So there I am, stood on my jacksie in Napoleons, Tanya is off dancing with some random bloke. Suddenly this guy hoves into view. Tall, taller than me, ruggedly good looking, late 30’s and oohhh, sorta funky. He starts to chat me up, which trust me NEVER happens to me. Starts to tell me how fabulous I look etc., so I think, “yeah I know all that – tell me something I DON’T know, like you’re a millionaire and I’m in your will and you’re on your last legs”
Then he tells me I’m not like all the other girls there, I look demure!
Demure I query, with a slightly raised eyebrow.
Turns out demure (in his vocabulary) means dressed like a woman, as opposed to the other girls there who resemble the result of combining twelve hungry and angry polecats in a small box of charity clothes and cheap make-up. You following me?
Then he tells me that I’m so wondrously fabulous that even his Mother (a strict Irish Catholic) would approve. Condescending – yes, back-handed compliment – yes, but hey you have to get them where you find them.
So I try to engage him in intelligent conversation (turns out he is a history lecturer at Manchester University). He specialises in the 60’s – not sure if that was the decade or the age group, either way I’m good on that one, n’est pas?
He then rests his fingers on the small of my back and gently runs his hand up and down my back a little. OMG, fanny fizz time. I swear I felt an electric shock travelling up my spine. At that point he could have told me he was the bastard lovechild of Sarah Palin and Adolf Hitler and I would still have given him a blowjob. But then he announces he is just going to pop into the smoking area for a cigarette. Ok, I squeak and await his return.
Some 30 minutes later he has yet to return. So I organise an expedition to the smoking area, with nought but a diet coke for supplies and Tanya and her Canadian-Gibraltarian beau for crew.
Upon reaching the smoking area me and my crew take up position and spy … yes, my lofty lothario sat between two trannies (I can use that word). He’s pawing one of them, just as he was me earlier. However, to my horror, the person he’s pawing away at is a sissy. A big, fat, sweaty, effing sissy! She then gets up and announces she’ll go the bar, stands up and turns towards me. What confronted me convinced me there and then that there is no God. Imagine Arthur Mullard, but much uglier and with the gait of an arthritic hippo trying to pirouette.
I simply asked Tanya and her beau, “For God’s sake, tell me I’m better than that. Please!” Mercifully, she concurred.
We made our excuses, News of the World style and left. Later as we were getting our coats from behind the bar Tanya pointed out that he was stood alone at the bar. “He can fucking stay there and rot” was all I had to say.
And then on the way home, my car broke down……………………