Ooh I've just remembered
Will you go out with me

Back in school, aged 12-13 probably, me and my cool-as-fuck (read geeky lunchbox and
parka brigade) mates were hanging round our usual spot in the canteen, sweating from
running around in our parkas and discussing the contents of our lunchboxes (the
Tupperware kind) to determine what swapsies might be for the having when, in bounds a
lad I had been mates with on the first day of school but on whom 'popular' status had
been conferred from the 2nd day onwards thus only renewing our friendship when
homework-based emergencies presented themselves to him. Geebag.


I got my revenge on him a few years later when he threw a party and was in need of
music. My mates and I had become reputed tunesmen and had a nifty little trade running
in bootlegs and compilations amongst the audio-challenged. I didnt show up and he had a
music-free party having to resort to local radio to try to stir things up amongst the
'pretty' and 'popular' types.


So, back in the day, in bounds yer man to the canteen,

"Baz", he says, "Didnt you say you fancied (the prettiest girl in our year in school)?"

"Yeah", says baz, embarrassedly, already resigned to his fate of never getting his
greasy mitts on her goodies.

"She fancies you too!", yer man says.

"Fuck off!", says I, in disbelief.

"No, no, baz. I'm serious. She's outside right now! I told her I'd come and get you!"

Baz clasping his lunchbox, restores his trusty parka to its rightful place on his
skinny, horny body and marches determinedly towards his humiliation.

I'm a pretty straightforward kind of fella. I have no truck with flirtation, hints or
subtleties. If I want to establish a fact, I go and I establish it. There is a funny
story regarding this quality I possess and an angry lesbian I must tell you one day.


So, there she is (the prettiest girl in our year in school), standing there in all her
finery; her hair in a lopsided ponytail (think Napoleon Dynamites girlfriend - this was
the late 80's), her precocious breasts pushing through her Ralph Lauren Polo sweater
(She was a rich girl. I was (am) a poor boy (drunk)), her red label blue Levi's denim jacket barely able to close against their pertness, her puffer skirt struggling to cover her
rapidly sweet-ass-bootifying behind and tight (nylons for septics) - free legs revealing
a horizon (the one I imagined of her lying) of flawless pale skin to her brilliant
white plimsolls (I believe the young folks call them 'keds' nowadays).


"L", I said (for I can not write her whole name lest my humiliation should be renewed).
"Yer man says..."

And she cuts me off, "oh fuck off!" and runs away...

I gave chase lest there be some misunderstanding.

"L!", I said,

and picture if you will, a 5ft nathin' skinny kid with a pudding bowl haircut wearing a
parka and clutching a lunchbox giving pursuit,

"WILL YOU GO OUT WITH MEEEEEEEEEEE?"

Cue MUCH laughter and baz, clueless, innocent, turning, returning, perplexed to his
mates in the canteen who did not laugh but who did not prevent me either from
humiliating myself and me wondering why would yer man play such a cruel joke and how many poor, innocent, horny little boys had fallen for it already such was the venom in 'L's rejection to my entreaties.

Ah, school - thank fuck that bits over.

rafter
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Thu 4 Sep 2008, 13:40, Reply)