phone sex

It was about 9.30 pm when I was convinced I was about to get a kicking from a rather large skinheaded chap wearing a tracksuit. Funny, he didn’t look the ‘sporty’ type.

But before all that lets go back to when I met Den, Bob, Red and Harry in a pub off Long Acre in Covent Garden, actually, let go back to before that when I had such a shitty day in the office I seriously thought about fucking off and becoming like that bloke outside the Costcutters who drinks White Lightening all day and shouts ‘ooyah’ at cars, actually, let not.

So there we four were. It was a glorious evening; the usually rammed boozer was inside out with the weary patrons all stood on the street blinking in the sunshine bearing that gormless expression of perpetual surprise as if been recently informed of some grubby financial windfall. We were inside in the dark, seated.

This impromptu meeting had arisen for two main reasons, Harry was due for an operation the following day on his knee and Bob who lives in Paris was over on some business. When the latter’s agent and assistant arrived we walked off into the evening to go and find a suitable eatery to sate our quivering appetites. Rob suggested ‘TexMex’ the group polarised into those that hadn’t tried it and those that had, I was in the former, cynical, camp.

These fears weren’t aided by the very real apparition of Paul Weller stood outside the selected venue smoking a tab in a manner best described as uncouth virtually ripping the gluteus maximus off the pelvis of a young lady friend as his huge raspberry head bobbed back and forth like some sort of plasma basketball. Once inside we ordered a vast jug of Margarita and perused the menu, most of the dishes on offer alien to my delicate western face, before ordering some unknown dish with familiar components.

The restaurant was a lively bustling place, certainly not unpleasant, made rather delightful by my companions and I joined together in an unfamiliar environment on the verge of potential food serendipity, and Margaritas. When my order arrived I was looking down at a vast plate of yellow and brown that appeared to have measles and a touch of gangrene. Despite its appearance it was fucking delicious, I ate the whole bloody lot, much more than I’m used to and I pushed away a perfectly clean plate feeling like Ron Jeremy.

Bob and I decided to go out for a tab when the aforementioned skinhead approached all smiley and ‘exasperated’ because, duh, like an idiot the battery in his phone had died and could he ‘put his SIM card in my phone to make a call’. (It’s a mugging technique, of course). After telling him I don’t have a phone I rounded it off with a lame quip about him sounding as if he wanted his phone to engage in some sort of electronic coitus. This went down like lead balloon, his supraorbital torus shuddered, knuckles dropped south and the smile was exchanged to one of quizzical consternation. ‘Shit’, I thought.

Bob helped by declaring me a comedian and to not worry about it, but the boneheaded fuck wasn’t having any of it and insisted I explain myself about what I’d said about ‘wanting to have sex’. I tried to explain but it was no use, he leant over me, his moon shaped face a visage of indescribable hatred, I mentally located his bollocks which I intended to attack without prejudice should he begin mixing my face with his fists and braced myself… Then Paul Weller appeared for another tab, the skinhead was distracted, he wasn’t focussed on my cracking cranium anymore, he was trying to work out how Weller had gone from The Jam to the Style Council, as was I, and the skin unable to process the simple fact that Weller is pot bellied cunt took to his Reeboks and legged it.

The evening ended cheerfully and without any further incident, well, on the streets that is… It was a different matter on the tube.

On boarding at Charing Cross I stepped over a large chap lying prone on the floor, he was breathing so I didn’t pay much attention but as the stops passed there was still no sign of his stirring. I checked him again, no, things weren’t right. The tube was crowded and I didn’t really fancy waking up in the morning to read of some poor bastard found dead at Morden as a bunch of refreshed revellers left him to rot on the floor. I grabbed to the bloke next to me and asked him to help me get him up.

The guy was heavy, I prised open an eyelid and a ruddy eyeball stared directly ahead with nothing behind it. He wasn’t pissed but he was completely unconscious. All of a sudden a wave of passengers descended on me and the guy trying to get him up, ‘is he alright?’ they all clucked like some Orwellian barnyard. We had to get him off the tube. Helped by the bloke we managed to drag him off, the tube doors closing on his head in the process as we clumsily alighted, and a station manager appeared asking for an ambulance on his walkie talkie. ‘Yeah, he’s sustained head injuries’ the jobs worth station man announced with no authority whatsoever, I corrected him just as the patient began to stir whereupon I asked him if he was on medication. The patient reached behind himself and produced some sort of medical ID just as the last tube appeared. The station manager assured me that he was in safe hands and seeing as there was no more I could do I jumped aboard and headed on home still feeling thoroughly bloated from dinner.

I tell you what; it’s me that needs an ambulance this morning, right, all is a little fiery downstairs if you know what I mean. Chilli stools, friends, chilli stools.