Sandra, the Man Beast and Me
Belated response to last week's Cougars and Sugar Daddies QOTW, denied then due to newbie status.


Back in the heady days of yore when outstanding nights of revelry were fairly central to my core being, it was always my policy (once there was enough of the right stuff lapping about my insides) to actively seek out misadventure, adamant that the pursuit of full-power stupidity during one’s youth and young manhood was actually one of the cornerstones on which rich and satisfying lives were built.

And it was in this frame of mind, at the tail end of an invigorating little binge at a naff local nightspot, I met Sandra. She was one of those leathery-faced old birds you get with fondnesses for leopard print, short bleached hair and Regal cigarettes. She told me I looked like River Phoenix (wrong) with a touch of Ronan Keating (very wrong) and I maintained a diplomatic silence because I thought she looked like Grotbags.

Back at hers (yes, I know, but I had a policy to think of) she shimmied into the living room to fetch a couple of glasses and then immediately came rocketing back out again as though she’d met a lion in there or something. Grabbing me by the arm and hissing something about ex-husbands sleeping on sofas, she instructed me to go upstairs and wait for her in the bedroom at the top.

I found the room, perched on the edge of the bed and waited in the darkness as an argument between Sandra and an angry, booming voice began to emanate from below stairs. It was then I caught sight of the wedding photo on the wall. My bones turned to water as a nameless fear swept over me. The man-beast smiling out of the photograph was about 7ft 6 in height and covered in thick black hair – it was as if Nature had intended to make a gorilla and changed its mind at the last moment. And this thing was downstairs.

I buried head in hands and began quizzing myself out loud about what I had hoped to gain by coming back here – I mean, for what? Her? I am ashamed to admit that in my heightened state of remorse, I subjected Sandra to a pitiless character study that may have resulted in my saying a few off-colour things about her, including the fact she was a hoary old bird that probably took it up the shitter, and worse besides.

But just as I was running through this repertoire of foul abuse, the shouting stopped, a door slammed and I heard noises to support the theory that the man beast had skulked off. Sandra, full of relief and apology, entered the presence and flicked on the light I hadn’t dared to touch. The ordeal was over.

But the sudden impulse to start dancing around the room on my tiptoes while strewing roses from a bedside vase was squelched by the unmistakable look of fear and dread spreading over the ancient relic’s leathery old map. Was she looking at me? She seemed to be looking beyond me.

I turned, and suddenly shot up as though a spike had come through the bed and pierced my fleshy under parts. What I saw made my eyes pop. I reeled. Not one, not two, but three kids had been cowering in Sandra’s bed the whole time I was perched on the end of it in the darkness – listening in petrified silence to everything I had said about their mother.

And yes, after she had shooed them away, I still went through with it. But at dawn, as I was sneaking out of the premises, I was caught in the act by an early-rising four-year-old on the lookout for someone to fix his X-box. After obliging (a reluctant cable needed stuffing back in), I resumed my doorward march, all too aware that the little man was now sticking to me like a shadow. Reaching the exit, I turned and we stared at each other in dumb silence for a time, until finally he said ‘are you coming back?’

It was the single most heart-rending thing I had ever experienced outside of an appeal by the RSPCA and I don’t mind admitting it stirred the deeps in me, jerking my better self to the surface and leading to a complete revision of my stupid policy and immature attitude to life.

Yes, I thought, warming to the topic as I strolled away from this house of horrors, I would rise on the stepping-stones of my old, dead self and become a better, greater, nobler version of me. I would ditch the lad in me. I would become a man.

But then later that night I got drunk on gin and um bongo and smashed a cake shop window.
(Bailey07, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 11:02, 20 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

Welcome!
I think you'll fit in around here...
(Son of Sam-i-am We're all as mad as hatters here, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 11:12, Reply)

good story
nicely written. good job
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 11:13, Reply)

Welcome!
A good story, shame you missed it.

You'll have plenty more to contribute to :)
(i should have joined myspace, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 11:13, Reply)

Welcome.
Keep up the good work :)

Gin & Um Bungo FTW!
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 11:29, Reply)

Actually
Greef FTW (gin & Reef)

Similar but more alcoholic. Guaranteed 8+ hours of memory loss or your money back.
(Son of Sam-i-am We're all as mad as hatters here, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 11:44, Reply)

Wonderful!
Some excellent phrases there, well done :0)
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 11:50, Reply)

@Sam
Gin & smirnoff ice for ultimate drunk!
Wine & smirnoff ice if you're trying to achieve the 'just been pummeled in the side of the head with an axe' feeling for the next day.
(i should have joined myspace, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 11:55, Reply)

I'd rather go for a Turbo Shandy
with extra vodka
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 12:00, Reply)

I detest Smirnoff Ice though...
Greef came about after we spent a large part of a trip to Amsterdam drinking gin & Fanta with a bloke we met called Steadroy (possibly not real name)

On returning, the pub had no Fanta, and somewhat stupidly the bar staff suggested Reef as a mixer before OJ (as it's orange). So Greef was born!

A bottle of Reef and a double gin in a pint glass slips down very easily and indeed doesn't taste very alcoholic. Far too easy to drink too much of. I haven't indulged for a while but it's become a traditional Christmas drink round these parts, so I expect I will do soon!

(2 years ago I spent until 7am Christmas day holding my mate's hair back as she puked out the Greef, then went to bed for about half an hour's sleep before being woken up by my parents' excited foster children. Nice.)
(Son of Sam-i-am We're all as mad as hatters here, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 12:05, Reply)

You're all wrong...
Red Diesel.

A pint of Snakebite and Black.
With three vodkas in.

These days, in my sensible maturity, this has been down-graded to cider and black with a double vodka.

It's the End Of The World in a glass.
( Cawl, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 12:23, Reply)

Black Witch is good
snakebite black with a double pernod :-)
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 12:35, Reply)

I've always put gin in snakebite in preference to vodka
Not a big vodka drinker...

The general theory remains the same though.
(Son of Sam-i-am We're all as mad as hatters here, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 12:53, Reply)

Great yarn, lad.
*click*
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 13:10, Reply)

TL:DR

( Gilgamesh gazed in wonder as Frampton came alive, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 13:40, Reply)

I've only just
worked out what that means.

Personally I think it needed more big cats, and maybe a gopher in it.
(Bazongaloid, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 14:52, Reply)

Kewl story dude.
I mean, I've not read it, but it was probably good.
( mike woz ere 7442200 & 7696970 getter, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 13:59, Reply)

Hey there sugar tits.

(Bazongaloid, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 14:52, Reply)

I like
Atmospheric, slightly bitter and remorseful. All the ingredients for a QOTW best of.

Best of luck in your b3ta career, I look forward to reading more.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Tue 16 Dec 2008, 14:27, Reply)

Top work
Most enjoyable
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Tue 16 Dec 2008, 18:06, Reply)

Ooh!
The boy can write!

And write well.

Take some advice from an old hand from here.

Piss off!

Don't come back!

We don't want your sort 'round here! I have enough trouble making the Best Of Page without new wet-behind-ears cnuts sneaking in writing decent stories.

Cheers

Only kidding. If the rest of your posts are of that calibre, you'll be most welcome and I'll look forward to reading them.
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Wed 17 Dec 2008, 6:17, Reply)