I wanna tell you a story…
[No apologies for duration, if you can’t last the course, you’re no match for me]

Many, many years ago, in a far-off suburb in North London there lived a young man called Che Grimsdale. He was a fresh-faced young man of 17 with a ready wit, skinny legs; he was as horny as the brass section of the London Philharmonic Orchestra and well practised in the arts of fwapping. At this time he had a best friend who was on his third or fourth girlfriend, having popped his cherry a year or so before, but our Che was one of those lads that a) are very shy with the opposite sex and, b) seemingly unattractive to girls. Yes, our Che had never even kissed a girl, had never been ‘on a date’ or ‘gone out with’ a girl. The very name Virgin Records made him blush and squirm and he was more or less miserable when not stoned out of his gourd.

Now, in order to earn some cash, he got a Saturday job in the kitchen of a department store restaurant, and in this kitchen was a catering student by the name of Paula. She was a comely wench, svelte of figure with silky blond hair, though her face was nothing to write home about. Anyway, Che and Paula got along fine, working in the confines of a tiny kitchen, banter was bantered, glances were exchanged…Che got a little hot under the collar.

One Saturday, it so happened that Che and Paula took their break at the same time, chatting away, Paula suddenly came out with a comment that is seared on Che’s memory as if it happened yesterday not in 1980:

“Don’t you think that the nicest thing two people can do is spend the night together?” she breathed.

“Yeah…” Che replied. “ME TOO” shouted little Che from the cover of Che’s suddenly too tight underpants.

Anyway, she invited me round to her place, and in her large bedroom we listened to David Bowie and chatted about this and that. I found out that she was an amateur gymnast (moan…) and she she showed me some of her moves. She was wearing tight jeans and a tight top that looked like it was actually her gymnastics one-piece. We ended up on her bed sort of play fighting…

The regret? Not being able to say: “Look, Paula. I’ve got a confession, I’ve never had a girlfriend before…can you show me what to do? I’m in your hands, guide me, teach me, earn my never-dying gratitude.”

I didn’t, a friend turned up with her brother to give me a lift home. The next Saturday I invited Paula to a party. By damn fool luck I was offered the chance to try acid that night and didn’t turn it down. When Paula turned up at the party I was tripping off my head, I tried to introduce her to a mate: “Paul, this is…er…” “Paula”, she said. That killed her interest in me.

I was 19 before I finally popped my cherry…but that story can wait for another day.
------------------------------------------------------
Words of wisdom from one who’s made plenty of mistakes in his time: 99% of the time it is the things that you DON’T do that you regret, it is much rarer to regret something you DO. Take that chance, accept that offer, ditch that girl, walk out of that job, tell her/him how you really feel, go on that trip…and you can blame me when it all goes pear-shaped.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 6 Oct 2006, 13:29, Reply)