience back to the era of incredible cheesiness: the Eighties, when men were men and rock stars stuffed what looked like tame armadillos down their trousers. I approach the one fiddling expertly with a bass guitar and make an educated guess.
"Steve?" I enquire. He nods. "I'm Dave. I booked you tonight."”
Heeyyyy!" he enthuses, sticking out a hand. "Nice to meet you, mate. Thanks for the gig."
"No problem," I say, failing to sound at all modest. "I'm a Maiden fan from way back. Got on stage with them once." I can't help adding, puffing out my chest as if it's some sort of achievement.”
“No way?" he says, giving my already inflated ego another puff. "Where was that?"
"Bristol Colston Hall. 1986." I reply. "I did the shouty bit on "Heaven Can Wait" along with some fan club members."
"Cool," is his comment, and it's enough for me. I thrive on this sort of shit, sad, sad bastard that I am.
"Maybe you can come up and do it later when we're playing," he adds as an afterthought.
I pretend to consider it, aware of the little voice inside me going "Whoo-hoo" and punching it's little metaphorical fist in the air.
"Sure," I say about as reluctantly as a prisoner of war who's just been offered a chocolate cake with a naked girl inside.
"Okay," he says. "Just get on stage when we get to the middle bit." I nod.

"Okay lads, are you ready to run through one now?" comes the voice of Ferret, our regular sound engineer. The band signal in the affirmative, so I leave the stage and retire to the back of the hall to have a drink with Simon, who's standing with a sarky smirk on his face.
"You sucking up again?" he asks as he hands me a pint.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say innocently.
"I'll try and be more explicit. Are you, like you do every week, ingratiating yourself with the band in the hope that if they one day become famous and remember you with a thank you on their first album?"
“Well, if you put it like that, then yes," I admit.
"Tart," he says simply.
I poke my tongue out at him and take a long drink as the band launch into a song. It's a great version of Iron Maidens' first ever single, "Running Free", and whilst I am content to sip my drink and tap my foot, Simon stands in the middle of the hall and goes into classic "Guitar Hero" mode. This consists of standing with his legs wide apart, his hands clutching an invisible guitar, and his hair swirling furiously around as he shakes his head in time with the music. It's a strange sight - at the same time hauntingly ritualistic and embarrassingly crap, sort of like watching ballerinas doing Morris Dancing. I'm quietly enjoying myself, appreciating the music and chuckling at Simon, when Neil and Wayne walk through the door. They're both nice enough looking guys, with long hair and the easygoing nature of a couple of dysfunctional Labradors (like normal Labradors but even stupider), but I always dread seeing them because I know they're going to ask me to manage their band. Wayne and Neil are the singer and guitarist with Idiosyncratic Routine, a Bristol based band who play a decent set of Eighties style rock music that's destined to never to even singe the World, let alone set it alight. They sound like any other melodic rock band from rock's bad hair decade, and they absolutely love me. It all started when I got their demo tape through the post, and the first thing that struck me was their name. It's pretty meaningless to most people, not to mention a bugger to spell, but I knew that it was taken from the name of a comic book featured in one of my favourite films "Chasing Amy". As I'm a total film nut, I booked them even though I wasn't sure how well their type of music would go down with the metalheads at the Moon. When I first met them, I felt like Don King, a veritable giant among promoters. They couldn't have been more grateful for the gig, and as a bonus brought in a fair sized audience of their own thanks to an over the top flyposting campaign that earned me a couple of calls from the local police. I enjoyed the gig, got friendly with the band, then proceeded to hand out fatherly advice when they started asking me questions about how I thought they could progress in their chosen profession. Big mistake. So impressed were they with my wealth of knowledge (compared to theirs anyway), that they asked me to manage them. Of course, the last thing I want is to try and flog their particular brand of dead horse, so I refused, but politely, as in "Not at the moment". I just can't be nasty to them, it would be like kicking a kitten, so every time I speak to either of the two ringleaders and they ask me again, I trundle out another lame excuse, assuring them that whilst I think they're a great band I just don't have the time to guide them to superstardom.

As The Ancient Mariners twang their final chord and Simon winds slowly down from his frenzy, Neil and Wayne walk over with their usual "I'm new in town, please mug me" grins.
"Dave!" says Wayne, extending his hand for me to shake. "Alright, mate?"
"Hi Wayne," I reply, plastering my Bill Clinton ‘What? Me?’ sincere smile on. "Neil," I add, nodding to the guitarist who is playing with his hair as always. It's long and very very blonde. Neil is not your stereotypical dumb blonde - he's got a long way to go before he qualifies as "dumb".
"Dave," says Wayne, launching straight into his usual sales pitch. "We were wondering..."
"Sorry Wayne," I say, cutting him off before he can ask me to manage them. "Very busy at the moment. We'll have to talk later. Look, set your stuff up ready for your set, and I'll be in later to introduce you. We can chat after the gig, which of course I'm really looking forward to." Lies lies lies.
"Cool," he says. "We've got a new song tonight. It's called "Yeah Baby", and it really rocks."
I swallow a grimace at anybody who would describe their song in such a way, and do my best to look interested.
"Sounds great, Wayne, really great, but I've got a meeting with my business partner in a minute," - at this point Simon is standing behind Wayne making faces and miming drinking - "so I'll see you later, yeah?" I raise my hand up for a high five, which I know Wayne still considers a cool thing to do.
"No problem," he says, slapping his palm against mine. "Catch you later." With that, he and Neil wander back to the far end where their band mates are lugging in their equipment. Thank fuck. Simon grabs me by the arm and propels me into the saloon bar.
"When will you stop booking those tits," he says.
"I thought you liked tits?" I reply, grinning.
"Oh fuck off," he says articulately, and we settle down for a few blissfully uninterrupted drinks.

At nine O'clock I stand on the stage and address the assembled masses. We’ve got a good crowd in, and I'm feeling the usual thrill - sort of a cross between delicious anticipation and having a dozen hyperactive squirrels shoved down my trousers. Christ knows what I'd be like if I actually had to perform. The crowd stare at me with all the enthusiasm of Vegans at a cattle market. They want loud music and wailing guitars, not some skinny guy in a John Mellencamp t-shirt. I take in a deep breath, like a tennis player serving for match point, and go ballistic.
"Good evening Full Moon!" I yell at the top of my voice. "Are you ready to go absolutely fucking crazy!" Okay, so it's cheesier than a cheese shop that's just had it's yearly cheese delivery for the cheese appreciation festival, but it works. Sometimes the old ones are definitely the best. There's a tight moment of stunned indifference before the crowd, taken completely by surprise, go absolutely fucking crazy. I bask in the glow for a second and, as the roar subsides, I finish my piece.
"At nine forty five we've got the brilliant Ancient Mariners to brighten up your sad little lives with some Iron Maiden numbers," - pause for applause and some half hearted shouts of 'Maideeeeen!' - "But now, fresh from their tour of some shit pub in Bristol and the guitarists Granddads garden shed, please welcome onto the stage the brilliant, the superb, the available on short notice - Idosyncratic Routine!" There's a nice roar of appreciation and I scuttle off the stage as the band launch into their first number. I can't really be arsed to watch them tonight, so I retire to the lounge where Simon is propping up the bar for a change, a bottle of Newcastle Brown ale clasped in one grubby paw.
"Everything alright?" he asks, burping artistically. “Your cheese go down okay?”
"No problem," I reply. "Had them eating out of the palm of my hand."
"Hah! he snorts. "I know what you do with the palm of your hand, and I certainly wouldn't eat out of it."
"Thank you for your continued support," I say, not in the mood for a prolonged mutual slagging session, no matter how much fun I know it can be. "Fuck me ragged," I exclaim, looking over Simon's shoulder. "Who is that?"
He looks round with practised nonchalance at the girl who has just walked in through the door. He locks eyes with her for a microsecond, then turns back to me with the predatory grin of a tiger that hasn't been fed for a month.
"Mine," he says, simply.
I don't argue, because when Simon stakes his claim on a girl it's a pretty sure bet that she'll be helping herself to my corn flakes in the morning. So I order a pint from Mel and watch the girl as she subsequently does the same. She's pretty, but not what anyone could call a stunner. She hasn't got the supermodel arse, or a dazzling smile, she's just got something else, something that makes me wish that for once I was Simon and had all the lines and the good looks, instead of me. She has long dark hair, pulled back into a simple ponytail, which shows off a round, friendly looking face. The face brings with it a self amused smile that is utterly adorable. She's wearing jeans and a tight Iron Maiden t-shirt, and although I shouldn't say it in this horrible PC world of ours, she has great tits. I feel an irresistible urge to buy her a trampoline. Christ, I really need to get laid more. I watch in wonder as Simon downs his bottle and sidles up to her like a crocodile through a swamp in search of a nice crunchy hillbilly.
"Alright, love," he says. "Haven't seen you here before."
"That would be because I haven't been here before," she replies. "I'm meeting some friends."
"Well, you've already met one," he says smoothly, holding out a hand. "I'm Simon."
"Kate," she returns, taking his hand to shake it. Without pausing for an instant, Simon raises her hand to his lips and plants a big smacker on the back of it. He ensures that the contact is long enough to be considered more than friendly, although not long enough to be considered assault. Then he launches his offensive, which I feel is a perfect description of the way Simon talks to girls.
"Do you know," he says, waggling two fingers suggestively in front of her, "why most women reach orgasm using these two fingers?"
"Because they're yours?" she replies with a look of innocence that would put a nun to shame. Simon is taken aback - girls are not supposed to do the punchline. He does the corny line, they set him up, he delivers the saucy closer, they laugh and soon afterwards there is much shagging. Failure is not an option.
"Er, yeah," he says, lost for words. I've never seen him like this, and if I'm honest I'm loving every second. "Yeah, very good. Er, do you fancy a drink or something?" I can't believe it. Simon is resorting to the oldest line in the book. How the mighty has fallen. It's like David Beckham tying his bootlaces together and tripping over the ball.
"Got one," she says simply, waving her whiskey and coke under his nose. The self amused smile is very evident now, and she's obviously enjoying herself. Simon totally collapses.
"Right. Okay. Er, do you fancy coming out sometime?" he asks, like a twelve year old at a school disco. I snort into my glass.
"I'm sorry," she says politely. "Unfortunately, although you are quite cute in a me Tarzan you Jane sort of way, I think you might be a teensy bit of a twat. If you want another notch on your bedpost I suggest you go and watch the band. There should be a girl in there called Susan, a friend of mine. She's about five foot eleven, blonde, and owns the sort of breasts that make your ego look small, which I can see is no small achievement. A Bacardi and Coke should get you away, so go for it stud."
Defeated, Simon slumps off, preferring to put up with Idiosyncratic Routine than stay in a room with a woman who has just turned him down. As he reaches the door she calls out to him.
"Simon?"
"Yeah?" he says, turning round.
"Just for the record, I am not a lesbian, and don't try and tell me you weren't thinking that I am." Without a further word he turns and disappears into the hall.

I sit on my stool and give Kate a slow handclap. She finally turns her attention on me.
"Is it your turn now?" she asks, tilting her head.
"Uh, no," I say in a panic. "I'm just amazed. I've never seen him fail before. It's like when the Beatles refused their knighthoods or whatever from the Queen. Never mind where you where when Kennedy got shot, from now on it's where were you when Simon got shot down."
"Oh come on," she says disdainfully. "You can't tell me that girls actually fall for that load of old crap." She gets up and comes over, setting herself on the stool next to me that has recently been vacated by Simon. She has a lovely perfume on, I notice, sort of like vanilla with an erotic kick.
"It's not so much the lines," I explain, "more the whole package that is Simon. His Simon-ness. He oozes sexuality and charm, apparently."
"He oozes something alright!" she laughs. "Look, I'm just not the sort of girl who drops her knickers when confronted by a pretty face and a dirty chat up line. Some of us weird, not quite human girls prefer an intelligent conversation to a quick shag against the toilet wall."
"Intelligent conversation?" I say with a puzzled look on my face. "Isn't that something they practise in the big city? Us country folk don't have no truck with newfangled ideas. Next thing you know they'll be telling us we can't marry our sisters.”
She laughs, thank God, and we take a contemplative sip of our drinks. This is good. This is the best conversation I've had with a pretty girl for months, and I really don't want to blow it. I'm never any good at this sort of thing, as I tend to gush out too many personal details too soon, and the girl ends up backing away from me like I was a Conservative candidate asking for her vote and a quick nibble on her bottom. I'm now trapped in the non talking moment, and I know I have to come up with something to say. Something intelligent. Not football, not Jackie Chan movies, not the weather, and not the migratory habits of the African and European Swallows. In mental desperation I opt for books, because books are intelligent, I hope.
"So, uh, what's your favourite book?" I ask, more lame than a man with no legs.
"Wow," she says. "You really are good at this talking to girls thing. You're not some nutter are you? Please don't tell me your favourite book is "Catcher In The Rye" and you've got Elvis chained up in your basement."
"Nah," I say reassuringly."Elvis is in the attic, I've got Jimmy Hoffa in the basement. Anyway, my favourite book's 'The Door Into Summer'."
"Really?" she exclaims. "That's my favourite."
"Oh yeah," I say scornfully. "Course it is." I've never met anyone else who's heard of it, let alone read it. She fixes me with a steely gaze. I feel like a rabbit on the M4, just inches away from becoming a bunny pancake.
"Time travel thingy by Robert Heinlein," she says, deadpan. "Starring Daniel Davis and his cat Pete, short for Petroneous. True love, very useful robots, impeccable narrative and a happy ending. I called my cat Pete after the one in the book."
"Mine's called Pixel," I say. “She’s a pain in the arse”
"Ah," she says, "The Cat Who Walks Through Walls."
"That's amazing," I say, not thinking about how stupid I sound.
"What?" she says indignantly. "That I can read? That I can appreciate good writing? Should my feeble girls brain be incapable of taking in the scientific theories? I do apologise. Please excuse me whilst I go and bury myself in a nice Barbara Cartland novel."
With this she makes as if to get up and leave. I reach out and put a hand on her arm.
"No!" I say, perhaps a bit desperately. She doesn’t thump me, which is a good sign. "I didn't mean anything by it. It's just that I hardly ever meet Heinlein fans, and no one has ever admitted to reading 'The Door Into Summer'. It's nice to find someone else who actually reads the stuff I do. No offence intended." I throw in what I hope is a wry grin. "I'd like to state for the record that I fully appreciate the mental talents of girls of the female persuasion, and promise to bow to your matronly wisdom in the future."
"Okay," she says, slightly mollified and definitely less pissed off. "Who the hell are you anyway?"
"I'm the poor sod who books all the bands here," I say, extending my hand. "David Banner."
"What? Like the Hulk?" she sniggers, shaking my hand.
"Yes," I reply deadpan. "Har har har. I have heard, I promise you, all the jokes, and I don't turn green. Anywhere."
"So what does the Hulk do when he's not bringing music to the unwashed masses?" she asks.
"A very dull office job not even worthy of discussion. How about you? Supermodel? Jet fighter pilot?"
"I'm between positions at the moment." she says. "And no ridiculous sexual innuendo comments please. I'm a professional frustrated artist."
"I'm a frustrated artist," I admit. "Frustrated because I can't draw for shit."
"I suppose I'm not a proper artist," she continues. "I'm pretty good at that thing, but what I want to do is draw comics. Like the Hulk!"
"Are you taking the piss, madam?"
"No!" she asserts. "Well, okay, just a bit, but I do want to draw comics though."
"Like Idiosyncratic Routine," I say cryptically.
"What?" she replies, looking at me quizzically.
"Idiosyncratic Routine," I explain. "The band on in the hall. They're named after a comic book in a film."
"Clever boy," she says, and I flush like a little kid who's just got a pat on the head for using his potty without getting shit all over the floor. "Anyone who likes Kevin Smith movies is all right by me," she continues.
I go the sort of crimson once associated with pirates and resist the impulse to giggle. I am so in here I can't believe it. It's all I can do to stop myself punching the air and doing a victory dance round the bar.
"So how come you aren't in there watching them?" she asks.
"In all honesty, I'm not overawed by them," I reply. "The main problem is that they play music from fifteen years ago. I like the music, and I like the band, but what's the point? They're flogging a horse so dead it's now a can of Pedigree Chum."
"Nonsense!" she retorts with surprising venom. I sense the moment disappearing like a Scouser who's just been offered a fair days wage for a fair days work. "They love what they do, and the music they play. Where is it written that a band can't be in it purely for the music? They know damn well they're never going to be on Top Of The Pops or play at Wembley, they just want to entertain people."
"So, uh, you know them then?" I say tentatively. Of course she bloody knows them, she'd hardly throw a mental on me like that if she just liked the name.
"I should bloody hope so," she says. "After all, I am shagging the guitarist."
Oh shit.
"David? David Banner?" comes a voice from the door. I turn around and there is a petite, pretty girl there. I recognise her immediately. It's Amanda.
Oh double shit.
With a cherry on top.

Sex Gods From The Planet Metal - Chapter Two

2009-12-27T15:40:00.000-08:00

Then…

As I lay in bed on a cold Friday morning, all I could think was that my head hurt. It wasn’t a normal type of pain, instead it was an agony that deserved a special name so that sufferers in the future would know exactly what it was that was causing them to wish they were dead. I would have made a name up myself there and then, but my head was hurting, so I couldn’t be arsed. It was a very sad sight, I imagine: poor old me, lying in bed, duvet pulled up to my nose, groaning for England, really not ready, willing or able to go to school. I decided that school was definitely not going to be on the cards that day, so I started rehearsing my “Uurrrrgghhh... I’m ill!” speech ready for when Mum came in to kick start me out of bed, only for the door to creak open and my brother Nick to stick his ugly head round it. I tried to snarl at him, but the effort was too great, so I settled for mouthing “You bastard” at him weakly, because it was all his fault, of course.

It had all started the night before, as Mum and dad had gone out to see a play in London and were saving on a hotel room by driving back afterwards. This meant that they weren’t expected back until the small hours, and in their infinite wisdom they had decided that Nick was mature enough to hold the fort. Unlike me, they obviously hadn’t realised that Nick wasn’t mature enough to hold a conversation, but there you go. Of course, in the spirit of supposedly responsible seventeen year olds everywhere he decided to invite a couple of his Neanderthal mates over, but not before they’d availed themselves of a couple of flagons of local cider from one of the many local farmers who happily flogged the stuff to teenagers hoping for a head start on their liver damaging years. You must be familiar with farmhouse scrumpy, because it is a liquid like no other. The colour is usually a worrying mix of piss and vinegar (not a coincidence, given some of the ingredients), and there are things floating about in it that wouldn’t be out of place in a John Carpenter movie, even one of his more recent ones. The advantage of it over normal, tasty fizzy cider was that the farmers would sell it to anyone with a five pound note, and also that it was so strong it made vodka seem like tap water. If you could still walk after a gallon of the stuff then you had officially died and been resurrected.

My brother’s partners in grime were Bumble and M’eh, which should say it all really. Bumble was so called because he used to wear a yellow and black stripy jumper (well, it worked for Sting), and M’eh had a goatee, so they called him M’eh, as in the sound a goat makes. Possibly. Look, they were morons, so it could have been something else completely, but that was all I could think of. Of course, my parents called them James and Robert, but that was fair enough. I couldn’t imagine my Mum meeting them in the street and trilling out “Good morning, M’eh, Bumble.” Just wouldn’t happen, would it?

So there they were, chucking the vile stuff back like pros, and I was fulfilling my role as annoying little brother, which I was very good at.
“Oh go on. Let me have some,” I would whinge. “I’ve had it loads of times before, honest.” As if I’d ever even heard of “Jonesy’s Old Bollock Retractor”, let alone quaffed a few pints with my schoolfriends down at the gentlemen’s club..
“You won’t like it,” said my brother sagely. “You’ll get ill.”
“I won’t!” I insisted, sensing a victory. “I promise.”
In the end, they relented, amidst much sniggering, and decided to make bets on how long it would take me to drink a half. Wagers placed, they put a glass in front of me and gave me expectant looks. I didn’t want to look like a complete lying pilchard (which I was), so I took a deep breath and chucked it down in about ten seconds, feeling very proud of myself afterwards, if rather nauseous. Nick seemed proud of me too, but only as he’d had the lowest time. His mates looked awe-struck, which made me feel like I’d been run over by a train (chuffed to death, ha ha), and bet him that I couldn’t do it again. Another deep breath preceded another half, and me sat in the middle of the living room starting to feel the effect, whilst around me were concerned mumblings of “It’s seventeen bloody percent for Christ’s sake. We’ll kill him,” and “Let’s make him do it again.”

So I did it again. And again. Two pints of Somerset’s finest rotgut in a body unused to anything stronger than Panda Pops. Unsurprisingly, it was about this time that my bodily functions decided they’d had enough for one night, and left me collapsed in a heap, wondering where my legs had buggered off to. I was carried off to bed and left to experience my first ever bottomless pit effect whenever I closed my eyes, before I mercifully fell asleep.

The next thing I knew was Mum waking me up as usual, my decision to stay at home and whimper for a day or so, and Nick’s unwanted head around the door. Of course, he looked fine as he leaned over my bed with a look more menacing than Margaret Thatcher during a particularly bad period.
“You’d better not be thinking of going sick, shitface,” he said, using his pet name for me.
“But I am sick!” I protested weakly, adding sulkily: “It’s all your fault – you poisoned me!”
“Hey!” he said in a low growl. “You drank it, you pay the price. If you tell Mum you’re sick she’ll do all the usual tests, and believe me she’ll know you were drinking. She has an alcohol radar or something, I can tell you from experience. Once she’s worked that out, you’ll tell her under interrogation what happened last night, because I know you for the spineless little grass you are.” To be fair, he had a valid point there. “When she finds out,” he continued, “that not only did I have booze here last night, but also that I gave some to you, I will get an almighty bollocking. Trust me, David, if that happens I will fucking kill you, and I won’t get you any bangers tomorrow, you can count on that.”
With his big speech over, he gave me a dead arm as a down payment on the kicking he would give me if I grassed, then slunk out of the room like a fat secret agent. So much for brotherly love.

So there I was, sitting in bed, mulling over his words. I knew that he wouldn’t seriously hurt me, even though he would try his best to make my life a living hell for a couple of weeks. I could handle that, though. What I was really worried about was they he had said he wouldn’t get me any bangers the next day. As a thirteen year old boy, I was keen to show my maturity and intelligence by blowing things up. Last year, my brother took this natural compulsion to extremes by throwing bangers at cars, without realising that one of them was a police car. Cue a visit from plod, a stern warning and two very angry parents. Because of this, he was totally banned from getting any that year, which of course was not stopping him, just making him keep them well hidden. As a bribe to me, the aforementioned little grass, he was to get me a couple of packs in exchange for keeping my gob shut. I was planning to use them to conduct research into my own private theorem: “Blowing Things Up - Fun Or What?”, and was looking forward to the experiments. It would be my only chance, as it was the only time of year that newsagents willingly sold explosives to sniggering youths with manic glints in their eyes. I really wanted the bangers, so I really had to go to school. Shit.

“Are you all right, love?” my Mum asked as she took away the virtually untouched bowl of Cornflakes from in front of me. I mumbled something vaguely resembling a yes, trying not to make any sudden movements. Sudden movements, I had discovered, tended to do strange things to gravity. I hadn’t been able to eat the Cornflakes because that morning they had tasted like shit, much like my toothpaste, which seemed to have been marketed with the phrase “New Freshclean - for that extra vomity tang!” Thinking only of the fireworks, I managed to maintain a thin veneer of wellness long enough to get me out of the door and down to the coach stop. All I could think was that the bangers had better be really fucking loud.

The bell rang, thank God, and relief thronged through my knackered body. It was over, a whole school day, and I had not puked my guts up over an unfortunate member of staff. Normally, this wasn’t a special achievement for me, but just this once I felt justly proud of my iron stomach, although if someone had poked me in it they would have been soon wearing its’ contents. I was just relieved that it hadn’t been a P.E day. I’d spent most of they day chucking water down my throat like it was going out of fashion, spending my lunch hour asleep in a corner of the admin block. As the rest of the class rushed out, I slowly packed my books away and sleepwalked towards the door. Just one more coach ride and I could go home to bed.
“David,” came a voice as I stepped through the door. “Are you all right?” I turned round to face Miss Wright, touched by the concern in her voice, amazed that she would give a toss. After all, none of the other teachers that day had bothered. All I’d had all day were threats of detention if I didn’t pay more attention. Rubberneck Brown even threw a blackboard rubber at me, the bastard.
“I’m fine, Miss,” I mumbled tiredly, knowing that everything about me was screaming to the contrary. “Just a bit out of sorts, you know.”
“Well,” she said, smiling. “When I’m under the weather I like to curl up with a good book for company. It does wonders. What are you reading at the moment?”
“Nothing,” I replied, hoping that I wasn’t going to miss my coach.
“Try this,” she said, a tatty paperback seemingly materialising out of nowhere into her hand. She held it out to me and I tried to focus on the title with no success.
“Ta,” I said, stuffing it into my bag. “Gotta get my coach now, Bye.”

With that I made a hasty exit, or as hasty a one as I could manage, giving that the floor was trying to trip me up. As the door closed behind me, I propped myself against a wall to catch a breath. I took the book from my bag, to see what the hell she’d foisted off on me. “The Door Into Summer” by Robert A Heinlein. Probably crap, I thought, then put it back and stumbled off to the coach park.

I made it to the coach with seconds to spare, and flopped down next to Peter with a sigh like an Egyptian tomb being opened after a thousand years.
“Thank FUCK that’s over,” I said, meaning every word.
“You are such a tit,” said Peter. He knew everything, because although I felt awful, I was still proud of my drinking adventure, and had to tell someone about it.
“Pete,” I said sincerely. “I promise you, that from this moment on I will never again touch an alcoholic drink. It sucks. It’s a bad, bad thing. This is my pledge.” And you know what? I meant it. Ah, the follies of youth.

Now…

”Same again, lads?" asks Mel.
Me and Simon bang our empty glasses on the bar and make appreciative noises. "Waaaaaarrggg!" burps Simon, looking around the bar with pride scrawled all over his face, then sulking when nobody applauds. As revenge, his contempt for his fellow drinkers is his latest contender for the Worlds Smelliest Fart title, which he usually breaks every Friday due to interesting combinations of Newcastle Brown Ale and far too many sausages than is healthy for one man.
"Cheers, luv," we chorus as fresh pints are placed in front of us. Mel winks at me and treats Simon to the finger, as usual. He managed to sleep with her within forty five minutes of meeting her, and so impressed was he with her resilience to him that he kept her as his exclusive girlfriend for a whole day, until he met someone else. For some reason she wasn't impressed, and although she can't help liking him, she takes great pleasure in being shirty to him and telling girls that he's got a small knob. The beers are free, just two of the twenty five we each get free every week. How? An explanation is certainly due:

Three months ago, me and Simon decided that, whilst we liked Hinton, there was a distinct lack of good music. Okay, so occasionally one of the pubs would invite some mad folk singer with his finger in his ear to come and torture the public for an hour or two, but it wasn't exactly Iron Maiden. You just can't do Maiden with one finger in your ear, going "Nyaaaahhhhhh" after each line. It just doesn’t cut the mustard. With a mission on our minds, we approached Harry, the owner of the Full Moon, and asked him if he'd mind us putting on a rock show. As a friend and also as a chap well known for taking the fast buck at any opportunity, Harry agreed. That, my friends, was the snowball at the top of a steep hill, and it gathered momentum steadily. The first gig we put on featured Fearteacher and Shea, two local bands who were long of hair, short of melody, and knew how to pull faces during guitar solos. You may have seen clips of odd old farts up North (where else) sticking their heads through a horse collar and "gurning". Trust me, these old buggers wouldn't stand a chance against some of the heavy metal guitarists I've seen. The range of facial grimaces employed by a good rock guitarist range from “I would like to go to the toilet now”, through “I really need to go to the toilet right now” all the way to “I’ve just gone. Bugger!”

The hall at the back of the pub, empty most nights, was half filled with long haired dandruff shakers, all making little Devil signs, banging their heads and, most importantly, drinking a heck of a lot of booze. Harry was well impressed, especially as he didn't have to do anything, so he proposed a deal: If we could keep attendances up by booking the bands and sorting the logistics out, we could have twenty five pints free each week for as long as we kept the hairy masses coming in. Each week we invite two new bands to play on a Friday night, with the headliners taking care of the door and keeping any profits for themselves after PA hire and the like. The support acts are invited to try and bring as many people as possible, and if they put on a good show we promise them a future headline gig. Perfect. A few hours work a week booking the bands and designing posters and flyers (a piece of piss if you have Simon’s computer knowhow), followed by a great gig. This got us fifty quids worth of free booze, Harry vastly inflated profits, and brought metal to the sleepy West Country. On top of this, I had the bright idea of telling record companies about our regular metal gatherings, and they now send us all sorts of free shit to play and give away! If there's a Heaven, it's something like this, although possibly with more naked women, of course.

As time passes, the pub slowly fills up with the regulars. At Eight Thirty, Morgan comes in resplendent in his ever present Bristol City replica shirt. His hair is slicked back, his glasses polished to specky perfection, and his smile is so wide he looks like he’s got a coathanger in his mouth. After he's got his pint I slap 50p down on the vacant pool table.
"Come on Morgan," I taunt, "Or are ya chicken?" I deliver the last in a John Wayne drawl, or at least my pitiful idea of one, whilst Simon makes the obligatory chicken noises in the background. Morgan sighs resignedly.
"How many," he asks.
"How about your five pounds to my five pints?" I say, knowing he won't be able to resist. Basically, if he wins I give him five pints from my stash, and if I win he gives me five pounds.
"Six pints," he replies. Morgan is to haggling what Fred west was to home improvement.
"Hey," I say, "if you don't want five pints I'll just give Simon a game..." Simon moves forward and picks up a cue, twirling it like a badly dressed Ninja.
"Well, I suppose I can live with five," says Morgan confidently, then steps forward to break.

In five minutes it's all over and I'm five pounds richer. This is a ritual with me and Morgan, because he is absolutely convinced that he's a better pool player than me. I, as he will often tell anyone too stupid not to tell him to fuck off, am a jammy git. I only win because I'm lucky. He, on the other hand, is a skilful player. He knows about angles, he knows about spin, he knows he's better. Excuse me for speaking ill of the terminally stupid, but bollocks does he. Morgan thinks angles are the blokes with wings who visited the shepherds. He thinks spin is what happens when you hit a ball really, really hard with a particularly impressive grimace on your face. This said, I don't mind his boasts, because he has to try and back them up, and he seems to have bottomless pockets. I let him win one occasionally, and try not to stuff him too severely, but I think I'm up about £350 by now. You think he'd get it by now, but that's Morgan all over. He's the sort of guy who just has to prove himself, regardless of his chances. He's about six foot three, but gangly with it, and he always wears a bloody Bristol City replica top. Any night after a game all the regulars know to avoid him like a plague of Jehovah’s Witnesses, because all he can talk about is sodding football. If they won, he'll rant on about City being the greatest team in the universe, but if they've lost he'll moan about how shit they are and how he's never going to see them again. This, I feel, must be one of the primary reasons for his incredible, almost legendary lack of success with women. Most men like the "What's your favourite band" type of approach, but Morgan has a passion for accosting total strangers of the female persuasion and badgering them about what football team they support. Simon, of course, just asks them if they want a shag. The most unlucky girls are those rare ones who like football and actually support Bristol City. From the moment they admit it, they're trapped. Morgan has a statistical knowledge that would put a spin doctor to shame, and will monopolise the poor girl for as long as it takes for her to work out that her only way out is to fake a heart attack. This has happened twice. It's a pretty funny sight watching a girl being stretchered out to an ambulance as Morgan lopes along behind still asking her for her phone number and her opinion on whether Gerry Sweeney was a legend in his own lunchtime. The man has led a depressingly sexless life. There are Tibetan monks that have seen more action. He swears blind that he got a shag from a Dutch whore in Amsterdam two years ago, but nobody believes him. He says he paid with his credit card and still has the receipt, but has so far failed to produce it.

"Never mind," says Morgan, handing over the fiver. "You were bloody lucky, as usual."
"Morgan," I say. "You're shit. You're the shit that comes out of the flies that eat shit. You may as well put a brush on the end of your cue, stick it up your arse and do something useful instead of perpetuating the myth that you will ever beat me. Go home, sad football man, home to your City memorabilia and over forties wank mags." Most people this would annoy, but Morgan is used to it.
"Aaaah, I'll get you next time," he mumbles into his pint.
"You gonna get any tonight, Morgan?" asks Simon innocently.
"Tonight’s the night," Morgan says, perking up at the thought of all the sex he thinks is coming his way. "I've got this new stuff from one of the wank mags. It's got furrymoans or sommat in it, guaranteed to drive the chicks wild with uncontrollable passion." Saying this, he takes out a small vial and liberally sprays the contents on his neck. Simon wanders over and takes a tentative sniff.
"Fookin ell!" he exclaims, his Northern accent coming into its own. "You smell like Mother Teresa's fanny, and I mean a few weeks after she died!"
"You wait," retorts Morgan. "Next top piece of birdage comes in here I'll have her, you wait."
"Care to make a bet on it?" says Simon slyly, ever keen to get more beer money from gullible fools. "How about your fiver to, ooohhhh, fifteen of my pints that the next girl of your choice prefers me to you."
"Done" says Morgan. "You, my girly long haired friend, are going to eat your words."

This sort of thing isn't at all uncommon. It's that sort of pub. One of our regulars is called Irene. She lives next door, jammy old cow. She's eighty six, and to be honest she's a bit loopy. Let's just say she makes a Big Brother contestant look sane and rational. She likes to come in, order a gin and tonic, then toddle off back home. After a few minutes she remembers what she was doing, wanders back in and drinks her drink. Each time this happens, Simon organises a sweepstake on how long it will be before she remembers to come back in. This is no idle bet, and he's even done a time and motion study to give him the edge. At nine o'clock, regular as clockwork, she comes into the saloon bar and orders a gin and tonic. Tonight, Simon has pre-empted her and already has the sweepstake organised and every time slot taken. When Irene leaves the pub he starts his stopwatch as the whole bar awaits her return. As, one by one, their times tick away, they curse and swear into their beer, whilst those left mentally urge the old woman to return. Eventually, she wanders back after four minutes and thirty three seconds and sits at her table as if nothing has happened, oblivious to the moans around her as Simon pockets about fifteen quid of other peoples money. As is customary, he buys her another gin and tonic and sets it down in front of her. This happens every night, and she never questions why she gets a free one. Maybe she's not as daft as she appears.

As we slump over the bar contemplating our fourth beer apiece, we notice a couple of new faces walk in. Obviously just off the train (the station is about twenty feet from the pub), these two fit in about as well as Ozzy Osbourne at a bat lovers convention. They've got nice suits and nice briefcases, and they both have shiny new mobile phones clutched in their sweaty little yuppie paws. As they stand at the bar, they do that thing that is guaranteed to make everyone else want to smash their smug little faces in: they compare new ringtones.
"Oh yeah," says one, "I got this one off the net this morning." His phone beeps out the James Bond theme as his mate looks impressed, like he's just been told the meaning of life or something. He raises his own phone and is just about to demonstrate it's own capabilities when a thick, hairy arm clamps down on his, causing him to drop the phone.
"I wouldn't do that, Sir," says Harry, putting all the respect into the word "Sir" of a policeman who's caught you with your hand down his daughters’ knickers.
"I say," says twat number one. "Do you mind. We'll have two Cranberry Breezers please." For those not in the know, Breezers are that boil on the backside of serious drinking: the alchopop. Primarily drunk by wankers and lightweights, alchopops are the antichrist of the brewing world.
"I think not, sir," says Harry. "I do believe that you will, instead, fuck off." Harry is a big bloke, all hairy arms and huge belly. When he tells you to fuck off, the correct response is "How would you like me to fuck off?" coupled with perhaps an offer of money and some naked pictures of your girlfriend.
"I beg your pardon?" says twat number two. "We only came in here for a civilised drink. You can't throw us out without a good reason, you know."
"Well," says Harry, "It just so happens I have a very good reason. Would you two gentlemen be so kind as to take a look at the little notice behind the till." They look. It says this:
"The management of the pub, also known as Big Harry, also known as Short Tempered Prone To Violence Harry, reserves the right to kick out any annoying wanker who so much as comments on his new ringtone. Demonstration of said ringtone may result in the loss of one or both testicles. Thank you."
The twats look at each other, and with one graceful movement they decide to fuck off, leaving the rest of us to piss ourselves laughing.

I sit at the bar, contemplating the often fatal sixth pint, the one that I know is likely to transform me from Happy into the eighth, lesser known dwarf, Twatty. I know that I'll start to giggle a lot and tell incredibly inappropriate jokes to people, but part of me welcomes the oblivion of the drunken state, and who am I to deny my inner Demons, especially if they're thirsty. Simon is next to me, watching Morgan with interest. Something amazing has happened tonight, because Morgan is actually chatting up a girl. She came in about ten minutes ago, a pretty little thing in a pink vest top and black trousers. As she ordered a drink, Morgan sidled up and we all waited for the inevitable slap, but amazingly she started talking back. At the moment they're chatting and laughing at a table in the corner, despite the fact that he smells like a dead cat, despite the fact that he's a complete arse, and despite the fact that he's, well, Morgan.
"Looks like you could be down fifteen pints, mate," I say to Simon, who is busy necking a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale.
"Bollocks," he retorts, slamming the bottle on the bar. "I was just getting ready to steal her away. You know I can't function properly with women until the eighth beer."
Strangely, he's right. Up to eight beers and he's no slouch with the ladies, but as the last drop of the eighth one filters through his tired liver he becomes weirdly irresistible. I've tried to study this strange occurrence, to emulate it, even, but I've never had any joy. If I drink eight pints I'm more likely to vomit on a woman than chat her up, and previous rather embarrassing experience has taught me that it's not a well respected or successful pulling technique if you have to say afterwards "I don't remember eating that!"
"You done yet?" I ask him.
"That was number eight," he says, rising from his stool like a tiger on the prowl. He licks his lips and strolls over to Morgan and his conquest. “Alright, Morgan?" he says. "Who's your beautiful friend?" The last is said with a purposeful leer at the girl. It's the sort of look that only a select few Hollywood actresses can get away with. Not so much "Come and get it", more "It's coming to get YOU".
"This is Lisa," says Morgan, eyeing Simon nervously.
"Hi gorgeous," Simon purrs. "I'd love to run my fingers through your hair, but you're wearing trousers. Of course, that can be remedied later."
Against all logic, she smiles. Anyone who watches Simon in the act of pulling is always amazed by the fact that he gets away with lines containing more cheese that a particularly large and well stocked cheese shop. My favourite was one that went "Have you got any Northerner in you, love?", and when the girl said no he went "Well, maybe later, if you're a good girl". I smile at the memory as he continues his assault.
"Come on," he continues, "You must have realised by now if you go back to Morgan's place with him the only fucking that'll occur is you being fucking bored when he insists on showing you his Bristol City programme collection. Finish your drink, say goodnight and join me at the bar." With this, he gives her a wink and walks back to the bar to sit back down on his stool. There is a smattering of applause from some of the locals, who know art when they see it.
"How long?" I ask.
"About twenty seconds," he says, looking at his watch. He doesn't look at the corner, just his watch as the second hand moves slowly round. As it hits seventeen the girl arrives at the bar. I look round and can see Morgan burying his head in his hands. Simon looks at her and gives her a smile.
"You're early," he says. "Hang on a sec." He gets up again and goes over to Morgan, who silently hands him a five pound note and gives him the finger behind his back as he walks back.
"See you in the morning, mate," he says as he leads the girl from the pub. Bastard.

As I resign myself to another morning of not being able to get into my own bathroom, there is a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and am met by the sight of a very pretty blonde girl with a drunken smile plastered across her face.
"Give us a kiss, you manly male you," she says, pouting ridiculously and putting her hands on my shoulders.
"Take your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty dyke!" I snarl in my best Charlton Heston voice, and we both collapse into giggles.
"Hi Sal," I say. She smiles.
"Hi yourself. I see your boyfriend's left you again," she says, her face contorting with mock sympathy.
"Eat me," is my witty reply.
"Sorry," she says. "Can't. You know full well that I fear and avoid the hairy sausage and instead prefer to drink from the furry cup."
This is, sadly, true. Sally has been part of the little world here at The Full Moon for just over a year now, and she drives me crazy. She's pretty, sexy, intelligent, witty and gay. It's the last that causes me grief, because it means that I can't have sex without her unless I have a sex change first. Now Morgan may be that desperate, although I suspect he'd have no luck as a lesbian either, but I draw the line at penile amputation. Sally is a sad case, because she has a phobia that stops her going into anything bigger than a village. She can't ever quite explain it, but she is absolutely terrified of towns and cities. This wouldn't be such a bad thing if there were any other lesbians in Hinton, but as far as we know she's the only one, or at least the only one who'll admit to it. All the hot lesbian chicks invariably hang out at trendy pubs and clubs in the good old enlightened city, whereas Hinton has the sort of older residents who would gladly tar and feather anyone who associates the word gay with anything other than having a lovely old time that doesn't involve the transfer of bodily fluids or getting pubes stuck in your teeth. Sally's only way of chatting up other women is on the Internet, and she'll sit up late into the night typing in her erotic fantasies. Occasionally the recipients of her electronic lust will travel down to meet her, and she invariably meets them here in the pub. It's always a great source of amusement to see Sal in her best combat trousers on, only to see the look on her face when the obligatory shaven headed gorilla squeezes through the saloon bar door and turns out to have the personality and conversational skills of a Tory back bencher.
"Go on, Sal," I slur lecherously. "Give it a try. Let me show you that natural love is the best love."
"Natural!" she snorts. "I can't think of anything more unnatural than letting your wrinkly old trouser snake anywhere near me. They're yucky!"
"A penis is a wonderful thing, not yucky," I say, getting nicely drunk and oratorical. "God created man in His own image, then gave him woman so she could fulfil his sexual needs, continue the human race and wash up after tea. It is, I reckon, my divine right to stick my knob inside you and wiggle it about a bit whilst making excited noises. Come on, you must be curious."
"Nope," she says with conviction. "I can think of lots of better things to stick inside me and wiggle about. In fact, I own lots of things to stick inside me and wiggle about. You can borrow some if you like."
"No thank you," I say with mock politeness. "I'm an inserter, not an insertee."
"You mean you've never been curious?" she teases. "Never looked down in the after match showers and felt that unwanted but curiously pleasurable tingle in your loins?”
"Please!" I say in disgust. "My bottom is sacred, and shall never feel the lustful thrusts of another man. Shame on you, harlot, for even suggesting such a thing. I am man, hear me roar." I roar for effect, causing a few heads to turn.
"It's no worse than you suggesting I'd enjoy heterosexuality", she says reasonably. "I think my point is proved."
"Fair enough," I concede. "Would you like another pint, my justifiably lesbian friend?"
"Oh yes please. And one for my little friend." With this, she reaches into her handbag and pulls out a disturbingly knobbly luminous pink vibrator. "Go on," she says. "Give it a try." She flicks a switch and the end rotates slowly, all the while looking at me with it's solitary beady eye. It's like something out of Doctor Who. I can just imagine it: Doctor Who and the Vibrators Of Doom. The Doctor only escapes by stuffing a cork up his bum and running like buggery, no pun intended.
"You are a vile, disgusting animal," I say with as much dignity as I can muster, which to be fair is only a teeny bit. "But you are my friend, and I will not bitch slap you into unconsciousness. Instead, I will buy you a pint, as long as you put that thing back in it's home." She does, and I hail Harry. "Two pints please, O venerable Bar Lord!"
He pours, and we smile. Sometimes life has a way of getting things right.

It's 1am, and we're curled up on the sofa. Sally is cuddling an empty bottle of Southern Comfort like it was a glass teddy bear. We are very drunk. We came back here after the pub shut, as neither of us wanted to be alone, and also because I remembered that Simon had an unopened bottle of Southern Comfort hidden behind the sofa. I reasoned that if he was getting sex, I could at least get very drunk with a pretty girl. I poke Sal, and she turns bleary eyes upon me.
"Whassssa?" she mumbles.
As I look her in the eyes, this beautiful girl who has had far too much to drink, and who is probably open to any number of suggestions, I can't help myself. I am too drunk to hold back the compulsion that has been building inside me ever since my sixth pint. I lean close and ask her the inevitable question.
"Would you like a Marmite sandwich?”

Sex Gods from the Planet Metal - Chapter One

2009-12-27T15:34:00.000-08:00

Then…
“Mum, I don’t want eggs today.”
“Don’t be silly, David. Just eat them, will you.”
“I can’t! I’ll fart all afternoon, everybody will hate me because of my rancid bottom, I’ll fail my exams, become a social dropout, live on the streets and finally die whilst holding up a McDonalds to finance my heroin addiction. All because of you, my loving, caring mother. Would you be happy with that?”
“I think I could live with it.”
“Don’t worry, little bruv – I’m sure it’ll all happen whether you eat your eggs or not.”
“Oh har bloody har.”
“David! Don’t swear at the table.”
“I wasn’t swearing at the table, I was swearing at him.”
“You know what I mean, now eat your eggs.”
“Can’t I have Sugar Puffs instead?”
“Hah! Sugar POOFS more like!”
“Mum! Tell him!”
“Nick, shut up. David, eat your eggs. One more word out of either of you and I will drive you to school and give you a big sloppy kiss when I drop you off.”
“I don’t go to school any more, Mum.”
“Then I’ll drive you to work.”
“It’s hardly that, either.”
It’s work experience, Nick. One day you’ll look back on it as your big start in life. Now eat your breakfast.”

Sound familiar? It should do, as I imagine similar scenes went on across the country when you were a kid, especially if you had a big brother as annoying as mine. I wasn’t kidding about the eggs, either. From a chickens bum to my mouth, they would do things to my arse that would have had hardened Japanese World War Two torturers begging for mercy and asking for the recipe. They (the eggs, not the Japanese torturers) would spend a few hours meandering around my insides before making their big escape attempt in as noisy and whiffy a way as possible, making anyone within a six feet radius of me hate my guts, and justifiably so.

It was that most terrible day of all terrible days: the first of a new school year. The year of our Lord (or your Lord, anyway – I prefer a healthy diet of atheism) was 1985, and I was at the Adrian Mole classic age of thirteen and three quarters, ready to start as a third year at Comprehensive school. At that age everything is important, and nothing as much as the respect of your peers. I was understandably confused that my mum wanted me to gain this by poisoning as many of them as possible. I still don’t understand what drove anyone to eat eggs for the first time, as I can’t believe that they struck lucky first time. There must have been a torturous trial period of chomping down on things that fell from animals bums (known as the “bad breath and disappointment age”) before finally getting it right.

The above is typical of the sort of weird thoughts that scampered through my teenage mind like hamsters on acid. I always wanted to know “why”, which lead my teachers to praise me for my inquisitive mind and my father to clout me round the head for being, as he so eloquently put it, a “nosy little bleeder”. In fairness , they were probably both right, and I was a nosy little bleeder with an inquisitive mind. That particular morning was dad-less as usual, as he always left for work before me and my brother managed to surface, donning garish lycra and pedaling fifteen miles in any weather that vengeful spirits could dream up. The rest of the family accepted this lunacy as long as he never badgered us to join him, with our collective fitness motto being “No bastard way!” The table was also sister-less, as my sister Cheryl, twenty years old going on twelve, was unlikely to allow herself to be dragged from her slumber until noon, whereupon her regime was to spend at least an hour washing her hair, followed by some serious record playing. Mum didn’t do any paid work, which is not to say that looking after my family was not work in itself. Anyone who has ever uttered the phrase “Oh, she doesn’t work, she’s a housewife” has obviously never had to run a household. My Mum’s main job seemed to be trying to get my sister to actually leave the house during daylight hours and get a job. Occasionally sis would allow herself to be dragged down to the Jobcentre, at which point she would utilize depths of creativity unrivalled by Oscar Wilde or HG Wells in explaining why she was not able to do any of the jobs that Mum selected for her. Faced with such opposition, Mum had developed into an Olympic class nagger, an event in which she would easily claim a gold medal, only to then point out that it hadn’t been polished properly. She would then suggest a superior cleaning product to the hapless official, suggesting that this time he invest in “a bit of elbow grease” as well. My brother Nick was seventeen, nearly four years older than me, and was fitting tires and exhausts on the Youth Training Scheme, known unimaginatively as YTS. It always seemed to me to be a rather ingenious Government wheeze, the YTS thing, letting young people work full time yet be paid part time, proving that a) the Government was smarter than we gave it credit for, and b) my brother was dumber than we gave him credit for, and we gave him more credit than Barclaycard.

Two hours later, I stood in the corridor outside room 2B at school, doing what I did best. What I did best, like any other thirteen year old boy with peers to impress, was kick my best friend in the shins. Girls have never quite understood why boys feel the need to inflict physical damage on each other, but then at that age all boys are convinced that girls are stupid and therefore bound to be impressed by the sight of two lads giggling and lashing out at one another. My best friend at the time was Pete, a stocky boy of Scottish descent whose retention of a slight accent made him known as “Jock” to anyone with no imagination, which was all of us. As usual, our playful kicking turned into a pitched battle, into which we both launched ourselves wholeheartedly, swinging the kind of kicks that in future years would give David Beckham world popularity. Well, that and shagging a Spice Girl, anyway. I was thoroughly enjoying myself, having landed a whopper that would ensure Pete limped for at least the next hour, when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I flicked my eyes at Pete’s, and the look on his face (total innocence combined with “it was him what started it” eyes) told me in no uncertain terms that there was a teacher behind me. Immediately, I stopped trying to cripple him for life (there was always breaktime to do that) and swallowed, prepared as ever to blame everything on the evil highland scumbag that had raped my forefathers with claymore and dirk (also known as the “it wasn’t me” defense). The thing is, as I turned around totally prepared to lie like a Tory about what was going on, I was struck dumb. It’s a strange sensation, being struck dumb, as it’s normally the sort of thing that happens in books. Fair enough, for you reading this it still is the sort of thing that happens in books, but trust me, it’s well groovy.

So there she was. Who? You ask, and well you might, for the same word was going through my mind, as I gazed on true beauty for the first time outside the copy of Razzle I’d found in dad’s shed. The woman was young, for a teacher, perhaps twenty five, standing at a curvy five eleven, though I learned later that she wore one inch heels. She had neat, short brown hair, a petite nose and eyes that would drown a channel swimmer. I gaped.
“Wargle,” I said eloquently. Hey, it was the best I could do. You want poetry, read a poetry book. She looked me in my eye, which had the result of most of my mind concentrating on desperately trying not to get an erection, which at thirteen is like the Elephant Man desperately trying not to have a head shaped like a basket of fruit.
“One warning,” she said simply, flicking her gaze between the both of us. “Both of you. If I catch you trying to kill or maim each other outside my classroom again you will both be put on the Translating Shakespeare punishment detail. Do either of you know what ‘forsooth’ means?” We shook our heads mutely, like special needs children watching a tennis match. Trust me boys,” she continued, “you don’t want to find out the hard way.”
With that, she strolled into the classroom without giving us a backwards glance, confident that we’d got the message. The rest of the class trooped in past us, most sniggering or offering snide comments, whilst we slowly digested what had happened. Finally, we looked each other in the eyes and allowed smug grins to slide across our faces like ice cream down a baby’s chin. I imagine we looked to an outsider like cats that not only got the cream but also a photo with which to blackmail the owner of the creamery. I decided to go first.
“What,” I said.
“A,” he continued.
“Babe!” we both finished, joint winners of the “Synchronized being a bloke” competition. With this, we both dissolved into the kind of laughter that was guaranteed to leave us with runny noses and, as a direct result, sticky sleeves. We quickly composed ourselves, wiped our noses on our sleeves (told you), and joined the rest of the class.

A few minutes later, we were safely ensconced at the back of the classroom watching the mystery teacher writing on the whiteboard at the front. She had very neat writing, and when she had finished she turned around and addressed the class.
“I,” she said, “am Miss Wright.”
Sure enough, that’s exactly what it said. Miss Wright, the woman I had been searching for (And that is the one and only time that pun will be used, I promise).
“If you do right by me,” she continued,” I will do right by you.”
As she said this, there was an audible sigh of relief. Yes, it was a lame, feeble deathbed ridden pun, but it was an attempt at humour, and if a teacher takes that time to try and be nice, they tend to actually be nice, which is a good thing. That morning I had been introduced to a graduate of the Sadistic Evil Bastard Teaching Academy, a rubber necked mutant known as Mr Brown, who was as suited to being an imparter of knowledge to eager young minds as King Herod would have been being a jolly lollipop man. He threw the board rubber around so often that one wag suggested he put it on a bit of elastic, a comment that unsurprisingly earned him a board rubber to the head. Just because you’re a sadistic evil bastard, doesn’t mean you can’t be predictable as well.

Miss Wright, thankfully, was a good teacher. In the next forty minutes she captivated our attention without ever seeming to really try. I was surprised when I realized at one point that I actually wanted to learn. This had not happened before in senior school, a place where enthusiasm is usually limited to that one time the physics or Chemistry teacher leaves the magnesium strips out and leaves you to your own devices for ten minutes. The lesson after this is usually how to differentiate between fire engine and ambulance sirens. As we left the room after the lesson I lagged behind and ended up being the last one out. For the second time that day she put her hand on my shoulder.
“David.”
“Yes Miss?” I said, turning around and giving her my best Valentino look in the eye.
“We’re not going to have a repeat of this mornings antics I trust?” she asked. It was one of those questions to which there is only one correct answer, like “Would you like to give me your wallet or shall I shoot you?”
“No Miss,” I replied gultily, and to my surprise with genuine sincerity. I stored the latter away for faking at a later date.
“Good,” she said with a small, friendly smile. “I think we’re going to get along famously.”
And that was that. I was in love. What a buffoon.

“So how was it?”
“Okay, I s’pose.”
“Did your bottom behave itself?”
“Mum!”
“Well, you seemed very concerned about it this morning. A Mother worries that she might have turned her son into a social pariah.”
“What’s a pariah?”
“If you don’t know then I’m sure you’re not one.”
“Stop being annoying Mum. Everything was fine.”
“I was just asking. Have you got any nice new teachers this year?”
“I’ve got a horrible rubber necked mutant for history.”
“I said nice ones.”
“There’s a new woman for English. She seems okay.”
“Is that it? ‘She seems okay’?”
“Yes. She seems okay. Can I put the telly on now?”
“No. Tell me more about this woman. I need to know who’s teaching my darling little boy.”
“Mum! Look, she’s thirty or so, quite nice and doesn’t look like a child molester or anything. I’ve only known her for fifty minutes, Mum. I didn’t have time to ask for a reference.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, David. Oh go on then, I’ll get your tea.”

So that’s how I met Miss Wright. My Mum was very restrained, for her. She could usually give the Spanish Inquisition a few lessons on interrogation. One sever questioning from her about why they hadn’t come home the previous night until gone ten and they would have thrown away their pointy sticks and branding irons for good and gone and raised puppies for underprivileged children. I sat down to watch Grange Hill but just couldn’t concentrate, still amazed that I actually fancied a teacher. Normally, teachers at our school were so ugly they could curdle milk with a glance, but Miss Wright seemed different. What a day.

Now
I'm thirty three, and I feel like shit. This is getting to be too regular an occurrence for my liking. I awake rather groggily at half past seven as the automatic alarm on my bedside TV kicks in. I half hear some bloke waffling on about his bus ticket collection, proving once more that breakfast TV is a load of shit, and realise with the usual wave of depression that it's time to rise from the pit. As I pry open my eyes to look at whatever has intruded on my dreams of money and power, I am awoken further by the horrible sight of a large smear of Marmite across the TV screen. Why do I do it? Whenever I get stinking drunk, and there’s no drunk quite as nasty as “stinking”, I always get a craving for Marmite sandwiches, despite the fact that I am almost always physically incapable of making one without leaving a trail of brown slime behind me like some giant incontinent snail. At the bottom of the screen languishes a forlorn half eaten sandwich that has relieved the boredom of a long night by oozing Marmite from every pore. Still on auto pilot, I reach across and give it an experimental bite, immediately wishing I hadn't, as the stale bread and coagulated Marmite has a taste not unlike chewing on a bodybuilders thong after a long hard day of sweating and posing. Or so I imagine, anyway. If nothing else it gets me awake, and I drag my weary hung over body to the edge of the bed, sitting there with my head in my hands. It's a dilemma we've all faced - either skip work and risk a bollocking on Monday (being sick on a Friday is the work equivalent of kicking Jesus in the nuts and saying "Son of God, my arse!"), or go in and pretend that I'm actually ill, and was not out drinking until three in the morning with my clinically insane housemate. I mentally count the number of times I've gone for the first option, weigh the answer against the pounding in my head when measured on a scale of one to ten (six), and decide to drag myself in and try for the twenty four hour bug sympathy vote. That way I should be able to get away with not doing much work and people might feel sorry for me. Yeah, right.

I stagger to the bathroom, desperate to allow a few gallons of last nights excesses to leave my body, only to find that it's inexplicably locked. I bang on the door experimentally, but there's no reply. Heloo?" I venture. Nothing. I put my ear to the door and can hear the shower running, so I bang a little harder. "Simon?" I shout. "Let me in you bastard! I really have to take a piss!" Still nothing, so I decide to take a look in his room, just in case there's an empty bottle or something I can relieve myself in. As I peek round the door, I am shocked to see him sprawled out on the bed, dead to the world. Normally, this is not a shocking thing, but it becomes one when there is someone in the shower that is not one of us. I really want to wake him up to get his opinion on my problem, but I know from past experience how difficult he is to wake before at least eleven, hence my previous surprise at the bathroom being busy, so I leave it. An evil thought flits across my brain, to act on which would allow me to solve my urinary problem and wake up Simon at the same time, but I'm just not that sort of person, which is a shame. As George Clooney says in 'From Dusk Til Dawn' "I may be a bastard, but I'm not a fucking bastard.” So, instead of pissing on my best friends head, I recap. Simon is, as always, in bed. Nothing new there. However, somebody is in our shower, and that somebody won't open the door or even acknowledge my presence on the other side of it. Stale memories of last night are now seeping into my head, but I can't remember Simon pulling anyone, and I know damn well I didn't. The only girl he was trying it on with was doing a very creditable impression of a girl with two cold shoulders, and it would have been a hell of a turnaround to coax her back here for a shag, so I'm left with the fact that a burglar has broken into our house and decided to have a shower, but even I can't believe that one, as everyone knows that burglars prefer baths to showers any day. Crossing my legs I hop back to the bathroom, intent on knocking the bloody door down if I have to, and am surprised to see it open before I can get a chance to do myself an injury. There she is, the girl I thought Simon was failing miserably with last night, wrapped in a towel. Actually, wrapped in my towel, but there's a time and a place to be pedantic. I nod good morning at her like I knew she was there all the time, and she smiles back and floats into Simon's room, all the while looking very cute in my towel. I take a millisecond to curse him for being a suave, good looking bastard, before my bladder reminds me that I have more pressing business. Great. I've been up five minutes and the day already sucks.

A shower can be a wonderful thing, one of the few places I feel I can truly relax. I sit on the floor of the cubicle in a near foetal position, letting the water wash away my anxieties and a good percentage of my hangover, which is already becoming a distant memory, thank God. A quick lathering with my favourite lemon scented soap later and I'm ready to face the world, or at least the part of it that contains me, and that's the most important part, after all. After dressing, I sneak a look in Simon's room, but it's the same as before, with him unmovable by anything except perhaps a nuclear strike or possibly a face full of piss. Having given my last tactical nuclear weapon to the local charity shop last week, and the last of my bodily fluids to the toilet I have no choice but to let him slumber on, as blissfully unaware of the facts of real life as a backbench politician. There's no sign of the mysterious girl, but my towel is scrunched up on the bedroom floor, so I take pity on it and hang it over the radiator in the hallway. A towel scorned can be a dangerous thing, especially when you're getting spruced up for a hot date and it wreaks revenge by skulking in a corner and being very damp, so I keep mine sweet whenever possible. A quick scout downstairs reveals a similar absence of female flesh, and I vow to take up the matter with Simon as soon as he's able to make coherent sounds (or as coherent as he gets, which isn’t saying much, trust me). Oh well, on the plus side the stereo and video are still here, so she definitely wasn't a very clean burglar. Preoccupied as I am, I jump a mile as I feel an unexpected pressure against my right shin. With a startled noise not unlike "Yowp!" I look down, ready to karate chop any intruders smaller and weaker than me (the best kind), but only find Pixel, the Bug Eyed Cat, attempting to wrap herself around my leg. Her huge, saucer like eyes lock on mine cynically, whilst her face twists into an expression of contempt for my extreme human stupidity.
“Meowp?" is her only comment.
As with any comment the BEC makes, I take it to mean she probably wants food. Like most cats, the only times she stoops low enough to communicate with us gangly abominations is when she wants to go in/out, be fed or be stroked. As I head towards the kitchen to fill her bowl with ludicrously expensive cat food, most of which has a picture of a smug looking Persian moggy on the front, she tries her best to trip me up at every opportunity.
“Fuck OFF you stupid bloody cat!" is my carefully considered comment to her, but this only makes her more determined to see me flat on my face, and she redoubles her efforts with each profanity that escapes me.
Finally, she allows me to finish, and after a perfunctory sniff she dives in as if it wasn't made, as I suspect, of old tyres and ex Derby hopefuls. Pixel is my cat, and I named her after the titular moggy of Robert Heinlein's "The Cat Who Walks Through Walls". I love her to bits but of course, like all cats, her mission in life is to be a cute, cuddly, lovable absolute pain in the arse. I sigh, sit down and decide to reward myself with a couple of pieces of toast, then re energised I summon enough energy to escape the hovel for another day. Then I trip over the fucking cat.

I cruise up the motorway as smoothly as is possible in Minnie, my unimaginatively named 1982 silver Mini. Despite having the same cubic space as a dented matchbox, Minnie is my little lifesaver, never giving in to such things as cold whether, a dodgy fuel gauge or even windscreen wiper failure. I know a lot about wiper failure, as I work for a rather large motoring organisation usually known only by its initials. I am a wage slave at the regional headquarters, and as much as I moan about the job, I know it could be worse. My first ever job after leaving school and subsequently dropping out of college was as a door to door loft insulation salesman. I was overjoyed at getting the job, not realising that the qualities they most desired in employees was gullibility, a willingness to work for nonexistent commission and the ability to sucker housewives into making stupid decisions along the lines of "Yes, I'd love to meet with your sales rep later." Each day, I and a couple of other young mugs would be driven to a seemingly random location and given an area to cover. We would knock on as many doors as possible, trying to wrangle appointments for our sales team leader, who would ingratiate himself with the homeowners, drinking tea and scoffing biscuits, whilst we shivered outside in the car, thinking how lucky we were to have a job in Thatcher's Britain. We only got paid if the team leader actually made a sale, and even then not until full payment had been made. So, in a nutshell, I had to go on a lengthy drive each day, knock on hundreds of doors, get told to piss off on regular occaisions, then have to wait for the days leads to be followed up before being driven home. I lasted an incredible two weeks before I realised that the job might in fact be a pile of festering monkey spunk, and even then I never got paid a penny, whilst the company turned up a month or two later on Watchdog and were exposed as a bunch of crooks. Welcome to the wonderful world of employment young man.
Not to be deterred, and anxious to make a penny or two, I moved into retail, mainly because it was the first job offered to me. Okay, purely because it was the first job offered to me, okay? Once again, I worked long hours, but at least I got paid. I started off in a camera shop, taking along some of my Dad's very professional looking photos to the interview and feigning an interest in such things as apertures and f-stops, trying not to be found out. It was an okay job, but I soon tried to take the next step up the career ladder when I got a job in a high street jewellers as a trainee manager. I thought this was marvellous, but anyone who has actually been a trainee manager in a shop will know that the title is just a way of making sure that the management can squeeze a shitload more work out of you without actually paying you any more than anyone else. I had to pick up deliveries, carry alarm keys, cash up tills and leave after all the other staff. The “I Am A Mug” tattoo on your forehead was optional, but it’s nice to have the choice. A Saturday off was a rarity, and moments of levity were to be treasured. I worked with a seventeen year old rock and roller called Mario, who didn't just like the music, but was the sort who had turnups, sideburns, Brylcreem by the gallon and a penchant for "sorting out" anything with a pulse and a go go skirt. Girls were all "chicks", Elvis was King, and a car wasn't a car unless it had tailfins. A particular inhabitant of the shopping centre in which our store was located was a weird local known as Stan The Man. Stan was a Jimmy Saville wannabe who could, in a nutshell, dance all day for charity. He'd set up a boom box and play the sort of music usually reserved for lifts or porn, (possibly once or twice for porn in a lift), then strip down to some extremely tight sparkly shorts and a matching waistcoat, then proceed to dance like a spastic chicken for the best part of the day. One dull Saturday, we were doing our best to skive behind the window and were watching Stan with the fascination of drivers passing a road accident when Mario had an idea, no small feat in itself.
“What would you give me," he said, with slow deliberation, "if I went out there, dropped my trousers and danced with Stan?"
Naturally, I had to think for a few seconds to come up with an offer that would be enough to get him to humiliate himself in the middle of a busy shopping centre.
“A pint," I offered.
“Two," he retorted quickly, showing himself to have the bargaining power of someone who would try to haggle in the pound shop.
“Don't bother then," I said, feigning interest in a particularly tacky Timex. "Hey, if you don't want a pint..."
“All right then," he said, caving in. "A pint it is.”
And that was it. A promising young career down the drain. Mario proceeded to saunter out of the shop, swaggering in the way that only true rock and roll dudes can, and upon reaching Stan's spot he dropped his trousers and jived along to the music in his boxers whilst I pissed myself laughing. I have never in my life seen someone fired so fast. In the weeks that followed people referred to him as the Human Cannonball.

To cut a long, very dull story short, I got rather fed up of retail, especially after they got suspicious about my Grandmother's three funerals in one year, and wangled a job in the wonderful world of broken down cars. I started off answering telephone calls from moronic members of the public, and eventually moved sideways to answering their moronic letters instead. Still no great shakes, but at least I don't have to talk to them these days. My job allows me to explain to stupid people who don’t read small print that they can only call us out so many times per year. When they find this out they invariably write in, often in crayon, threatening all sorts of legal action, in one case simply referring to myself as a “Motherfucking punk faggot”, which I’m not. Sure, I’ve fucked mothers and I was once briefly a punk, but “faggot” is just a lie. Honest. The only joy of the job is that legally I can tell each and every one of them to sod off if I so wish, even if I have to disguise it with flowery language (“Ner ner ner ner ner” not being acceptable, unfortunately).

After an allegedly hard day at the office, mostly spent working out new ways to skive off (“I have to visit Legal” still being the top one), I crawl home with Minnie on autopilot, each bit of my conscious mind thanking God that it's Friday, and Friday is the fun day, or it is if you believe the adverts. A few truckers try to victimise me by overtaking as close as humanely possible, but I can't be arsed to rise to the bait. Truckers love people in Minis, it's like the biggest, nastiest, hairiest bully in the playground finding out that nobody gives a toss if he beats the shit out of the weedy new kid with the Barbie lunchbox, national health glasses and a complexion like a relief map of Snowdonia. A favourite trick is to tailgate the poor Mini whilst giving long, impatient blasts on their air horns. This obviously works even better if the poor sod in front has seen "Duel", like me. They wait until the poor mini has crawled it's way up to seventy miles per hour, its engine complaining more than an eight year old who's been told he can't watch "South Park", then they just effortlessly step on the gas and cruise past, making sure to scrape the drivers side wing mirror on their way. When the Eagles wrote "Life In The Fast Lane" they certainly weren't cruising up the motorway in a Mini on a wet Friday afternoon. Similarly, “Living it up at the Moat House it’s a four star…”, doesn’t quite have the same ring as the original. Best stay where you are, eh lads…

Eventually myself and Minnie reach home. Home at this point in time, and indeed for the last three years, is an inconspicuous house on the High Street of a quiet West Country town by the name of Hinton, currently shared by me, Simon and the cat. I put Minnie to bed in the garage and kiss her goodnight before making my way into the front room. As I walk in I hear the strains of the opening theme to "The Simpsons" on Sky, and am unsurprised to see Simon sprawled on the sofa, oblivious to anything except his lord and master, also known as the television. There are many things that Simon doesn't know, like how to spell Dyslexia (because he's dyslexic, naturally), but he is an authority on all things Simpson, a knowledge helped by the fact that he has seen each episode at least twenty times. I know from past experience that there will be no intelligent conversation out of him for the next hour, so I stuff my face with cold ham from the fridge and proceed to freshen myself up and change for another drunken Friday night of extreme liver abuse.

“So," I say later, when Homer has "D'oh"d his last and Simon is idly flicking through the rest of the channels looking for a Baywatch rerun. "Who the fuck was that girl in the shower this morning? She totally ignored my urgent urination hammering!”
Never one for unneccessary vocal communication, Simon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, which I recognise as a bar receipt from our local, The Full Moon. He carefully unfolds it and hands it to me. I read it.
“Chloe Imdeaf?" I ask, confused. "What sort of name is that?”
“I’m deaf," says Simon slowly in his thick Sheffield accent.
“What?" I say to him in utter bewilderment. I am always saying this to Simon, it seems, as he is often very bewildering. I swear that at night he creeps into the attic and chats with Orson, or whoever else runs the particular planet he comes from.
“She. Was. Deaf," he says slowly, as if explaining counting to a member of a boy band. "And. Dumb," he adds as an afterthought.
The penny drops. Finally. She was deaf. No wonder she seemed to be ignoring him at the pub, and no wonder she couldn't hear me on the bathroom door this morning, and didn't speak when she came out.
“Wasn't that a bit tricky?" I ask, intrigued as ever by Simon's unconventional sex life. “Nah. She just wrote down things like 'Oooooooh Yess!!!', 'Give it to me big boy' and 'Simon you are the best' and handed me bits of paper at appropriate intervals.”
“You," I say with mock gravitas, "are a sick, sick bastard.”
“Yep," he admits with all the genuine shame of a U.S President caught with his hands down an interns knickers, "but at least I'm a sick sick bastard who got laid last night. I bet you were visiting Mrs Hand and her five lovely daughters as usual.”
“There's nothing wrong with being choosy," I reply haughtily, putting on the holier than thou expression my sister seems to have spent her life perfecting. "It wouldn’t hurt you to think about a woman's mind instead of her chest for a change.”
“I do try," he says, insincerity dripping from every syllable like treacle from a teaspoon, "but a good chest is a wondrous thing. I mean, every woman's got a mind somewhere, but only a select few have got a really cracking pair of...”
“Yes," I interrupt. "I've heard it before, you sexist, misogynistic dinosaur. You do realise that they're only bags of fat, don't you? Only there for the purpose of feeding offspring?”
“I know," he sighs. "But they're such lovely bags of fat, only put there to give me the raging horn."
With that, he notices that he's finally found a Baywatch rerun and settles down for a session of breast ogling.

Simon moved in with me six months ago, because I needed a flatmate to stop the Building Society sending out bounty hunters, and because Simon was fed up of city life. We had been friends for a year or so, and it all seemed to make sense. He does what he likes to describe as "Computer stuff" to anyone who asks, but in reality he's a complete genius at 3D computer images, and lots of companies eagerly throw money at him to work his magic on their particular project. This allows him to spend a few hours a day in the spare room with the tools of his trade, and the rest of the time just being himself. Being freelance, he chooses his work carefully, making sure he gets maximum cash for minimum effort. Mostly he works on computer games, but he never plays them. He thinks they rot the brain as well as the social life, and reckons that if you've got enough time on your hands to complete Grand Theft Auto without pausing for sleep, you really should take up a slightly more socially acceptable hobby, like masturbating over pictures of the Queen whilst standing naked outside Buckingham Palace, shouting "Come and get it Lizzie!" His words, not mine. Simon has a very high opinion of masturbation, even more so than most men, and has in our attic the porn equivalent of the EEC butter mountain to help him in his research. He says he's willed them to me, so I really hope I die before him, as I don't want to be at that will reading ("And to my best friend Dave, my entire porn collection, including the over sixties ones I know he loves so much..."). Every so often a brown parcel will arrive from some country I've never heard of, and Simon will scuttle off up to his lair for an hour or so, then come down and give it a rating out of ten. Apart from sleeping, shagging and wanking, Simon's other passion is loud music. I don't mean the sort of music volume that makes you think "Gosh, that's a bit loud", but sort that makes you wonder how much a new pair of eardrums is. He says very reasonably that if Motorhead had meant for their music to be played quietly, then they would have used acoustic guitars instead of electric, and sang songs about fluffy bunnies and not war and death. As we share the same taste in music, none of this worries me in the slightest, especially as when he moved in he brought with him his ludicrously large stereo system, including speakers so big they'd make Ozzy Osbourne wet himself and turn vegetarian. At first I was in hog heaven, and spent the first month exacting revenge on my Chris De Burgh obsessed neighbours. Believe me, "Lady In Red" does not stand a chance against "Ace Of Spades" with extra bass. Eventually we came to a truce, whereby Simon gets to play music as loud as he likes during the day whilst they're at work, and they play whatever old shite they want at night, when we're down the pub.
Simon is a bit of a chick magnet, or a lot of a chick magnet to be honest. He's a twenty six year old six footer with a thick mane of long black hair that women always seem to want to stroke. This hair is used to great effect when he whips it into a headbanging frenzy. He'll stand in the pub or club we're in, set off by anything from Bon Jovi to Metallica, with his hair wind milling around him and everyone else trying to avoid getting whopped in the face by it. He's fit, intelligent and mostly charming, so most blokes tend to hate him immediately. Once you get to know him, however, which takes about five minutes, you find that he's almost impossible to hate, unless of course you've just caught him shagging your girlfriend/sister/granny.
As I muse, he watches Pamela Anderson jog deliciously into the sunset and turns the TV off. “PUB!" he shouts, and bounds towards the door with the kind of enthusiasm people usually reserve for births, marriages or the death of despised but wealthy relatives. I follow more sedately, locking the front door behind me, then follow him the few hundred yards down to The Full Moon for another night on the piss. Well, why not?