291209 so I fucked Elvis…..

And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s come on to me. The last time, as I recall, was in a real ale pub in the middle of nowhere. He was a Geordie Elvis, rather rotund, with an accent that certainly added a quirk.

The London boys were down, and their mouths still thought they could drink eighteen pints of old stinker, but their bowels thought otherwise. At regular intervals the makeshift dance floor would fill with a sulphurous stench too vintageous to bear.

I pointed this out to Geordie Elvis, who shouted down the microphone in true whayayman:

‘som wons fockin pomped! Eeeeeeeergh, who’s pomped?!’

Very alluring I’m sure, but I was incestuously paired up with my friend’s brother so escaped his greasy charms, and will never know the wonder of him.

So to the new Elvis. It all started with my new year's resolution. Simply. More. Sex.

Reviewing this past year it has not been a convincingly successful run, and last year scraped by the acceptable mark. So however, whatever, whenever, it’s got to be the rule. I ain’t getting any younger and I can’t disappear into my squirrel’s nest forever.

Hence Elvis number two.

Unaffectionately referred to as ‘the Belgian’ in circles who know my pain. All the reassurance in the world cannot hide the fact that I am physically repulsed by his European torso. Small pinky nipples nestled in auburn fur. Love handles to match.

Not his fault! I hear you cry. But now my problem.

He comes to my flat on exactly the same day we convened last year. Except last year we had some fresh magic and a party at Dave Gilmore’s kids house to fuel the fire. And an imminent escape to India where I could shake off any shudders.

Although recovered from the tremors of G-ma, I have a cold and am feeling less than horny. It is nice to see him, but all night I keep my distance. And glug down as much red and spliff as I can muster. He goes to Tescos and buys war-food and drooping tulips and I am reminded of the town from which we were spawned.

But I know I’ve got to do it.

He’s spent the best part of 2009 touring in Italy with an Elvis tribute show and he’s gone all pelvis. Talking about his seventeen year-old cousin who’ll be ready soon……………….ignoring the fact he’s already past it. And some story about an Argentinean woman from the internet who wanted to go to the Ivy, and that curious Thai prostitute he met at the station. Now this is a 'nice' guy, but I’m starting to find him a tad sinister. What’s Elvis gonna do when I turn out the light? (And have no fear that it will be dark).

There is no more idle chat or wine left, so we go to bed. We haven’t even touched, and I’m seriously worried about the absence of my animal instincts.

We lay down. He looks at me with a wry smile and says, 'Merry Christmas', then launches! Aaaah! It’s Elvis! Hunka hunka burnin love! How'm I gonna deal with this one? I close my eyes, that’s a start. And I frantically rifle through the folders of my back catalogue – who can I pretend he is??

And of course, I manage. Until I hungrily climb upon this Belgian hound dog to strut my stuff.

In a delirious flu-ridden cock-ophany of lust I lose all of my senses. And then I look down at him and he has displays a look of utter disdain.

“I said........stop!” He says with incredulous disbelief.

Whoops! Was that in the bit where I stopped using my ears and eyes? What had I done? Was it truly as awful as his words?

I had just got going, but now it was definitely time to get gone. I had done what I had set out to do, but it was fourteen pumps short of a success.

In the morning it was porridge and polite goodbyes. And I haven’t heard from him since.

Now what is that I'm always forgetting about not crossing bridges?

261209 so this is christmas…..

And what have you done? Only gone and invited fucking grandma for the second year running.

I warned mum in the car that I would be appearing for a millisecond on Christmas eve - cooking, going to bed, then avoiding grandma for the next two days. She said she would cry if grandma stopped me from coming home at Christmas. Honesty is the best policy, and heck, do I tell myself the truth!

Last year grandma decided that someone had stolen her handbag IN church on Christmas day. Yep. Ridiculous. My poor long-suffering father patiently rang up all her credit cards to cancel them.

Two days later Worthing police station, (yes, it’s true), called to say they had found it intact – she had dropped it outside the church.

What a knob.

Naturally, this year the handbag was banned from church, and I banned myself.

We’d been to church the week before – my step-cousin’s, (sounds almost cool), wedding in the snow in the countryside. We sang the songs, including my wedding fave; get your tits out for the lads.

At the beloved wedding breakfast I had been placed next to Ivan the organist, who jumped out of his skin every time I spoke. And then I sang for my supper –

‘oh lord and father of mankind, forgive our foolish ways’.

‘quite a voice’, he quipped.

Mistake. For the next two hours the poor sod had to escape from my rantings –‘let’s go into the church and sing, come on!’

‘but how can we get in?’, he says, and my eyes narrow:

‘you've got a key!’

No shit Sherlock. When I went to cause havoc elsewhere he leaned over to my too-cool-for-school brother and said ‘do you know, I can’t understand a word she says!’ Loving my work.

It was fun, and we did the religious thing, (I had my first rockabilly dance with a vicar), and as a result I decided I would NOT be accompanying my mum and grandma to church at Christmas.

I did have a virus, so I chilled out, learnt Desperado on the piano and opened my little brother’s stocking with him. Perfick.

So grandma. Highlights to share with my readership:

1. me burning the top of my fish pie, then dishing it up to find raw salmon inside. ‘ooooooooo, if you can cook like that, you ought to entertain!’. All this whilst standing at my shoulder peering inanely at me.

2. my dad and I remarking pleasantly to each other how long it’s been since he ventured to church on jesus day. of course she thinks it has to be a conflict: ‘oooooooooooooo, you get what you want, don'tcha!’ Creepy.

3. my lovely sister-in-law flying into the kitchen where me and mum were taking refuge, in tears of disbelief:

‘I’ve always stood up for her, but she’s done it this time!’. Apparently grandma kindly volunteered a comment on her appearance; ‘you’ve put on weight, but it suits you!’ - what not to say. To anyone. EVER. I quite enjoyed this episode, as sister-in-law turned from polite snow-woman to stony ice-maiden in a blink. Opening the box of black magic, (my mum’s favourite, she doesn’t like dark chocolate), she plonked them on the table with a look of dismissal.

4. my older brother opening grandmas gift - a bootleg pouch of baccie, to my mum’s horror, whilst me and little bro discreetly tucked away our twenty-five quid.

5. A simple, festive game of Pictionary turns into a horror story, as it transcends that grandma, or G-ma as my mum refers to her by text, can draw very strange pictures of mutant animals that have no relevance to the subject, then tells us the answer straight away.

6. Balderdash: in a similar vein, the descriptions she makes up for words are preposterous and laffable. And when it comes to voting for the answer, she always tells us which description she made up. This would be ignorable, but my sis-in-laws bawdy mum keeps screeching out ‘you can’t vote for your own, grandma!’ Overwhelming.

7. 'come and stay with me': this old classic pops up year upon year. She stares at me and says I must come and stay with her. I look straight ahead hoping that somehow I exist in a parallel universe which does not include grandma. Or Decima, as is her name.

I have since found out that I am her favourite.

I have also stated very clearly, both before and after, that my Christmas visits would be somewhat syncopated should G-ma be in attendance.

Let it be said that christmas in this country should be avoided at all costs.

And what a bloody expense!