You may now dear ladies have what you think is an in depth view of Mr G and his various foibles.
But I must alert you to his Sleeping With The Enemy tendencies. It will shock you, so prepare to burn some feathers. I am not permitted to drive the car (while he is in it) possess my own door keys, office keys, shop keys or indeed carry spendable funds.
Over the years I have come to the conclusion that we little ladies are rather foolish creatures whose breasts clearly break free from their Bravissimo halters and fall across their eyes, amply in my case, blinding them from all tasks far better dealt with by a man with a Braveheart hairy chest and a todger so magnificent in length and girth that no boy pants can adequately house it.
So Mr. G has decided to exercise his domination prowess and take me sailing.
It is a relatively calm day when we pull into the waste land called Chav Central Boating Centre.
We crawl into the car park teaming with single men and their dogs, some had pets too, and the sticky back doorstep of Joolies Night Club is glistening in the early morning sun.
The boating swamp is surrounded by Murder Flats begging to be demolished, the kind of abode where yellow tape is de rigueur. It is frequented by, ‘Chantel Come Home,’ types in Mark One singlets and hoopy earrings, tramp stamps poking out from the tops of their Matalan Juicy Couture tracky bottoms and those dogs common people have with skin that is too small for their bodies. There are children not yet out of their Hi-Tecs pushing their dirty faced earringed babies in prams with wonky wheels to the pub. These people know nothing of Swiss Chard and have never owned a salad spinner.
Instinctively I realise that I do not belong.
We u turn to Savacentre and purchase velour hoodies as I am fearful that my crinoline and petticoats may be unsuitable for boating and I may end up shanked in the chest. The camouflage tactic works just fine and dandy and on our return the nice people are kind enough to offer us some sea sickness tablets called Captain Catamarans round the back of the fire escape.
Kevin, our instructor, is lean and rather jaunty, he is also under the misapprehension that Mr G and I know how to sail. We don’t have the foggiest. Our fellow sailors consist of Bert, - with an ‘Aha! Jim lad!’ face, the lesbians Claire and Jo, and Sally the chatty one.
Without wasting a second Mr. Greenwood demands complete control of our vessel and he is rubbish, entirely, utterly and sensationally rubbish. I have never seen anyone be so rubbish and be so very angry that he is rubbish. After all he has read all the books and spent hours playing, ‘Man Overboard,’ in the bath.
He pushes instead of pulls, gybes instead of tacks. Not only that but he has bought ordinary Kit Kats instead of peanut butter ones. Is there no end to the man’s failings?
To prove to Cap’n Jack, the lesbians and verbose girl that he is goddamn Ellen pass-me-another-tissue MacArthur, with superior tackle, he refuses to let me helm and sticks out his barrel chest proudly, his chins held high, his baldness blowing in the wind, as we fail dismally to round yet another dead cat.
And then it happens. We come to a mid pond halt, a do not pass go, do not collect chicken and stuffing sandwich and Ribena from ruck sack, full stop.
We are going nowhere. I am subjected to a plethora of dole scum expletives, threats to my lady garden and my children’s fingers, divorce by decapitation, under skirt plundering and a resignation letter written in bile. He is at the point of vomiting up his Banana and Custard Muller Light when the swarthy Kevin starts simulating
‘Use your oars,’ or perhaps,
‘Dig your grave,’ from his dry position on the shore.
Our sailing friends hold their sides, point and guffaw loudly, ‘Drown, you chubby confectioners, drown!’ Mr. G is now as HYSTERICAL as Miss Rosey Apple when the poxy suppliers fail to deliver Shrimps and Liberty needed them yesterday. (One day I will tell you the story of the Courier, the Tantrum and the demise of the Jolly Eggs).
Quick as a loris I push my wayward bosoms away from my eyes and grab the oars. I paddle as fast as the fat boy in Deliverance, Mr. G is now squealing like a pig and the lezzers are playing their banjos on the bank (this is not a Sappho euphemism).
There is nothing, nowt, bugger all, and I am anticipating blowing up my pyjama bottoms and making like that water hippo Miss Shelley Winters.
Minutes like hours pass. Mr. G whittles a Welsh love spoon and I knit a jersey. Swarthy Kevin jumps into his James Bond speed boat and effortlessly whizzes over the pond towards us.
It takes but a moment for Kev’ to point out that Mr. G has sailed onto the fluorescent marker buoy and has actually anchored us as firmly as the Queen Mary to bottom of the pond. It takes but another moment for Kevin to whip out his boy stick and unhook us from our swampy prison.
We limp to shore where our shipmates commiserate,
‘It’s Ok don’t worry. We’ve all done it, it’s was just an ickle mistake.’
When what they really mean is,
‘We are all far better than you, even the one with the eye patch, you jumped up sweet sellers, we saw you and your jolly shop on Supersizers 1970s episode. We are all going out for a Breezer and Kettle Chips and you are not invited. We hope your business sinks like the Titanic, we hope you get swan poo poisoning, it’s all you deserve, you overweight losers.’
Back in the car Mr. G says,
‘That was great fun, let’s join the yacht club’.
Toss pot.
