Authors: Calvin Wade
“
Your boobs are fantastic!
”
I blurted out post-kiss,
“
you hide them well!
”
“
They
’
re actually quite literally a pain!
”
Jemma revealed,
“
they give
me backache!
”
“
What size are they?
”
I enquired. I had no idea how bra sizes
worked, I knew womens dress sizes were six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen
etc, but bra sizes were beyond my comprehension. I just asked so I
could ring Caroline the following day and seek confirmation that they
were freakishly humungous! This was dependent on enough brain cells
surviving through the night.
“
32D
”
.
“
Wow!
”
I replied. I had no idea what 32D meant, but all the same,
‘
wow
’
!
After several further stops, several more kisses and a couple more
feels under Jemma
’
s top, we arrived, saturated and satiated, at the
‘
Scarisbrick Hotel
’
. The
‘
Scarisbrick
’
is an unusual hotel, in that it
successfully manages to cater for both the younger and older generations.
It has a traditional hotel bar in a room to the left of the entrance
reception, playing music by crooners from the fifties, whilst at the back
of reception, there is a boxing ring shaped bar, in the centre of a large
room, normally packed to the rafters with the under forties, who dance
along to the loud, modern music that blares out. The boxing ring bar
is full of bar staff who
’
s CV must include a modelling contract and a
twelve month spell in the circus where they need to have mastered the
art of juggling. Each glass has to spin twelve times and touch the ceiling
before a drop is served. In the reception area, Jemma and I surveyed the
damage to our bodies inflicted by the wind and rain.
“
I
’
m absolutely drenched!
”
Jemma moaned, stating the obvious, as
droplets of rain were taking it in turns to drip off her hair and zig zag
down her face like it was a ski slope.
I was in no mood for negativity. Positive thoughts only! Drink does
that to me initially, in those pre-hangover hours, whilst my brain is still
in its expanded state.
“
Come on Jemma! Who cares? I still love you and think about it, a
few weeks ago, you were stuck in Styal, would you not have given your
right arm to be outside on the rainy streets of Southport on a Friday
evening?
”
I think Jemma missed most of my motivational words, she just
picked up on one section.
“
You love me?
”
“
I love you! Yes!
”
I was going to say, I
’
m not
‘
in love
’
with you yet, but I love you, but
then I stopped myself throwing a negative into a positive. I loved her,
that
’
s all Jemma needed to know.
Having dried ourselves as best we coul
d, we went through to the
back bar and it was indeed crammed with young, lively drinkers and
barmen spinning bottles and ringing bells to indicate pretty girls had
just paid them a flirtatious tip. On Jemma
’
s insistence, I headed straight
to the bar, to get her another vodka an
d diet coke. I was considering
getting myself a blackcurrant and soda, to give me an opportunity to
dilute the Stella and vodka, but unfortunately Jemma accompanied me
to the bar.
Within twenty seconds, a highly tanned, highly moisturised, highly
arrogant barman, nodded at me to indicate that it was my turn to give
my order. As we had struggled through to the bar, I noticed he had
treated his stunningly sexy previous customer rather differently, leaning
right over the bar to let her whisper in his ear. Chivalry was alive and
kicking in Southport.
“
A vodka and diet coke please and a blackcurrant and soda!
”
I shouted to be heard over the James track
,
‘
Laid
’
which was
encouraging a healthy bout of singing from the clientele.
“
Hang on! Hang on! What are you having?
”
Jemma questioned.
“
A blackcurrant and soda!
”
“
Oh no
,
you
’
re not! If I
’
m drinking, you
’
re drinking!
”
Jemma rocked a little as she said this, as though there was a tiny
earthquake
who
se
epicentre was below her feet.
“
I
’
ve just had five of those six vodkas, Jemma!
”
“
It
’
s not my fault you
’
re crap at
‘
Three Yeys or a Nay!
’
”
“
Yes it is, you made the bloody game up!
”
Jemma looked at the barman, who would no doubt have abandoned
my request by now, if the prettiest girl
in the bar was not by my side.
“
Get him a double vodka and coke!
”
Jemma shouted firmly.
“
Thanks Jemma!
”
I said sarcastically.
The barman knew who to obey. He went off in seach of vodka and
coke
, leaving the blackcurrant and sod
a feeling unwanted and praying
that one of the old drinkers from the next generation bar, may wander in
by mistake. Once the barman returned, I paid him and took the drinks
from him, despite this, the whole time he gazed only at Jemma. He
received the tip he deserved off me. There was no bell ringing!
As we walked away from the bar, to allow several thirsty drinkers
to take our place, we found ourselves, face to face and toe to toe with
two unkempt characters, who
looked like they were tag team wrestlers.
They would have been the
‘
Laurel & Hardy
’
of the ring, as one of them
looked like Ollie with a beard and without a top hat, whilst the other
looked like Stan
’
s anorexic grandson. Like the barman, their focus was
on Jemma rather than me, but this time, the look was vengeful rather than in admiration or desire.
“
Well look who it is!
”
said the scale breaker of the pair.
“
No wonder
this country is in a mess, when scum like you are free to roam the
streets.
”
“
Morgan, good to see you again!
”
Jemma said calmly to the rotund
scruff.
“
You
too, Cam! Richie, I don
’
t know whether you remember these
two gentlemen from my mother
’
s funeral. Morgan and Cameron, this is Richie.
”
I wasn
’
t sure what to say. Handshakes were definitely inappropriate.
I hesitated long enough for Southport
’
s impersonators of Syd Little and
Eddie Large to pick up the conversation.
“
We would never have set foot in your house that day if we
’
d have
known what you did!
”
said Morgan.
“
Bollocks!
”
replied Jemma,
“
two words that can prove that statement
wrong.
FREE BEER!
”
“
Unlike you, Jemma, we have some morals! Everyone in Ormskirk
is disgusted that you
’
re out of jail,
”
said skinny Cameron,
“
I nearly wrote
to my MP.
”
“
And then it dawned on you, that you can
’
t write!
”
Jemma responed.
Cameron sneered at Jemma. I half ex
pected him to get a bow tie
out and spin it around or come back with an idiotic response that led
to an admonishment from his fat friend, who would then implement
a slapstick punishment. Unfortunately, the other half was right, as he
just continued to sneer.
“
Life should mean life for murderers!
”
Morgan interjected aggress
ively.
“
I wasn
’
t sentenced to life, Morg!
”
“
Well, you should have been! Life for a life. Your mother was our friend.
”
“
That says a lot!
”
Jemma replied.
“
Anyway,
”
I said, the alcohol having started to kick in further,
“
Jemma did not kill her mother!
”
I should have kept my sticky beak out. Jemma could have handled
the pair of them single handedly. Drinking and kissing in the same
night, had obviously thrown rational thought out the window.
“
How would you know, pretty boy?
”
asked Morgan, as he took a swig from his bottle.
“
I just know.
”
“
Because she told you,
”
said Cameron,
“
and because you
’
re wanting
to get into her knickers, you believe her! How stupid are you, pretty boy?
If she told you that she shit golden eggs, you
’
d believe her!
”
I smiled sardonically back at the pair of them.
“
Jemma does shit golden eggs! Has she not told you? Twice a day. I
collect them. I make a bloody fortune at Easter!
”
“
Fuck off smart arse!
”
Morgan said, his face was reddening and he
was almost growling now.
I couldn
’
t help myself.
“
You
’
ll find it
’
s Jemma
’
s arse that smarts. She
’
s the one who lays
the golden eggs! In fact, thinking about it, I forgot to collect them one
week, a few years back, I heard her mother slipped on them. They were
on the stairs.
”
I didn
’
t see the punch coming, but I heard it whistle past my left ear.
Morgan, as I suspect is stereotypical for a twenty stone beast, obviously
packed a lot of power in his punch, but not a huge amount of accuracy.
Having failed to connect with his punch, he lunged towards me and I
did what any self-preserving coward would do, I ran, pushing my way
through the throngs of people. It was like a scene from the end of a
Benny Hill sketch, but without the breasts, as I was chased around a circuit of the bar, by two furious thugs, shaking their fists.
As I reached the starting point from which I fled, having literally
come full circle, I collected Jemma by the hand, as she had stood
motionless and bemused throughout.
“
Quick, let
’
s get out of here!
”
I
urged.
“
Your Mum
’
s mates will probably tie me up and torture me by singing
‘
Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia
’
!
”