No.30
You will go to a Christmas party and wake up at 6am on someone’s sofa next to a girl who looks like she wrestles bulls for a living.
You will say something outrageous like: ‘I’m sorry.’
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Sex
I was supervising Audrey at eleven o’clock last night as she emptied her bowels in the frosty garden when a large head peered over the wall at the bottom near the fuchsias.
‘You look like George Clooney in this light.’ It was Reg.
‘You gave me a fright there, Reginald.’
‘I’ve just walked Maria home. We had a lovely night watching Mamma Mia and drinking margaritas. I’m just about at the stage when I think she’s gonna let me do the business. I’ve already had my hand inside-upstairs and tonight she let me play with her – ‘
‘Thank you! I’ll stop you there, Reg.’ I hastily changed the subject by telling him about my upcoming trip to New York.
He seemed mildly impressed. Before he went on his way he asked me a question: ‘Do you know how to get to Carnegie Hall, Davy?’
‘Go on, tell me.’
‘Practice.’
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As Audrey and I were returning from the Co-op this morning, I was worrying whether I was a sex addict – I realised that, on average, I think about sex two or three times a day – when OAP drummer Reg popped his big head out of the newly-refurbished Starlight Café and demanded we join him inside for a refreshing cup of Earl Grey.
He was wearing a white cotton tabard and a matching cap. ‘I’ve got a part-time job here,’ he explained, ‘to help me pay the bills.’
As we were chatting and he was waiting for ‘the eleven o’clock rush’ he couldn’t stop drumming his fingers on the new pine counter. ‘That’s rather annoying, Reg,’ I told him.
‘I know,’ he sighed.
(All drummers do such things constantly. Don’t ever take a drummer to a Chinese Restaurant; as soon as he gets hold of the chopsticks there will be prawn balls everywhere.)
I asked Reg about the odd décor in the quiet little Derbyshire café – log furniture and red embroidered tablecloths featured heavily which gave the place a vague Alpine feel; I half expected a tiny man in leather shorts to appear clutching a bowl of sauerkraut and a glistening pink sausage.
‘Nothing to do with me, Davy,’ he said. ‘I would have gone for black and chrome, like my old Premier kit.’
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I have just been chatting to Reg. Instead of having to pretend to laugh at his awful gags, we were actually having a serious discussion. We were talking about dogging. (Google it.) According to the local press, the village has a serious dogging problem that is developing relatively unchecked.
The people who take part in this activity – the doggers or doggies, as they are known – assemble after dark in the car park adjacent to the market place. Reg told me how he was passing that way the other evening and tarried awhile to furtively observe ‘the goings-on’, as he put it. ‘Oh aye, there were loads of ‘em at it,’ he said excitedly. ‘Like flippin’ rabbits, they were.’
‘Well, dogs.’
‘No, rabbits.’ He went on: ‘I saw one bloke with his old fella sticking through the side window of a Mini Cooper. And another bloke who had his trousers round his ankles was licking the windscreen like he was washing it.’ He thought for a moment then added quickly: ‘He was waving his old fella about like there was no tomorrow, that one was.’
‘Did you call the police, Reg?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said, frowning, ‘They were the police.’
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The middle-aged couple who have moved in next door were in the throes of loud sexual congress for about two hours last night.
The man – whose first name I have just learned is Maxwell – and his wife were making more noise than was strictly necessary for a windy Sunday night in a quiet street on the outskirts of a small village in Derbyshire. (I knew a young chap at school called Maxwell. He was so posh that when we went on a cross-country run, he would wear a cravat – Ed.)
I don’t know what my neighbour was doing to his partner but he sure was making her squeal and moan. Sex-noises sound distinctly odd in an East Midlands accent: ‘Fookin’ ell, Max! Oooh, Max. Fook! Oooo . . . Maxwell!’
And Max, calmly in control: ‘I know, duckie, I know.’
I had a large glass tumbler positioned on my bedroom wall so that I might listen more effectively to their antics and at one point, I considered calling for an ambulance or an accident investigator because it sounded as though he was torturing her in some despicable fashion, her shrieks reaching almost 98dB on my hand-held metering device.
As the hours went by, I was terrified that he may seriously harm her and that I would be held partly responsible for failing to act appropriately. I was in two minds as to whether I should call the emergency services or report him to the relevant authorities. I am also aware, however, that I do have a tendency to make pompous and ridiculous predictions that do not come true: ‘He’s going to kill her, you know.’
I found the whole thing very annoying and frustrating, and after a while, I had to stop licking the wall quite so enthusiastically because it was beginning to severely irritate my tongue.
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Nelson is arriving today to continue work on his album and to force me into drinking too much alcohol. (That’s never been difficult! – Ed.)
Audrey really loves seeing her Uncle Nelson too. She loves to show him all the new paths she has recently discovered when he accompanies us on our big lunchtime walks around the deserted wilds of Derbyshire. I shall appreciate the company while we are out there as well. Audrey and I do enjoy our daily rambles in the hilly wilderness but it can often be slightly intimidating and sometimes even a little scary to be so alone and so far from civilisation.
I often worry in case we encounter any wolves or the Beast of Blackwell or a crazy horse frothing at the mouth. We did find an escaped horse once, in the middle of nowhere, but it had not gone mad, it was merely enjoying its freedom. It was humming happily to itself and followed us quietly for about half a mile and then to my relief disappeared into a nearby field.
And I always make sure I have my mobile phone with me when we are out there. However, the one time I really needed it, the bloody battery had gone flat. Audrey had disappeared down a rabbit hole and I could not locate her for about thirty minutes. I was trying to call mountain rescue or one of the other emergency services but just as I was about to throw my phone into the brackish water of a stagnant pond, she wandered slowly up to me looking sheepish and covered in mud.
My biggest fear is of getting lost in the dense woods and that we might be carried off by brigands. I would not be much use to them, however. I wouldn’t fetch much on the open market – my finances are not in a very healthy state at the moment, I cannot dance, and the number of sexual positions I have thus far mastered is severely limited.
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