As an antidote to the previous woeful blurt
here is the tale of why a young Jenny decided to leave her hometown for good. Lamentably, this is 100% true.

Myself and my schooldays sidekick (confusingly also Jenny) went out one evening to our crappy hometown's closest approximation of an indie club. When I say 'indie', in this case, it means it had 20% or so fewer Chernobyl-orange overweight Wetherspoons harridans flashing their pink-nylon-clad gussets in the bouncer's face than the other clubs in town. It was still shit.

On this particular night, though, we had other things on our mind. Namely, an experiment. Earlier that evening, sitting over some lovely real ales in the Owd Black Horse at the corner of the market square, we'd decided that we were going to do something a bit different to spice up our evening. Namely, that we were going to Be Nice.

To clarify: my hometown's a bit rough. Not quite Irvine, but not that far off. Even the job centre was boarded up, and venturing out onto the high street on a Saturday evening involved circumnavigating vast pools of congealing vomit and shrieking gangs of obese tattooed women wearing PVC and punching the shit out of each other on the pavement from about 6pm onwards. As two avowedly pale and curly-haired females who more often than not wore jeans and COATS (gasp!) of an evening, we were somewhat conspicuous. The only way we had managed to survive years of drunken molestation (conversational or otherwise) by the gauntlet of shaven-headed WKD-swilling idiots that lined most of the pubs in town was by being rude to them straight off the bat. Or if not rude, at least pretty blunt. It's not like it came naturally, or that I liked doing it. And we were always friendly to girls or men who were friendly to us.

But really, the only thing to do with the lads that came balling up with some sleazy line or other was to move away or ignore them, because if you replied - or, Lord forbid - smiled - then you were pretty much asking for it. Saying politely that you weren't interested, that you were just out for a catch-up with your friend or that you had a boyfriend, generally met with the following responses - 'fuck you'/'so you're lesbians then/'well he's not here, is he?' So yeah. It was a survival strategy. And I'm not saying we were so cripplingly gorgeous that we were continuingly beating off smitten princes with a stick, but
the fact we'd made it past 16 without being knocked up meant we were considered 'quality' birds by Preston standards.

So anyway. On this particular night, having nothing better to do, we decided that instead of avoiding the overtures of said gentlemen, we would be gracious and engage them in conversation, at least until a spot at the pool table opened up. We got into the place, sat down, and true to form, about five minutes later a pair of chaps came over and plonked themselves in the chairs opposite with aplomb.

'Hiya, love,' was our Romeo's overture. 'What's your name?'

At this point, Jen, having already tired of the experiment, retreated to the bar to get a drink. The other one toddled off after her, leaving me alone with Chap No. 1. His name was Lee. He looked like he worked in a mobile phone shop. He immediately slung his arm around my shoulder. I told him my name.

'Jane, Jane' he yelled into my ear. 'Nice to meet you. And so what do you do, Jane?'

Before I could open my mouth to reply, he interrupted. 'I bet you're a student, aren't you. I fucking 'ate students, me. Fucking twats. It's all a load of bollocks, anyway, school and that. I tell you something, Jane. I tell you what. I didn't go to college and it never did me any harm.'

At this point, I was beginning to suspect he wasn't my future life partner. However, without pausing for breath, he continued.

'And I'll tell you something else, Jane. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!' - at this point he grabbed me by the shoulders and practically yanked me round to face him. The smell of his liberally-applied hair gel was overpowering. I looked.

'I tell you what,' he breathed. 'I didn't go to college, and now...I'm twenty-six years old, and...I've got my own van.'

I waited. The look on his face was one of over-weaning pride and happiness, as if he'd just told me that he was the discoverer of DNA. I realised that some response was expected. 'That's nice,' I said.

Lee then launched into a Clarksonesque orgy of detail about his van, detailing its precise dimensions, colour, age, technical specifications, where he'd got it, for how much, the resulting modifications he'd made to it and how jealous all his mates were. I sat there with gritted teeth, nodding like the Churchill dog and wondering just how much forced politeness I could take before my spleen burst.

Eventually, after what seemed like a decade, he concluded this tirade with what I'm sure he imagined to be the offer of a lifetime, the deal-sealing romantic gesture that had seen a thousand babes wilt at the knees. He leaned in, and pressed his lips to my flinching ear.

'It's out back if you want to have a go in it.'


I moved down south a few weeks later, and sadly, we never did consummate our love. But even now, travelling the highways and byways of Britain, I sometimes catch the glint of the setting sun catching on a windscreen wiper of a souped-up Daihatsu, and I think of Lee, and wonder what might have been...
(jennymnemonic, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 17:33, 5 replies)

There you go!
You need a van for the next quiz night!



(You still have only two weeks grace though.)
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 17:44, closed)

don't take the piss...
...out of my van.
( ExactlyHowLongDoIHaveToBeHere, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 23:02, closed)

Real Ale ftw!
And I have to say, blokes like that really make me cringe.
(Sir Clitherington Smythe offers him yourself., Sat 20 Feb 2010, 6:36, closed)

M'lady,
Write more, write often. Please, press delicate digit to keyboard with a profligacy rarely seen since the reign of Emperor Nero of Rome.

Why ? Because you write well, and I do so love to read.
( DukeEuphoria Comes highly reccomended, Mon 22 Feb 2010, 17:46, closed)

Love it,
Nicely done.

"Are you an X? I really hate Xs me" is obviously a guaranteed winner. *facepalm*
(The man with the flan swashed his buckle on, Wed 24 Feb 2010, 11:06, closed)