In which Chickenlady loses her composure
I was staying with my cousins in Northampton and I had just split up with my boyfriend of eighteen months because he wanted to get engaged and I wanted to enjoy being at Uni.


My elder cousin, Joe, was taking me to a club where Paul, his brother would meet us with all their (male) mates.

I had prepared for the evening out by spending an hour in the bathroom, putting on my shortest tight black skirt, highest black patent heels and lowest cut purple blouse. All in all I looked like the evil love child of Prince and Brian May (all that curly dark hair, you know). The make up had been duly applied with various building implements and dangly earrings framed my face much in the same way that traffic lights adorn an A road.

Before hitting the club we visited a couple of pubs where I kept up my classy appearance by downing pints of cider and laughing raucously at rude jokes…rude jokes that I had just told.

All was going swimmingly, my cousin and I were sharing old family stories and reconnecting over our pints. Finally the time had come to hit the club and find Paul. Joe had warned me that Paul had an entire gang of mates, a few of whom were shady characters. Paul himself divided his time between cleaning windows, drinking pints and smoking joints - he truly lived the life of Riley and his lazy mate.

I was prepared - I had been drinking cider, the drink of champions, tramps and pissheads. I could take on the world and tell them where their apostrophe should go - politely, of course.

Now, I should perhaps add here that I have always had a habit of making up words for my own entertainment... Onanistic neologism if you will.

Anyway, we arrive at the dark and slightly sweaty club and to be honest it was a bit of a disappointment. I was expecting neon and chrome, the approximation of the last debauched days of Rome wrought from early 90s tat and a bit of vacuum formed plastic. Instead the club was strip lighting and formica and a faithful recreation of the last staid days of Bognor Regis in a church hall on a wet Sunday evening in January.

Joe got me another pint of cider, this time served up in a plastic glass which I balanced on my knee while I sat watching the high fashion outfits of a decade previous shake, jump and wobble about on the parquet floor.

Paul showed up with his crowd of mates all of whom seemed to be pleased to see us - I was so glad we'd sat by the bar.

During the next hour or so a few more pints were downed, a teetering trip to the toilets was undertaken, but all in all it was uneventful…..until the music began to change as chucking out time approached.



Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a young man.

His trousers were the most conspicuous detail about him; having grown up watching Ben Elton do stand up in what can only be described as Chernobyl trousers, I honestly thought they were a BBC wardrobe creation and not available for general public purchase.

I was wrong.

Aside from his striking trousers he was dressed normally - white shirt, goping* shoes, the usual clubbing attire for many young men at the time.

His face however let him down badly, or rather his doctor or chemist had. His nickname was Pepperoni - for two reasons as it turned out, but the main one being that his face closely resembled a pepperoni pizza so bad was his acne.

Pepperoni was one of Paul's close mates and he asked me to dance.

In the time honoured tradition of my family I accepted - always accept a dance, regardless of what you may think of the person, asking for a dance requires courage and refusal will cause the asker to lose face with his mates. By all means if you dislike the person then only dance the once with them and don't accept the offer of a drink, but never turn down a dance.

So I stood ready, arms raised and prepared to hang around Pepperoni's pustule ridden neck, a fixed rictus grin pasted upon my heavily made up face. No doubt I closely resembled a zombie at this point, however, it did nothing to dampen his ardour, if anything it enflamed it. He grasped me tightly around the waist and began to gyrate and grind into my hips, while snuggling his pimply face into my neck and breasts - did I mention he was a good few inches shorter than me?

I attempted just like the poor black pussy cat who has her back painted with white emulsion to struggle away from my very own Pepé Le Pew but my efforts were in vain as it just made him gather me in towards him with greater relish.

All the while the droning tones of 'Three Times A Lady' continued in the background and I silently cursed each and every member of the Commodores to a long and painful bum disease.

The seconds seemed to turn into hours and then I noticed It.

The real reason he was called Pepperoni.

Not only did he suffer with appalling acne but he also had the unfortunate tendency to wear baggy trousers in which his own private pepperoni could stretch and relax unencumbered by lycra or a swift knee from me.

My struggling increased…as did he.


You know the old joke about starting a fire with two Boy Scouts?

I had been a Girl Guide.


Finally the song finished, it was time to go home and he was walking with us. "Would you like to go out with me?" he asked in almost reverential tones.

The force of six pints of cider, being squeezed and 'rubbed' against all built up in me…..Two things happened.


Firstly I blurted out the words that had been going around in my head ever since he grasped me to his pyretic gonads,

"But you have burning swonicles!"

To which he backed away slightly from the strange young woman who stood in front of him. This was a Good Thing because at that moment my stomach decided to add in its own comment on the evening's romantic shenanigans….

PPARRRPPPPP!!!

And at that moment I became Cinderella at midnight - I ran for the door and made it home long before my cousins and without one shoe.


I never liked that pair anyway.








*Not a particular style of shoe, rather a descriptive term for anything revolting or unpleasant, i.e. It's pissing down, this weather is bloody goping. Or, Have you tried this fish pie? It's goping.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 10:59, 11 replies)

click!
clicks for 'I could take on the world and tell them where their apostrophe should go'
(twiceydrinker hmmm is it pint time?, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 11:03, closed)

Brilliant write up
and an entertaining story!

A+ would read again
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 11:14, closed)

*splutters*
That was fantastic reading. I didn't see the punchline coming, but the image of a flatulent cinderalla leaving behind something a whole lot less genteel than a glass slipper had me nearly falling off my chair.

*clicks*

I must pull my finger out and post this week... Even though you, Pooflake and Che have set the bar very high.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 29 Aug 2008, 11:15, closed)

Oh lordy!

Quite sublime...Your words were like a time machine... teleporting me back to my experiences in clubs as a gangly, badly dressed dweeb sat in the corner.

At least he had the courage to ask you out...which is more than what I would have had.

My nesfarity also regales your ebnomity in the made-up words department.

Ah, Cider...the drink of champions, tramps, pissheads...and Pooflake, who just happens to be a bewildering combination of all three.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 29 Aug 2008, 11:43, closed)

Beautiful!!
Especially enjoyed the Pepe Le Pew reference - a classic.

And please note girls: that thing about never refusing a dance - that is SO humane! You are (as we all knew) a very nice person.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 11:56, closed)

Well written
clicks
(Smale is stuffed, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 12:50, closed)

Well
that cheered me up after a truly crap day at work.

Thank you chickenlady!

*bows*

*clicks*
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Fri 29 Aug 2008, 16:15, closed)

Wow
Citadel hearts Chickenlady.

Brilliant Story! BUt then, yours always are.
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Sat 30 Aug 2008, 1:18, closed)

Milligan points...
...for use of "swonicles". Click
(Mousy Tongue ...Generally bemused by life..., Sat 30 Aug 2008, 18:08, closed)

goping
Sounds like the same thing as 'minging'.
( idonthaveafunnynickname Drink-Aware? Sure. I'm aware I want another drink., Sun 31 Aug 2008, 22:26, closed)

*CLICK*
I lolled. I actually lolled.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Mon 1 Sep 2008, 23:01, closed)