This evening I attended an entertaining evening of the bass and drum, provided with plenty of decorum by messrs Lomax, KDC, heFD and Messy. However, the highlight for me was the fine specimen of Peterborough womanhood that availed herself upon my optical orbs.
This lovely lady was residing in the smoking section, half asleep and generally of the monged persuasion. For such an occasion my lines had to be good or else there’d be pootang evasion, so I sidle up to my quarry with intimations not to worry from the crew of onlookers and general spectators.
My first line, “Are you alright love?”, while not exactly Keats, did make me realise that she’d had plenty of meats. In addition, shouts of “is it pregnant” left my prawn sandwich rather stagnant. Her eyes fluttered open for a mere moment, but due to her intake no sound came from what she uttered. I persisted with: “Who you here with?” To which she moved sideways, whereupon I realised she had mammaries like municipal libraries.
Clearly, I was in trouble, so I pulled for the classic, big in the inept pulling technique scene, “Do you come here often?”. She vomited over herself, the floor and the seat. While not the descent into erotic fantasy one had hoped for, it was still the best response I’ve had to a chat up line in years. So I help her clean herself up (by now my cervix-worrier had retreated so far within me it was hiding somewhere near my shoulder blade). After a while, she came to. And then started aggressively pursuing my mates, who were so mortified at the prospect of having said specimen dangling off their dongs, they proclaimed to enjoy buttock adventures with other gentlemen.
Having tried and failed to procure said mates (via showing aforementioned ‘libraries’, general gropage and declarations of extreme sexual prowess) it was left for me to bring home the bacon (quite apt, as the nose and gait did make her seem rather porcine). We get chatting, and with a mixture of resignation, she declares me to be lovely, and offers me her number.
Boom shanka, I say, I say Boomshanka. I’ve managed to get a number from a member of the opposite sex where the main purpose would horizontal higgledy piggledy, for the first time in around eight years. This changed things somewhat. Originally, I was in this for the jokes, but a mixture of said ‘libraries’ and pure desperation (and a hidden desire to provide an entry for the trog collection), spurred me on. Victory lane wasn’t quite in sight, but the motor was running and it was looking as if I was going to be testing out the suspension.
Sadly, the handling took a turn for the worse at this point, as while I was typing her number (I GOT TWO DIGITS IN – IN THE HOPE OF GETTING, AHEM, MORE IN LATER – BIG UPS TO THE BADMAN NAYF SELECTOR) she inferred that her Mother-in-law was lurking.
She said don’t worry, I’ve split up with her son, but she’s lovely.
She wasn’t lovely. With a face like a broken dice, the colour of a vet’s forearm and with more creases than a student’s underpants, she strode into my vision, her eyes piercing my very soul with nothing but dark despision and hate. I tried to make it seem innocent, but she knew, she knew that I wanted to introduce the mother of her two grandchildren to my llama and do a waltz in her tuna ballroom. I explained that I was just looking after the delectable depiction of delightfulness.
Sadly, however, at this point my mate bounced in shouting “Gwarn Nayf, bet you can’t wait to get on to those bouncing jubblies”.
Face. Palm. It was all over. Mother-in-law looked as if she would (and probably could) separate my head from the rest of my body. Leaning over she goes: “Listen. I’m a nurse. So could you, you know, get the fuck out of here?”
Not only had I been defeated, denied a shame-shag, and been ridiculed by the general populace, but now I run the risk of meeting the mother in law when I go into hospital. I have just signed my own death warrant.
I’m likely to be given MRSA, and I didn’t have a chance to get the side order of venereal diseases that would have made it all worth it.
I love life.