— Have another beer, babe, I say to her.
— Not on duty, Michael. You trying to get me drunk? She giggles. Good fun is Cynth, and that’s a quality you appreciate in skirt. Course, there’s some who’re that way inclined till they get what they like to term ‘commitment’, then turn straight into narky old mares. That’s the stage when they start to see your role as a psychological punchbag, taking the blows cause they can’t hit back out at a life that’s disappointed them. You become a everythingologist in the bar game. Walton, Guildford, Romford, Streatham, I done em all.
— Take another slice of that pizza then, gel, I suggest, pointing to the congealed mass of dough in our hot tank.
— Nah, I can’t, can I, cause I’m getting so bleedin fat, she protests.
— No you ain’t, don’t talk nonsense, anorexic you are, I tell her, — that’s your problem. Read all about you binge-and-purge sorts.
— That’s bulimia, she says, touching her gut.
— That might be the case, but it’s the same thing, innit, birds worrying too much abaht nosh, I grin, cause I like a bit of meat on a gel. The way that weight of hers wobbles and shifts as she moves; I really love to watch her serving, especially when she stretches a little to reach up to the optics to fill a glass. I’ve seen me on the other side of that bar ordering a Scotch I don’t even want just to cop an eyeful of that. Most of all, I suppose I like the way I can change her, love watching her spread out after a week’s indulgence, all instigated by yours truly.
Them supermodels might look great in clothes, but let’s face it: you wouldn’t wanna fuck one of em. Feel like one of them Indian geezers lyin on a bleedin bed of nails.
Rodger ain’t exactly shrouding himself in glory at the moment. Bertie only went and caught him with his fingers in the till, metaphorically speaking. Actually, they were in Marcia’s snapper, behind the bar n all, the dirty fucker. Course, Bertie starts sounding off to me about mates and a mate’s missus and how you don’t go there. ‘You do not cross that farking line, Mickey,’ was how he put it. I don’t see no fucking line, but I ain’t gonna tell him that.
Of course, if I had a missus myself, then I might think differently. That ain’t ever gonna happen though: once bitten, twice shy, is what I always say. Right now, though, it’s give us anuvah, muvah, that one don’t bleedin well play in Chateau Mickey. Cause the truth is, the only way you’ll get skirt of any quality is to nick the attached but disaffected ones. And they usually ain’t up for jumping ship till they’ve checked out that there’s quality goods on offer elsewhere. Then there’s your stepping-stone skirt; can’t work up the bottle to leave their geezer without a patsy like you around to share the flak. Course, once he’s gone, you soon get your marching orders or she becomes so crazy you have to give her the elbow, and you’re left high and dry like a daft cunt and a rep somewhere between a sleazebag and a muppet. Basic human nature, and if you ain’t worked that one out after five years in the licencing trade, then you never will.
After all, I had a go at that Marcia slag myself the other night. Bit thin for my tastes, but there’s something about a skinny bird pushing forty. If they ain’t let themselves go by then, they got to have one big vice. I’ve found through experience that it’s inevitably shagging. A skinny tart pushing forty is usually a dirty slag: pretty game for anything once you get past the first hurdle. It’s that first fence that’s often the problem. Giving it the old cock-teaser malarkey again, Marce was. Cut to the chase and grabbed her outside the toilets. She only went and slapped my bleedin chops, hitting me with the old innocent routine before scarpering. Told her it was a fair cop, that I must have misread the signs. Jack Daniel’s’ll do that for you.
Every farking time.
Rodj seems to be making an impression though, the cunt. A sleazeball of the highest order is my business partner, with that gelled hair and a permanently laughing face, even when he’s pissed off. There’s definitely some good shagging in old Marce, I’ll wager, so I can’t exactly blame Rodj for trying to get some in. Mind you, married to poor old Bertie, God love him, she’s got to be desperate for it, I’d be surprised if that wasn’t the case. Have to say though, looks like old Rodj is now in pole position, even if he ain’t good at closing deals.
This island’s full of fucking junkies! Two cunts sitting in the corner of the bar, staring at the farking walls. Sorry, but did I leave London for a reason? My bleedin mistake. Mind you, the quality of football in the so-called Premiership would have every cunt on gear. The game’s shit, too fucking tactical, all the flair geezers stifled by five across the middle. Playing percentages and charging muppets forty nicker for the privilege, and mugs like me for the satellite equipment and packages. Then you got them commentators and pundits; the telly company tell them to talk up every farking game, so you got them cunts having a farking orgasm while we’re at home falling asleep on the flaming couch or in the boozer begging the barmaid to turn the cunting jukebox up. So another Scotch goes down and my face glows and I realise that I’ve only gone and got arseholed again!
Any roads, Cynthia and I have been getting it on. Unshaggable till you down a couple of Scotches, then she fairly sets up the horn in you. Birds will make a cunt of you all the time. Not that I’m cynical; a cheerful sort by nature really, but I only make the observation.
Cynth and me didn’t half cane it the night before I went back to me mum’s in Walton: a big session on the red wine. I think I got right up between her there and then, I believe that to be the case, but I was too farkin rat-arsed to remember much about it. So I wakes up feeling horny, as in fucking Alpine, and gets my fingers moving south of the border. Gor blimey, it was like trying to work with a block of sandpaper. Funny though, the things you learn with a bit of experience. As a young buck I would have taken that as a sign that she don’t fancy me and said something defensive like: What’s up with you, you farking frigid lezzer, you fucking peculiar or something?
Experience though. Now you know that as she’s been canning the vino, she’s just a bit dehydrated. So I brought her a big glass of water. — Get that down ya, gel, I told her.
— You’re so sweet, Michael, she said.
Didn’t dare tell her I was just watering the flaming garden, did I?
Phase 2 involved getting her up and moving around, let the metabolism kick in. With a tourist bird I’d’ve suggested a bracing walk along the seafront or the beach before taking her back and nailing her, but that weren’t an option with Cynth, as discretion was of the essence. She’s still a married woman, after all, even if her relationship with that golf wanker is tenuous to say the least. So I offered to make some tucker, scrambled eggs on toast.
Sure enough, a bit of sweet talk over the table, some fresh orange juice and another big glass of water and the next time me hand went downstairs it was like sticking it under a running tap.
I brought her off that way, then slipped the old how’s your father in for a bit more Sunday sport. There’s plenty to cushion you when you’re on top of her, and I love sticking my finger in her belly button and going: ‘Ow’s my Pilsbury Dough gel then?’ And as I give her one, I get a hold of that big, fat wobbly arse and those flabby love handles and, of course, those floppy great tits. It’s bleedin wonderful, but there’s no way that I’d let Cynth go on top. She suggested it after a bit and I sort of skirted round the idea. I mean, who’d want all that beef on top of em? If I want buried alive I’ll go round some East End boozers bad-mouthing the Kray twins, thank you very much.