“Look at the sky, isn’t it beautiful? Is that the Earth up there?”
I was too busy trying to bat his hand away from worming it’s slimy way down the back of my knickers at that point to fully grasp what he was saying, but he said it again.
“Is that the Earth up there? It’s so romantic to think of it hurtling away through space”.
We were standing outside his Mum’s caravan in Hastings having a fag.
He was covered in larger after he shook up a can and opened it just to be funny.
(It wasn’t funny).
I had come outside for a fag after getting sick of stopping him trying to shove his fingers in my vagina, despite me repeatedly telling him to fuck off and he had followed.
It was more Dumb and Dumber than Gone With The Wind.
And then he asked if that was the Earth, up there in space.
“What the fuck do you think we are standing on now if we can see the Earth in the fucking Sky?”
“Will you marry me?”
“What! No! What?! Why the hell would you say that?”
“I don’t know, it’s just what you say isn’t it”.
“Fucking hell, I’m calling a taxi”.
He later married an old work colleague of mine and I am itching to know how he proposed to her – but from the Facebook photos, it was in his Mum’s caravan that stank of Benson and Hedges and cat piss.
I went to a friend’s engagement dinner recently and the sickeningly loved up couple were going round the table asking everyone to say how they proposed/were proposed to.
I was at the party with my friend Luke, who hasn’t had a proper girlfriend since he walked in on his last one shagging his Dad’s best mate (doggy style and up the poop) in 2009. He’d asked her to marry him six months previously up a hill somewhere near Cork and it was all very romantic and lovely at the time – before he found out that she’d been shagging the 55 year old mechanic with false teeth named Trevor for the past 18 months. Trevor also happened to be Luke’s godfather, so it was all a little bit awkward.
I don’t even know why Luke and me went to that party in the first place. Well I do, we are both ‘creatives’ (aka skint idiots who should really get proper jobs) and we were promised free booze, plus Luke will go anywhere where he’s told there might be a chance of a couple of single women knocking about.
It turned out that everyone else sat around the table was a married couple, apart from us and the one single woman there, who in Luke’s words “looked like she needed a year’s worth of good meals” (she was incredibly, painfully thin) really wasn’t his type and had breath you could smell from the other side of the room.
As the token non-couple we were targeted to tell stories and be the amusement for the evening. Thankfully, Luke is beautifully, stereotypically Irish and once he starts talking you cannot get a word in for hours, which was good for me as I really didn’t want to start talking about my relationships and the state of them, especially with all the head tilting and tutting that was going on when Luke was telling them stories about internet dating. Christ, they would have been salivating at my life as it is now, so before the booze got the better of Luke and his big, Irish mouth took over the evening, I told a few of my dating stories.
I’ve got seven proposal stories (the above one wasn’t serious, I’d only seen him twice, he was just a twat) and a couple of divorce ones under my belt too. The trouble is, when you write comedy for a living and all your stories are fucking ridiculous, people think you are performing and laugh like it’s all fun and games. Trust me, you couldn’t make this shit up.
The couple who hosted are really nice and everything, but they are the sort of couple who have pet names for each other. She calls him ‘Babe’. Babe. The funny thing is, he’s short, fat and pink so he does look like Babe the pig. But he calls her Babe too. It’s really confusing and Luke and I find it fucking hilarious, especially when they have those snappy little public arguments.
“Did you get the white wine, Babe?”
“No Babe, I got the red.”
“But Babe, we are having fish.”
“Well Babe, you didn’t tell me that until after I’d got the wine.”
“I did Babe, you just don’t listen to me.”
“If you didn’t talk so much shit Babe, I’d listen more.”
Honestly, it’s hilarious and every time we see them, the arguments get worse, but the ‘babes’ get more frequent.
I once went out with a man who kept trying to call me ‘baby’. He kept trying to slip it in there at any point from passing me a cup of tea to penetration. He kept persisting, so I started calling him dickhead, just to see if he liked being called something other than his name. He didn’t and finally got the hint.
There is nothing worse for me than being called a pet name, especially ‘baby’ or any of it’s variations. I can handle a ‘love’ now and then, having grown up around cockneys and northerners, but anything else makes me cringe, especially if called it mid shag. One time, during a pretty tricky position change, a man said to me “bend over and take it, my cupcake”. He was Welsh, so that made it sound even more fucking funny. The moment was kind of spoiled when I burst out laughing – I have never seen a man go flaccid as fast.
And yes, I told that story over dinner.
I also told the story of how I once went back to a man’s flat, very drunk and we had very loud sex. As soon as we had finished, his mother came in with cups of tea for the three of us, sat on the bed and introduced herself to me and stated asking me about my job like it was the most normal thing in the world. Bad enough in itself, but her son was laying next to me, stark bollock naked, with his penis rapidly shrinking inside the condom, which he then pulled of and handed to her to put in the bin.
The soon to be Mr. and Mrs. Babes didn’t look too impressed with me and Luke fell off his chair and into their pot plant while doing a show of mock embarrassment.
I don’t think we’ll be invited back, even if we offer to bring a Vienetta.