Woman related twattery
When it comes to my own lovelife, I'm a complete Beadlehands of the first degree. Normally, when a member of the opposite sex shows any kind of interest a hidden psychological switch in my brain changes it's default setting from "Confident, articulate and smiley" into "Blabbering, awkward mongtoid" and a cringeworthy descent into drooling haplessness ensues.

Many a promising smile or warmly comfortable first date scenario has descended into a belming farce (minus the obligatory trouser dropping) thanks to this hidden brain switch I seem to be blessed with, from my earliest days of earnest lady fumbling. It’s nothin short of a miracle that I ever managed to get my end away at all.

My salvation I suppose, was to adopt an attitude where I simply pretend that I’m either chatting away to a stranger or that I’m having a drink with a friend. That way, I can appear all cool and non-committal, while avoiding frightening the ladies away with any unseemly spakkardness. Having said that, hedging my bets so to speak had led me many a time to realize – often months or years after the event – that I’ve missed an open goal in somewhat spectacular, Stuart Pearce style. Occasionally, this realization will come to me when I’m in a public space.

“Mummy, why is that man in the car smacking his head on his steering wheel? What's a 'cunt'?”

To give an example of PJM’s sterling spazziness with the laydees, we’re going to have to beckon you dear readers back in time to 1994, probably sometime in July to be accurate. PJM is in his local fleapit nightclub and is stood near the dancefloor clutching an overpriced pint of beer which has some similarities to the act of making love in a boat; namely it’s fucking close to water. The club is reverberating to the sounds of Alex Party’s absolutely atrocious “Don’t Give Me Your Life”. PJM’s alcohol dulled mind is probably thinking “God, this track is awful. When I’m running the country, whoever is responsible will be shot”.

"PJM, haven’t seen you in a while? How are you?”

I’m shaken from my wallflower-esque torpor by a familiar looking brunette with dark eyes. It’s Melanie MacDonald. Ah, Melanie.

I used to have a McJob at a well known high street stationers while I was studying for my A Levels. If I may come across all Terry Thomas for a moment or two ("Me? With a group of privately educated schoolgirls? With my reputation"); I was aware that one of my co-workers was showing some interest in me and that some of her schoolfriends, finishing their final year of GCSEs at the local ladies private school were turning up to check me out. Most of them would pretend to flick through the pages of What Horse or whatever and gawk awkwardly at me, but the boldest actually strode up, calmly put something she wanted to buy on my counter and engaged me in conversation. Yep, that was Melanie. Bold, charming and articulate.


Two years had now passed since those gang of awkward teenage girls and Melanie was now of voting age. She was also rather lovely, dark hair, dark eyes and possessing an alluringly curvaceous shape. The gist of the ensuing conversation has been lost in the mists of time, but the upshot was that Melanie pressed a piece of paper into my palm containing her phone number and asked me to give her a call sometime.

Now 1994 was a very bad year for me. I was then struggling with a serious illness that left me two and a half stone underweight. Yes, I realize I was in a nightclub and drinking beer, but I wasn’t about to abdicate from my social responsibilities. Believe you me, I ended up paying for every night out.

I think I called Melanie once, chatted for about an hour and didn’t follow anything up. Over the months and following years, I often wondered why Melanie gave me her phone number. I guess I kind of kicked myself for not following up a friendship, but c’est la vie and all.

I lamented that women like Melanie never found me attractive, should I ever end up having a girl as pretty as Melanie make a pass at me in the future - hypothetically speaking of course - I'd overcome my innate bell-endedness and make the very most of whatever opportunity presented itself.

What do you mean “That’s a shit story?”. Well the story isn’t quite complete folks, for we’re going to revisit the same club but three years hence in July 1997. PJM is now back enjoying good health again and is stood by the dancefloor clutching an overpriced, pissy-weak pint of lager in his hand swaying gently to the rhythm of Olive and “You’re not alone”, not the finest example of the genre but much better than Alex-Cunting-Party.

“PJM! Hello!”

I was startled by a familiar sight in front of me. Oh my stars, it’s Melanie MacDonald again. We talked for a while, reminisced about mutual friends and old times, had a drink or two and eventually went our separate ways having made vague promises to “catch up” at some point.

Melanie was as alluringly lovely as ever. Oh yes, she was quite something to behold. I was feeling a bit of a warm glow to be honest, nice to be acknowledged in such a fashion and all. I remembered warmly that promise I'd made to myself three years earlier. Could she...? Possibly...? Nah... Surely not.

I headed to the bar, whereupon I rejoined the chap I was out clubbing with and gained the unwanted attention of a bloke called George, who I went to school with. George was frankly a knob, never letting an opportunity to show pass him by and was doing his damnedest to impress me with tales of his derring do. All of a sudden, someone forces their way in between the pair and thrusts a piece of paper into my bewildered hand.

“PJM, I’m back from Uni for the summer. I’d really like to spend some time with you over the next few weeks. Call me”. With that, she departed to her waiting taxi, leaving a trail of perfume in her wake as if to reassure me that what just happened wasn’t an hallucination.

My mouth dropped open, as did the mouths of my two drinking partners. What. The. Fuck. They couldn't believe their eyes. Damn it, I couldn't believe mine. George stood there mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out. Like a gulping like a goldfish, aware that he was well and truly beaten. Thank Christ for that, he was beginning to bore me to tears.

I pressed the phone number into my pocket.

But I never did call Melanie.

Why? Because the following day I had a prearranged first date with someone else.

That "someone else" ended up becoming my ex-wife.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:15, 9 replies)

Yes but......
Look who you've got now : )
( girlinthehole, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:26, closed)

I'm not lamenting my luck now, believe me!
;-)
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:28, closed)

@BGB
You took the words out of my mouth.
( Bazongaloid, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:32, closed)

And mine.
I'd say you're far ahead of the curve now.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:33, closed)

Quality.
*click*
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:34, closed)

Nice!

( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 29 Aug 2008, 15:40, closed)

Blimey!

Some phenomenal writing has appeared this week...and this is up there with the very, very best of them.

and I thought this QotW was going to be shit. Good save sir!

I have made a note to include 'derring do' and 'Blabbering, awkward mongtoid' into my future posts at some point.

and..........................'click'
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 29 Aug 2008, 18:41, closed)

Beadlehands
I love that!

Top notch piece of writing there m'dear.

If ifs and ands were pots and pans....

*clicky*
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Sat 30 Aug 2008, 1:17, closed)

I'm a complete Beadlehands of the first degree.
Yup - thats your click right there. That, and the excellence of the story.
I feel for you, I really do.
(What? I meant it in a manly way!)
(Nogin the Nog is the good one! Beware Nogbad the Bad!, Wed 3 Sep 2008, 16:06, closed)