What some people will do for a cheese sandwich
The first time I met my ex girlfriend Emma’s brother, Eric, was what Shakespeare would probably describe as a monumental, colossal, immense, we’re talking Biblical scale fuck up. It wasn’t my fault. It was the sun. And the fact I’d skived off work to soak up the rays like a gigantic, bronzed twat. And the beer garden. And the beer. And the shots. And the other beers. And, to a lesser extent, the chocolates my mate Steve brought with him to the pub (they were those whisky liqueurs which I tend to crack open with my teeth, drink the contents, and then spit the chocolate shells into the bushes).

Emma gave me a call at about two to explain I had to go and meet her brother off the train at Euston at four. Fair enough. No problem, Emma. So, roll onto five-thirty and I’m still attempting to consume my bodyweight in Fosters and gin and tonic chasers (I’m either gay or an old woman when it comes to the hard stuff). Steve, my erstwhile drinking companion, advises me I had to be somewhere an hour and a half ago, but he’s fucked if he remembers what or where I was supposed to be. We do the only sensible thing. We get in another round.

At six I get a text from Emma: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU – ERIC’S WAITING IN THE PUB JUST OUTSIDE THE STATION! STOP BEING A LAZY CUNT AND GO AND GET HIM!

Buggeration... Never, ever, EVER piss off you’re girlfriend. She allows you pussy privileges, and if you piss her off, well, the chances are you’ll find yourself masturbating furiously in the shower every morning for the next week – and if it comes down to a choice of shooting your load against a nice wet cervix or a cold wet shower curtain, well…

So, I stagger out the pub, hail a cab, and rush down to Euston. Because I’m drunk I forget the details about Eric, Emma’s brother, waiting in the pub outside. I rush in. Look round. Panic. And then I see him – I recognised him, sort of. He’s sat over on a bench with his backpack on the floor in front of him.

“Eric?” I ask. He looks up at me. “I’m Spanky – Emma’s boyfriend. Sorry I’m late. You must be starving, mate.” Eric looks a bit confused. But I explain it quickly away: “Sorry, mate – I’m absolutely shitfaced. Been drinking all day.” I explain Emma’s busy at work and won’t finish until nine or ten(ish); this seems to clear things up. “Let’s get you home,” I reach out, grab Eric’s arm and lead him out into the lovely warm evening summer sunshine. He starts saying “thanks” in the thick scouse accent I’d learned to understand since knocking boots with his sister.

One brief cab ride later and we’re back at the gaff in Hackney. Eric’s quiet. Pretty shy. Nice fella, though. Tall and thin. Scruffy little early-twenties-man-trying-to-grow-a-beard-thing going on all over his face like a bad, hairy rash. I told him to help himself to whatever he wanted in the fridge and he did. Then we settled down to watch Mallrats while we waited for Emma to get home.
Then, after about an hour, I get another text (Emma worked in an office with terrible reception and could only pick up her calls when she got to go outside on a break; she used to text me as regular as clockwork when she went out for a ciggie). I feel my phone buzz, I reach into my pocket, expecting all sweetness and light, hugs and kisses and the promise of a blowjob later for being such a great boyfriend and getting her brother back safely. But I didn’t get that, no, not at all. What I got was:

ERIC’S BEEN TRYING TO PHONE ME FOR TWO HOURS! HE’S STILL AT THE FUCKING PUB! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU YOU USELESS DRUNKEN CUNT?!?

I put my phone away, looked over at Eric, who was happily watching Kevin Smith’s second film while munching on a cheese sandwich: “Errr… who are you?” I ask.

The lad turns to me and says: “I’m Eric.”

“Are you?”

He nods, and then he says, quite suggestively: “If that’s who you want me to be.” And he puts the sandwich to one side; as if to say: you’ve given me food and shelter, now I need to give you something in return.

As I’m drunk and been out all day in the sort of heat that would make a lizard say: “Fuck me, its too fucking hot – I’m going for a fucking ice bath.” I just sat and stared at this lad for a bit, formulating a genius response. All I could come up with was: “I’m not gay, you know.”

“Neither am I.”

Now I was confused. I said: “I wasn’t, you know, cruising, I haven’t brought you back here to, well… erm… fuck you… ”

He seemed to realised then I wasn’t into bumming Scouse vagrants in exchange for a cheese sandwich. We both stared at each other for a bit. Eventually, he got up, grabbed his backpack and fucked off in a bit of a mood (I think he may have really fancied a quick hide-the-salami sesh). Thinking about it in hindsight, I did think he stank a little bit too much of piss; but I did live with his sister for a while and her personal hygiene routine occasionally left something to be desired, truth told – I just thought it was a weird family trait.

Oh, and I was reduced to wanking in the shower for nearly two weeks after this… Curses!!!
( SpankyHanky, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:44, Reply)