Snag Travels Part 2
My granny often used the old saying, ‘there’s nowt queerer than folk’. I reckon that sums up some of the places in Nana Plaza. My first saunter around the joint had me gobsmacked. Lasses that look like her out of Charlies Angels but with a speaking voice like my grandad (and he smoked capstan full strength till he fell off the perch).
This is early afternoon as well mind you. It’s shocking I reckon. I’m walking about minding my own business and, wallop, these ‘cocks in frocks‘ are all over me like a rash (not a bad analogy if you think of the consequences).
I wouldn’t have minded had I not at first ‘cracked a woody’. Best have a beer I concluded.
So I get out of the NEP and I wanders into one of the street bars. As I walked up the steps into the bar, they were on me like flies round shite. Now I come from a place that has its fair share of people who are experts at ‘cadging’ drinks. But this joint blew me away.
Your shoulders are being massaged, you are being wiped down with a cold towel, the ‘three piece’ is being expertly manipulated and some honey is whispering into your ear about how she wants it up Cocoa Canyon from you.
I tell you it was enough to take me mind off the FA cup semi final. I’ve never felt so popular since I won the bingo one Sunday at Boldon Colliery working men’s club.
Some bird was saying something about ‘short time’, but I was having none of it. I never wear shorts except when I go to the beach! Things settled down a bit (apart from the ruckus in my Y fronts) and I decided to have a couple games of pool, and got chatting to some British lads. I was that relaxed I was even civil to some Newcastle wanker.
By this stage I was gagging for a feed. I was pessimistic about me chances of getting a corned beef and potato pastie and I wasn’t game for any of the stuff being sold from the ‘diarrhoea dining carts’ on the street.
From what I’d seen so far, the thought of getting caught short / touching cloth etc in this part of the world was not pleasant. I’m not a devotee of wiping me ring with a shower attachment. I prefer paper, it’s much softer.
Anyway I found a joint that sold fish and chips (on proper plates as well you know), washed down with a couple of beers and I was hot to trot. Right then I thought, time to let the ferret away. A bloke recommended me to try a beer garden. He said the tarts could be had for a good price.
Not that a bloke like me expects to pay, but forewarned is forearmed as they say in wrestling circles. Well what a meatmarket! Come hither looks were the order of the day. It was champion! No shiteing around with chat up lines or sob stories. Pointless telling these lasses that my wife doesn’t understand me. She never did, she was from Hartlepool!
See one you like, sit next to her, buy her a bevvy and negotiate a price. Beats ‘Annabels’ of a Saturday night by a country mile. At least these lasses aren’t swearing, puking, nor do they have arses like 80lb of solid baked shite, legs like motorway road maps and faces like welders benches. Not that I’m fussy like.
I spend that much taking a lass to the Indians back home, and still can’t be sure of throwing the leg. Greedy, tight arse, fat cows! I don’t know, it makes me wonder sometimes. I’m such a canny lad, just ask me mother.
Guess what? Like the lasses at the other bars, here too they thought I was handsome, very strong and had a good heart. I told them that I was hung like a church door and better in bed than two hot water bottles. It must be my accent, they didn’t seem to understand.
I tell you what, these lasses are keen on the old shower aren’t they? Unfortunately it’s not the golden variety. Just my luck. No sooner were we in the room, than she says ‘I have shower‘. Suit yerself! Wouldn’t give me a peek at her bits and pieces though.
Anyway she comes out, towel wrapped around and just as I was about to rip the towel off, she points me to the shower. No way was she gonna let me give it one, till I’d doused meself.
So there I was, in Thailand for less than 48 hours and already had had 2 showers. What’s the world coming to I ask you? I told her to fuck off if she had designs on me having a shave as well.
I get out the shower, go to the bed, and she’s got the sheets up to her neck and looking like a bit part actor in a Freddy Kruger movie. I thought ‘Aye pet, you might be scared now but wait till I get a porky on, then you’ll be fretting’.
She said to me, ‘You want me smoke you’? You mucky bugger I thought. The last time the ex offered to do that, she’d just got a new set of dentures, and to be honest I wasn’t too fussed by the offer. But this, well, now you’re talking.
Well by now you could have quite easily perched a dozen budgies on the old fella (Ok Ok perhaps 6). So I clambers on top, gets poised to go for it, and suddenly felt the urge to let out (what I expected to be) a silent but deadly fart. I contorted my hole (as you do in these situations) to ensure maximum silence, then I let her off the leash. Damn it, a full on follow through, the tortoises head.
The bed looked and smelt like a farmyard. She was up and off like champion whippet. Explain that to room service!
Stickman's thoughts:
More than a chuckle was elicited.
