I am moving!

Yo y'all, after constant nagging from the whizzkids in the cyber world, I'm movin' over to wordpress.  You'll be magically redirected in 6 seconds! http://godivasworld.wordpress.com (see you there)

Love. Thy. Neighbour.....

I think I overdid it at the weekend……

I think I have pneumonia.  And I’ve needed an injection for some time…..

Satur-day has me cocooned like a sloth in a coma. 

Satur-night has me trussed up like a lidl turkey.  Fun time cranky.

turkey porn

It takes me three-and-a-half hours to get to mrs mac’s party in seven sisters.  At victoria I economise on time. 

Vodka.  Check. 

Toilet - upstairs to the wetherspoons, where although the amenities are ‘free’, they come at the price of a trough of pissed random wankers, who choose to spend their Saturday night in a pub.  In a station. 

Whooping girls cram into the prefab cubicles.  It stinks. 

As I hurriedly depart, a young man intercepts me.  His eyes are like glass kaleidoscopes.  He knows me.  He is twenty one.  Oh noooo! 

He boy-handles me and tries to jibe his way into my party.  Not likely son, I need a bit more man this time…..

Armed with my beloved bottle of vodka and not much else, I am more than ready for a drink when I arrive. 

Mrs mac greets me, and the party is moving.  It’s fun, jostling, warm, upbeat.  Food adorns itself over tables and various partygoers ogle me; the couple I met in india on their honeymoon.  The dutch architect. 

I sit with them, but not for long, as I hunt for a sportsman’s booze-fix. 

Someone in the kitchen is cracking open a good bottle of champagne.  I thrust my plastic glass under his face and demand he top me up.

‘But, you have water?’  I shake my head defiantly.  ‘Vodka?’ *nod* ‘You want to mix vodka with good champagne?  It’ll go straight to your head!’

Yes sir, you get the idea.  Now fill me up.

As a near-teetotaller, (ahem), it goes straight to my sex-starved brain.  As I chat to astoundingly intelligent, charismatic successfuls, I find myself focussing on their mouths, because to me their eyes are swimming around their faces. 

As I dribble and goon, I realise I need a remedy for this poison.  I’d better not try and stay still any longer, for I’m starting to swagger like I’m back on board the Wibbley Wobbley….

What’s the best way to remedy an arseholed maniac blogger?  DANCE!  Godiva, DANCE!

And when I dance, the world dances with me.  An eager opponent joins me, a cute Italian girl.  Soon we are swinging each other about the room, skidding through men’s legs, inventing crab-like robotic manoeuvres.  She’s a match alright, and it gets dangerous. 

As we swing each other around, she takes her legs off the floor, and elevated, literally is flying around my head. 

Well strong though I may be, superhuman I am not.

So I drop her.  And fling her across the wood-panelled floor; for a split second I hear sirens wailing in my head.  The booze miraculously softens her limbs and she rises.  No one has heard from her since….

I over-enthuse at the kooks, and manically search for a suitor to smarm it out with.  I pick on a small, smiley man and he obliges.  Turns out he is a top TV executive. 

I rip the piss out of his programme, then conduct the most unsuccessful pitch of my life, for my blogumentary.  Not even convincing myself; he thinks it’s the worst idea since they tried to turn ketchup green.

Mrs mac has explained to everyone that I have a blog.  And by the end of the night I have a queue of people waiting for my blog cards. 

Already completely gagging for it, the liquor has fuelled my licker, and by three the music has faded, and I only have one track on my mind.  A track stuck on delirious repeat.  I blindly turn to a conscript and exclaim, “All we need now is some men!”

And by godiva magic, three young stooges enter on cue: a rough n ready farmer’s boy, Boris Johnson, and a computer game. 

Having already been knocked back in should-be humiliating fashion by the dutch architect (“I am going home…ALONE!!”) three more knockbacks won’t touch the sides… 

And she advances.

First I try for the farmer.  He is a bit rugged but very sweet and sexy.  Apart from his thoroughly unappealing manner.  And his girlfriend. 

Moving on I lay no blame - I wouldn’t wish lady g on heat upon anyone……

Who’s next?  I’m drunk, but no woman could ever be drunk enough to try and pull Boris Johnson.

But no!  The party is drawing to a close and my pants are still firmly encased in my leopard-print tights.  Bugger!  Who else is there? 

The computer game.  That’s who.  Who, it turns out, is also mrs mac’s kind and trusting neighbour. The consequence of their harmony; a mad rabid randy blogger to service.

I instruct him to dance before me.  I imagine he’ll be awkward and shit, but he gives it a good go.  ‘Up for the sport are you?’  I scheme.  It is late, and mrs mac is having her carpet laid in the morning.  We get shooed along.

It’s the last chance saloon.  With no prethought, like a desperate donkey galloping up to a fence to head butt it, I announce to computer game that I am going home with him.  And where is home?  No need for the taxi fare.  Just a sneaky trot up the stairs……

Poor neighbour.  There’s something to be said for a man who’ll take godiva on when she’s emblazoned with alcohol and pent up with sexual frustration. 

The neighbour isn’t so sure he wants to take me on.  His two friends are staying over…. 

‘You’ve got your own room haven’t you?’  I desperately pant. 

He’s not entirely sure this is a good idea.  I zone into his psyche – he’s not completely blown me out……

Pac man gets a crafty look in his eye.  ‘Let’s go for a cigarette’, he says.  So off we go into the courtyard - his courtyard, and get off.  Just like prince said we should.  It’s good, it’s natural.  Oh my god, it’s going to happen.

No sign of a cigarette, but all fingers pointing to a certain cigar ….

And hallelujah and glory be, godiva needs it.  Mission tenuously secured, I trot back into the party and announce to mrs mac that I’m going home with her neighbour.  ‘I think that’s a good idea’, says she.  She’s having her carpet laid in the morning…..

When you haven’t had sex for ages your worst fear is that when you finally do it could be rubbish. 

I pray it won’t be duff – bad sex when you’ve been waiting impatiently is worse than no sex at all, and I can’t take the risk.

So home we go, and back at the ranch we stick on The Big Lebowski.  And all four of us pass out. 

Forty minutes later we awake, startled and dribbling.  It’s bed time.  Time for the big event…. 

We enter his boudoir.  He’s got the same mac as me.  He’s got a bed.  I’ve got no clothes on and he’s got a penis.  Eureka!

And we do it.  By god, we do it.  We just get stuck in.  Before we know it we are tangled up like tetris, slotting together in symmetrical harmony.  Mouths all over without awkward motion, fucking in disorientated bliss.

The vodka does the talking as I twiddle with computer game’s knob and perform my own strenuous action adventure.  And I’m winning.  And the game won’t be over till I’m done. 

And I couldn’t care who he is or what he looks like.  Which is a good job, as it’s dark and I have no recollection of how I got here.

And talking of good jobs, in the morning it’s double helpings, and not just leftovers neither.  No one likes a sloppy bucket.

And it’s frank bed-talk.  Because there’s nothing to lose, just a few more filthy moans to gain. 

Not believing my fucking luck, I am stunned by our success.  I tell him so.  He tells me so. 

Always a sucker for a gatecrasher, of all the treats on the talent table I end up fucking with the neighbour. 

And on the way home from a drunken night with a farmer and Boris Johnson, he has ended up fucking the neighbour’s friend. 

Unbelievable.  Like the fact that he has to go to work on a Sunday.

He turns on the slightly sheepish ‘fuck-off-out-of-my-house’ routine, and on going to peck me on the cheek I clamp my mouth firmly over his for a last taste of that gold-blend paradise. 

I still can’t really decipher what he looks like, squinting through my delirious bleary eyes.  So before I leave, I confirm a few simple facts for confession: 

1.  he is several years my junior

2.  he has the same name as one of my younger siblings 3.  I am the oldest woman he has ever fucked. 

I like a statistic.

Bumbling down the corridor I have no idea of the way back to mrs mac’s.  When I finally find her, she is cheerily ripping up underlay.

‘The party didn’t start until you got here’, she tells me chirpily and factually. 

Nooooooooooooooo - too kind! (memories of swinging the Italian round my head not yet resurfacing). 

She asks if me and tetris exchanged numbers.  I wave my hand about dismissively, “numbers, email addresses, blogs, websites…..”  What meaning has this information after I have split every cell into multiple orgasm? 

I do hope the poor dear can walk…..and that he enjoys his six-pack in a few days.

Will I see him again?  Asks mrs mac.  Well……if I was passing.  Not that I’d recognise his face.  It would be more like seeing him for the first time, in fact.  I’m not keen on first dates, or conversation.  Though I might recognise his cock…..

“He’s good looking”, says mrs mac, “though….” (she searches for the right description), “a bit like a ten-year-old”. 

Whoops I did it again…..

On the way home, walking through the crazed streets of seven sisters, there’s a man shouting about god through a loud-haler. 

A woman in flamboyant dress is handing out leaflets and god-bless-yous.  She gives a flyer to the person in front of me, but freezes when she sees me, (or smells me -more probably).  Her and jesus are not keen on saving me, my post coital ear-to-ear triumphant grin not being mistaken for a sunbeam. 

I have to ask her for a fucking flyer. 

On the tube I look at it.  It says,

‘No matter how good you have been or how wicked you may be, you are a sinner in god’s sight’. 

Yes, I am good.  Yes, I am wicked.  And though I may well be a sinner in god’s sight, in godiva’s sight I’m a winner.  Thank god for creating computer games.

And no one does it better; be it matthew, mark, luke or fucking john, when I rampantly demonstrate with ultimate passion, ‘Love Thy Neighbour’.

And the leaflet tells me,

‘REALISE, the Lord Jesus Christ died on the cross of Calvary to purchase salvation for you through the shedding of his own precious blood’.

Well yes, the lord may have purchased salvation in, let’s face it, a somewhat pompous, exaggerated, overpriced manner. 

But why ‘purchase’, when the best salvation in life comes from that which is free…. 

******COMPETITION!***********

I met mrs mac on a craggy slope on the west of koh phangan. 

I had been wanking in my hut, when I heard beautiful strumming coming from a nearby terrace.  I abandoned my wank to find it.  And there, amongst two mushroom-eyed Americans, I found mrs mac.

On recounting this to pac man, he mused ingeniously that there is in fact no accurate name for the female wank. “A word is missing here”, he reasoned.

So I challenge you to come up with a name for this blessed ritual that I live my mornings by.

In a way that truly gives it the lustre, vim and vigour it deserves. 

Bring it up at your pub quiz, muse over your cornflakes.  See what cums to mind in your final throes….

No frick, no flicking my bean and NO twatting myself off, I want the real deal. 

The prize is a pair of computer games dirty pants.

Answers to godivasescapades@hotmail.co.uk

A-grooming we shall go....

I think I might be grooming the boy in the mac store….

I think I might have been suppressing the urge to check out young men.

Then, after spending an afternoon with the lord montague, I think I may have created a resurgence….

So I went the apple store, where I more or less purchased a fully-grown twenty-three year-old. 

Being fundamentally fucked off with the inability to convert .MTS files on my mac or elsewhere without a wanging great watermark reading ‘stupid fucking twat’ across it, I thought it was time to pop by. 

The last time I went in me and twenty-three found a refurbed mac at a ridiculously low price.    And talked about our current projects.  He’s a film graduate.  He likes to service me……

But today, as I feel a slight twinge in my garters upon entry to the store, I couldn’t really remember what he looked like.  Though I knew if I found him he’d know exactly the fix that I needed.  I chose him specifically for his talents, and needed an action replay of his marvellous skills.

But I couldn’t see him, and after a quick scan of the store, I picked another young thing, who limply suggested some *background noise* to solve my fist-chewingly annoying file conversion problem. 

Not satisfied with this response, and still hungry for tech-talk, I tied my consumer leash around his tender neck and led him across the floor of kaleidoscope-eyed app thirstmongers, to a strange place by the back wall.

Where a small young boy stood, penned in by ropes.

“This is Mack”, my assistant said.  “He knows about things.”

Mack turns to me.

“Hello, how’s your documentary?!”

Score!  I have refound my orphan child.  And I intend to reclaim him.

“I was looking for you….”, I said, amongst other suggestive smut,

“I couldn’t see you - you’ve cut your hair.”

“Yes, I’ve cut all my hair off”, he says.  There’s a beat of a pause as I scan him up and down in hirsute analysis.  It appears he has helped me out by starting to groom himself….

Analysis?  Young, mild, nice.   ‘Manageable’, one might say.  “You’ll destroy him when you get your hands on him”, my husband says.

The other helper-thing shifts from foot to foot grinning.  He’s not going anywhere.

Mack calls over to a colleague.  The weird pen thing must be manned at all times.  To guard the ipods.

We joke about how you qualify to become a pen-boy, and how to get sectioned off for being bad - (mmmm, sectioned).

And we unhook his ropes and he’s free!  And after begging the new pen-boy to steal an ipod for me, me and master mack get down to business. 

Which is talking mts files, imovie set up, and the difficulty of achieving distance from your work. 

He wants to see my rushes.  Come into my rushes, film-boy, rush on in.

He’s running an imovie workshop this Friday at 10am, and invites me along.  Which forces me to remind myself that I do, in fact, have a ‘job’.   But there might be a way…..He gives me his card.  With loads of file converters scrawled over it. 

I tell him to tell ‘them’ to move the workshop to a Monday.  He says he has no control, ‘they’ do all the scheduling.

Them in HQ.  Mr Jobs’ jobbies.

He says if I can’t make it on Friday, I should come in another time and he’ll spend twenty with me.  Twenty should be just about enough…..

I leave, superhappy with my achievements, and proceed to warehouse and hennes where I purchase a plethora of filthy clothes.  I look like lady di crossed with an east end moll, pat butcher, and a teenager.  Glorious.  That’s cannes sorted…

And I am reminded that it’s thanks to the lord montague that I’m here.  Trying to pull twenty-three year olds and squeezing into size zeros. 

“oi, ‘av you shrunk?  ‘av you got that weird shrinking disease old people get?  I’m sure you used to be a porker.”

Yes, the reason I have purchased such fluffy, tight and conspicuous ludicracies is because of the lord’s shrinking comment, which has inflated both my ego and my libido. 

Extra-small, if you please.  With the clothes anyway…..

It is also the reason for me eating nothing but chewy organic corn cakes from the alternative grocers all night.

And when Samson calls me to tell me he’s eating crisps and chocolate, sloshed down with a macdonalds, I all but faint.

Shrinking disease, no sir.

Eating disorder….I’m working on it….

Grooming fetish – I’m there….

godiva forgot about the voice....

Internet dating.  A new year, a new crisis.  Yes, after successfully ruining two london boroughs last Friday, this week I have managed to create several minefields and blitzed the entire site that is known as…..sugardaddie.com.

he calls himself 'warm'.  I call him 'jouster'.

phwoaarrgh, he could tinkle me ivories anytime

daddy.

 Poor daddies. 

Well; inconsequently-‘rich’ daddies.  A prospective client, (none of the above by the way),  has been messaging me persistently for the last couple of days.

He can’t write for treacle-toff-ee, and drops his ‘g’s at every available opportunity – ‘runnin, readin, thinkin, drinkin, darlin’ - AAAAAAH!

As the chirlish flirting extends itself through time and space and recreates itself on the turgid screen before us, I elect to move the insults up a notch, and jibe his terrible use of our god-given language that I so adore. 

He is not best pleased.  He rebukes:

“u fukstick! i write like a school boy?! i, my dear am published i'll have you know! X” Charmingly thumps my latest faux-beau.

“got your fires flowing though eh?”  I impudently reply.

He’s having me know that he’s written articles for prominent psychological journals that are all over the internet. 

But when he tells me he’s published, I already know. Godiva stalks back. I found out at 6am this morning, and I tell him so in all my unabashed glory:

“I happen to know that you are published.......and the dropping the gs thing, sorry if it got to you.  You will be pleased to know that I am capable of loving anything about anyone, so you're safe.....or potentially at risk......”

He is a doctor.  Of psychology.  A public schoolboy with loaded parents.

We’ve been messaging for a few days, and on paper he fits:- 34, rich, posh, cheeky smile, all that. 

And I suddenly realised, with absolute delight, that I could arrange a proper date without leaving godiva towers. 

McSkype. 

Yup, no train fares, no paying for rancid wine in a wine-bar, no persuading yourself you like him by the fourth drink just because you made the effort to turn up…..

Imagine:- you can see each other’s kennels, change costumes midway and get fucked up without leaving your lounge.  Stare at his bulging cock without being quite so close up…

And film it. 

With four cameras. 

It was all in the can pete…..

But today, he messages me and says he doesn’t have a webcam.

I tell him to buy one. 

He doesn’t seem overly keen on the idea.

However, he does seem keen on my odd transexual-esque messages.

So keen, that he breaks the code.

And calls me on my cellphone. 

‘How exciting!’ he is thinking.

No, actually, how disobedient.  How fucking inconvenient, I’m spinning four plates: trying to edit my film, cramming ryvitas into my maddened gullet, tapping away at my blog and trashing the internet.

No, we do NOT speak tonight.

We speak tomorrow night. 

You buy webcam from argos. 

We flirt.

That’s how it goes.

But he rang.  AND, when I snarlingly rejected his call, he left a message:

“hello, it’s g**** (yes, beaten even my wife in the weird name stakes with this one).  I….I just thought it would be easier to talk than to send endless emails”  (think hugh grant stammering in the rain)

No buddy, you got it wrong.

We have a date. 

On skype. 

On cameras 1, 2, 3 and 4. 

“pussie”, he texts after my non-response.

Oh spell it RIGHT, will you, ‘doctor’?…..

Linguist snob.  Yes sir, that’s your baby.  And for this to work, I invite you to join my hideous, cuntish cult.  

I had carefully scrutinized his picture – no discrepancies to report. 

But I’d imagined him low-voiced - a bit rough and ready, a bit ram-against-the-door-y.

Men may have any abundance of aberrant features:  rotten teeth and bad shoes and annoying twitches and habits; and when people ask for my advice on internet dating and suchlike, I tell them to carefully study the photos to see what’s really there.  What they might be hiding.

Why does he cover his eyes?  What’s behind those glasses?  Black vortexes?  The odd stye or two?  Lizard-eye? Nothing but a gouge?

For me it’s all about the teeth and chin, the way they might move their mouths should you ever have the misfortune of throwing all of your well-earned principles out of the portal that is reality and meet up with someone you will have no chemistry with whatsoever. 

Mouths - think cows chewing the cud, think Robbie from eastenders.  Don’t think about this too much - you will have nightmares.

But this one, who had to beg me for my real name, has a lovely mouth.

It’s what comes out of it I rebuff:  high, dry, distant, disinterested lisping lilts, ‘droppin’ the gs off every word possible.

*SCREAM*

I AM A LINGUIST!

Some people may agree with Voltaire when he writes ‘I do not agree with what you have to say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it.’

Well, let me beg to disagree……

I omitted to tell him, by the way,that I am also in the publishing game. 

And that at this minute, as we splat and re-defecate all over each other on the already poo-brown swamp that is sugardaddie.com, I am indeed publishing him all over again….

All aboard the wibbley wobbley.....

All aboard the wibbley wobbley….

You may recall that I do ridiculous things fairly often.

Last weekend was no exception.  It was time.  For my gig. On…… the wibbley wobbley!

The wibbley wobbley is a mad little boat in the docks of east end london.  That sells booze.  And curry.

Ms mountain had FBed me from spain in the christmas furore.  Her father, a notorious east end ‘business man’, was turning seventy – could I rustle up some songs for the occasion?  Say, johnny cash, tina turner, fats dominoe?..…

And, seeing as I thought it a good idea to leap around in camden singing elvis with my cavalry choir, I thought it also a good idea to say yes, I’d do it…..

I thought I’d better warm up for the gig by getting pissed the night before with kolvitch and tone.  Saturday came and all I could muster was a bit of croaky tina-crooning and some roast potatoes from the chrisso near the pissy bus stop.

At canada water tube I waited patiently amongst the straggle for my mountainous friends to embark upon me.  And sure enough, through the barricades came mcpherson, ms mountain, mr diy and rambunctious rubekins.

Trotting along the cobbled docks, haphazardly avoiding broken heels, we stumbled, ms mountain and I making an odd couple – me, guitar slung on back, her, baby seat.

Aboard the boat we get down to the important stuff.  Moet, veuve and some sort of pink shit greets us.  That’s better. 

Within five minutes of the party starting the boat is crammed full.  And though still waters run deep, I am not out of my depth, but I realise with horror that I may be the poshest thing there.  And that’s a first.

Later, I sourced a tall girl named margot who I decided was posher than me.  But she was by no means acting posh.  No one that night was.

Animal print is back.  But these people have been wearing it since the first time round.  Cockney mob women, bronzed and cackling, mysterious fat geordies screeching at me through my soundcheck.  I point out I can be violent if pushed.

Violence was a whiff in the curry-soaked air.  An old conspirator tells me he overheard four seventy year-olds in the bog together discussing an old mucker from days way-back-when.

“yeah, ‘e was alright.  ‘e ran a good pub….”

“Me only regret was that I never robbed ‘im.”

Fabulous.  They all have three-syllable names like ‘tony brown’, or ‘jackie ‘obbs’.

Robbie jobs.

And although the septuagenarian birthday boy has dragged a PA system halfway across the old smoke for me, samson’s words ring through my befuddled head with horror:

‘so, who’s doing the sound then?’

‘erm….’

‘do you know how to set up a PA?’

*silencio*

‘and what songs are you singing?’

*more silence…*

So after a couple of bubblies I curtail mr diy and tell him of the technical issues we may be facing.  He gets on it.  Someone’s boyfriend plays the bass, he’ll know.  Gold.

But as they do in these east-end slapstick situations, everyone mucked in and ‘ad a go.  At some expense….

Yes, dear darren ‘meant well’, but he has added to the top two most unwelcome groping incidents of this year, (mafioso waiter from last week being decidedly more sinister).

Yes, cheery darren set to work with his wires and buttons, but wouldn’t perform a trick without a little treat…..so as he gaffered an old microphone to some sort of makeshift pole and I barked orders as to exactly where I wanted him to put it, he’d slyly give my hips a good rub as he searched about the floor. 

I implored at ms mountain but she shrugged – you don’t get somefink for nuffink nowadays.  So I allowed the molestation to continue till we were set up, then turned into a complete screaming diva. 

Well I ain’t class, but these men do not seem to relate to women in a way I find familiar.  One man I shiftied past on the rockaboat said ‘nice voice’.  ‘Thanks’, I disinterestedly half-snarl.  But I can’t move for the thick whisky air.

‘not really’, he toothlessly grins, ‘I’m just tryin’ to get in your knick-as!’

Well there’s a sophisticated line.  Tried and tested before, no doubt.

What would be the appropriate response, one muses for a millisecond?

Probably all babs windsor, “oo, you saucy bugger!”  *laugh laugh, hand on tit*

I am not having it mister.  Do not mess.  Sucker.

I tentatively launch.  I decide I can’t look at the be-pied bugger, so instead turn to his surly scottish friend:

“what kind of a fucking response is that?  What kind of a fucking line is that?  Erm, you’re good at singing, no, not really, I just want to get in your pants?” *LOTS of gesticulating*

but the scottish one gets overexcited by my firey outburst:

“tell him, go on, I dare you to say to him, fuck off!  How fucking you dare say that to me!”

I recoil, serpent as I am.  No, I will not perform like an organ-monkey.

“you tell him.” I order.  “I have people to do that kind of thing for me”.  I haught off, the scottish one shouting “fuck off” in his friend’s face.  Mission accomplished.

And the actual gig?  A confusing, ridiculous, old-fashioned, knees up muvva braan.  And where the fuck was dirty darren when I needed him?  Up the galley and round the piss-soaked stairs with a wrap of our little friend, that’s where.

Set list:

·      Happy fuckin birfday, led by ms mountain

·      The one I love is gone – learnt whilst eating roast potatoes and dribbling, still not entirely sure of the chords but it shut ‘em up.

·      THE GRAND SUPRENDO – a song written for the birfday boy.  I forced him to stand before me, he didn’t like that.  I managed to fit in the words ‘I can tell you why he’s so gay’, which did not go un-noticed.  Word after the event was that he exclaimed ‘it’s all a bit overwhelming’, and snuck off to mischief.  But I made a mobster stand to attention before me whilst I sang about his funny games….

·      Tina Turner, I don’t wanna lose you, for mcpherson.  Classic.  Honked out in true country style.  Approved of by the person’s boyfriend who played the bass, someone’s husband and someone else’s husband.  I collected a pile of partners before noticing in close wibbley proximity their wives and others.  Whoops.

·      Grand finale…..what do you think it was?  Yes, that old classique, jesus don’t stick it in there.  To hell with it, why the fuck not?

To add to the disrespectful pile of chancers trying to stick it in there, was an old dude called albert.  I was on top deck quaffing pink shit, when he curtailed me by the cramped bar.

‘very pretty…….but you used to ‘ave dimples’, he says, to an audience of gizzardish women in leopard-print.  They laugh.

I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume, wrongly, that he thinks I am the birthday boy’s daughter.

‘oh, I’m, not his daughter you know!’

He shifts uncomfortably and goes red, poor old bugger.

‘well no, I didn’t fink you was, but you got me all imbarissed naa’.  The gizzards laugh.  I smile, forcing dimples.  We all knock it back.

And, after resisting several substances, it was definitely high time to leave the boat.

News came on deck that someone I girned with years back would be leaving to go…somewhere.  So I should too.

As she stoops to conquer a bag of hidden booze from the bushes, she explains to her new traveller squeeze how she knows me.

She tells him that they all cried on boxing day 2005 as they thought they had lost me to the tsunami.  And I have been thinking about my dear friends at this fraught time of year, those I’ve lost, those I have and those I’ll come to know, and the words of the DOCTOR resonate throughout my being:

“dance like everybody’s watching,

Love like you'll been hurt,

And sing like everyone’s listening”

Well, the wibbley wobbley wasn’t much listening, but it was full of friends – old, new, lost and found, which no tsunami could sweep away:

(listen out for when you hear me shout darren)

Shaft from the past……

“I’m still trying to work out how my cock ended up in your mouth”, he texted me this evening.  Me too, me too.  I’m considering setting up a support group due to the frequency at which this happens….

Yesterday evening, after waxing my legs in the bosses office and colouring in the portrait of my dear samson, I embarked on an escapade to london town.

Planned costume: high-class escort – foul new wardrobe composed of leopard, giraffe, tiger and zebra print. 

I intended to pull on shocking stockings, squeeze into a skintight black lycra minidress, and top it all off with a mohair jumper, but by the time I dragged myself from my postwork-deathbed at 6.30pm, I had ten minutes to get ready.  The carriage waits not for godiva.

Fuck it, I pulled on my ebay jeans, complete with beef gravy stains from a roast dinner fight with samson a week before, a slinky camisole and the leopard mohair number to attempt a persona.  Extra small.  Result.  Only it’s some sort of fashion style that means it stops above my midriff, and the shoulders are ruffled up like tense rejects from dynasty.  The persona is unconvincing, and my date goes back thirteen years to university, and it appears I have nothing to hide beneath…..

When I met ‘quantum jump’, he searched the whole town for a white rose to show me his love.  And this is why I am here.  I need some ‘love’.  “I am ready for love”, I text him in my new year’s crisis.  “Only took you thirteen years”, he quips.

- Will we, won’t we? -

I remember from our yonder years that he is prolifically late, and as I wait for the number 11 at victoria station I instruct him to get moving, shivering in my scanties.

We are both late.  We are shown to our table. 

“I like your jumper”, he says.  “I’m still trying to get used to the shoulders.”

“dynasty?” I enquire, hopefully.

“I was thinking more edwardian”, he rebutts.

- but will he rebutt me, WILL HE? -

Sandwiched between dysfunctional sloany drunks and sensible americans eating giant green olives, I go with edwardian escort for now.

The restaurant we are in is my favourite chelsea establishment.  Definite mafia connections, overpriced food chosen off a music stand, baby squids that induce tears, bresaola and pears, fucked-up poshos looking for a food-excuse to get rat-arsed.

The fruity house white is flowing, and soon enough so is the conversation.

The hours disappear, and suddenly the buck-toothed south american waiter is speaking fluent italian at me and rubbing various body parts of mine, as quantum jump relieves himself downstairs.

“I’m paying you”, I shout at the sinister waiter who has scrawled my name in the diary as ‘dori’, (one away from doris),

“I’m paying you”, I say, “not to touch me up!”

The doors are now locked, and we are the last men sitting.  A young mobster stares at me quizzically across the room.  A look that says ‘why are you here’, with no question mark.

The oldest waiter opens his mouth only to sing “it’s just another glass” each time the south american pours another shot of limoncello down my willing throat.

I can’t see anymore.  It must be time to go.  White roses adorn all tables.

I grab a rose.  We wobble off into the night, walking to kensington via victorian townhouses.  Me shoving my wilted rose under noses of unsuspecting toffs. 

Punching bushes, stumbling over, spanking some girl, which I am told she liked.  This all recounted to me the next morn - my memory now locked away in the wine vault of my liver. 

We reach the hotel and I ask quantum why it is that we are going into a hospital.  Has this whole night been a devious ploy to finally get me sectioned, categorised, labelled and put on a shelf forever?

No.  It is a hotel, I am told.  In the room we drink tea and watch a terrible shopping channel where the ladies wear animal attire too hideous even for lady g.  And then it’s the very late time.  The time for bed time.  Yes.

Well…….not really as it turns out.  I’m sure he omitted to tell me he was seeing someone.  He said I was babbling too much for him to slip it in edgewise.  I brush this information aside – ‘seeing’ is not the same as ‘being’ with someone surely?  And I’ve waited all these years for the grand reveal of what I remember to be quite a conspicuous member….

“I’m going out with her.  There’s two single beds here.”  He points.

“THAT one is yours”.

Not happy.  NOT HAPPY. Feeling like a rapist tortorti physically removed from the subject of my affections, I put myself in the bed.  It’s like a hospital.  Okay, I can smile when saying ‘single’ on buses.  Not so when saying ‘single bed’. 

Knowing there is a feeding creature beneath the sheets lurking but a metre from my thirsty loins feels like torture.  I’m sure it’s twitching at me.

I do the undoable.  The shouldn’t-doable.  The “oh god NO, get out of my face-able”. 

I tell him I am getting in his bed. 

I get in.  Its singledom ensures close proximity.  He tells me to be ‘good’.  Okay, I’ll be ‘good’ alright….

We snuggle, him rubbing up significant pile on my fluffy tank top to make it unreturnable.

Then it’s massage.  Back massage.

Suddenly we take a quantum leap.  Suddenly I have worked my way down his erect nipples, to his smooth torso, to his……whoop, there it is!

I hold a psychic conversation with ‘little mystery’, as I call it.  I am transmitting to my new friend that the chocolates and biscotti weren’t enough.  I want my just dessert….

Staring at my lost love from thirteen long years ago, it is time to be reacquainted, and I realise with drunken delight that never before has this mystery entered godiva’s wanton face-orifice.

The waiting is over.  I stop just short of the money shot.  Dagnamit, I need this gig.  And then I wait….anticipate…..for

“STOP!”

OH NO!

“We have to be good.”

WHAT?  How much restraint has this man got?  Having a girlfriend never stopped him before, as I recall.  But he is no spring chicken.  And I shall never be his hen.

He goes to spoon me gently, and I erupt. 

I eject myself into the hospital stretcher and don’t bother to disguise my utter contempt at this no-show.  Don’t get me wrong, one in the mouth is great, but it isn’t two in the bush.

I burst into angry tears.  Having escaped my entry, he is probably familiarising himself with the emergency exit. 

‘I’m going to kill myself’, I think.  Or maybe I say it.  Through my angry, hospitalisationable tears.

All consumed by fired-up reptilian desire, I want to quench this fire.  Which would mean rape, at this stage.  Or masturbation?  Angry masturbation.  Doesn’t work.  Luckily for both of us, plans for my suicide are interrupted with the wine kicking in, and me passing out.

It’s the morning.

I am still drunk.  I can see the funny side of it all in the blinding light of day, thank god. 

Good on him for stopping where we did.  I don’t want another man’s homewreck etched upon my epitaph.  And he knew that I was only wanting what I shouldn’t have, as always.  Which is all I ever want.  Which is usually all I ever get……

The curtains are drawn, time has disappeared altogether.  We have passed through the twilight zone, and I have to get back to the squirrel’s nest for a gig, and I have no idea where I am.

My favourite.

Stumbling through the hospital-like reception I make it into the street.  And suddenly I’m on high street ken, staring at beige smocks in the m & s window, with a vague memory of admiring them the night before, though completely unaware of what city, let alone time zone I was in.

I have shades on.   I haven’t fallen over yet.  I join a similar casualty at a bus stop.  He is cute.  I start up a conversation  -which way to victoria?  But he is not amused, and in a plummy voice banishes me to the tube.

Not bloody likely;- though underground is probably the best place for godiva right now, she can’t bear the thought of a crammed black hole, and staggers on.

Not sure whether drunk, hungover or about to lose her bowels completely, she walks. 

Past the irish embassy where she performed an impromptu gig for some midgets, past the royal albert hall in its splendour.  Giving up at south ken and hopping on the district line.  Overpriced baguette and an engineering-works train.  Two hours finding remarkable comparisons with a marketing student who attends the same university we did passes quickly and strangely.

And home.  To feel wretched.  To feel guilty at not blogging.  To feel hungover and frustrated.

£100 quid for cock-breath, and no cigar. 

There’s only one thing for it - I’m taking back the fluffy-piled jumper, (£24.99), and replacing it with a one-month subscription to sugardaddie.com, (£21.99), to sustainably farm some hungry fish.