May 7, 2006

(There are three facets to this. If you have the time, or the inclination, and hopefully both, I urge you to stay with me.)

On Saturday morning, I woke up at around 9am with a throbbing hangover in the spare room of my friend's house. He was next door in his own bed, about five feet away.

I went to get a bottle of water from the fridge and we both had a swig or two. He lit a cigarette, which he smoked, and then went back to bed.

For some reason, we were both still awake. For reasons I don't know, or can't remember, we started talking about wasps. About, you know, how they're the thugs of the insect world. Hoodies with wings, if you will. And happy-slap video phones.

He eventually got up and went to the toilet, which is downstairs. I must have nodded off again, waking around midday-ish, when he then dropped me off at home.

Later that night, we went to a birthday party at the home of another, older friend of ours who has recently signed a very lucrative business deal related to the Open Golf Championship in Hoylake in July (my wannabe home town.)

My friend, MD (who is, funnily enough, an MD) thanked everyone for coming, for making the effort to travel from across Wirral, Merseyside itself, Wales, and even Peterborough.

A cake is brought out, champagne distributed, toasts raised, drink quaffed, candles blown out. "The best blow job you'll ever see," he declared, to a slightly sozzled crowd.

Then, out of the blue, he suddenly turns to me, raising a hand for quiet once more, and singles me out for particular praise in helping him land this deal.

Now, I'm no shrinking violet, but I was highly embarrassed. Sure, I've done a story or two to help him, but that was it. No big deal. The kind of thing you do for a mate.

Anyhoo, everyone then starts saying "oh yes, well done, thank you" etc making me feel like even more of a heel. (Well, don't get me wrong, I was loving it, obviously, but I was also more than aware of feeling disingenuous.)

From then on, I am being approached by a succession of grannies - one of them a "national board member of the Townswomen's Guild", no less - patting me on my smug little head and telling me what a fantastic job I was doing.

Frankly, I was looking rather good.

So thank goodness BB was there to ruin it all a little later on.

BB is a friend of mine from a long time ago. We used to be housemates. He's... not standard, let me put it that way. A little too interested in orgasms, basically.

Or, as one friend once remarked: "He's never more than a hair's breadth away from one."

Anyhoo (again), he begins to recount the conversation we'd been having in the car on the way to the party. A conversation I was somewhat keen to forget, on the grounds that food was being laid on.

The conversation - which BB, while leathered on tequila, regaled to the grannies and the local grandees who were all up to that point thinking I was such a bloody good egg - went like this.

BB: "I wonder if there'll be any women there tonight?"

Me: "Dunno. ED might have a few mates, I suppose."

BB: "Well, I hope there is. It's been ages since I got laid."

Me: "Tell me about it. I can't remember the last time. Christmas or something."

BB: "Bad news, mate. Need to sort it."

Me: "I'll survive. As long as my hand doesn't start giving up on me, anyway."

BB: "Yeah, well, you have to do it."

Me: "Er, speak for yourself. That's been a while, too."

BB: "Really? I had one this morning when we were talking about wasps."

Me: Utter, stunned silence.

BB: "Had to stop and go to the toilet to finish off, though. Your voice was putting me off."