Tuesday, 17 April 2007

I am not George Michael...

Honestly. I’m thinking of suing…

My weekend was rather marvellous, despite one slight mishap which is still giving me cause for frowning and I’m not sure if I can afford the wrinkles or the necessary pentapeptides to iron the little bleeders out…Sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin…

I arrived home on Friday to discover that Summer had suddenly arrived. No one seemed to see it coming but whilst we had our heads down at work, the sun put his hat on and exclaimed, ‘Hip, hip, hip, HURRAH!’ It was amazing. Weather reports boasted of temperatures hitting 26 degrees. In April, for crying out loud. Ignoring the days-of-yore advice to not cast a clout until May is out, I got on the blower to my chum to arrange a day of sun-filled merriment...

This was the rather smashing plan that we concocted: meet in Soho the following day at 1pm, grab a cheeky beer and then make our way to Soho Square with picnic type foods to feast on and newspapers to pretend to read whilst secretly trying to look a) intelligent; b) available; c) a & b together… The plan also involved taking a change of clothes to get into so we could stay out for the night… It was going to be a long, messy day and I could hardly wait.

The plan ran smoothly and at 6pm, when the heat began to seep out of the day and we started to get restless, we decided to move on from the square. Realising that this would be a grand time to get changed and hit the bars, we scanned the area to see where we could do this. In the end, we agreed upon a straight pub nearby… As we clambered into the toilet, there was only one cubicle, but as it was a disabled toilet and was quite roomy, we both went in at the same time. For some reason, it didn’t occur to me that this would be a problem, but someone obviously worked out that we were a couple of poofs going into a toilet cubicle together and thought we were off to play a game of hide the sausage… Once in the cubicle, we shook off the days clothes and freshened up, having quite a laugh about it as we did so… I was in the middle of some anecdote or other when there was a series of increasingly frantic knocks at the door, accompanied by a voice that seemed to be shaking with anger and fear. It was the manager, who didn’t like the thought of what we might be up to.

MANAGER: HELLO! CAN YOU OPEN THIS DOOR, PLEASE? NOW PLEASE?
ME: *Looking puzzled* Yeah, hang on a second let me just make myself decent…
MANAGER: NOW! OPEN THIS DOOR NOW! WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOING IN THERE? THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!
ME: Hang on a sec *Goes to open door*
LEE: *Shouts* Oi! No, I’m stark bollock naked!
ME: *To Lee* Oh yeah. *To Manager* Hang on, my mate needs to put some pants on.
MANAGER: *Makes some gurgling noise as though drowning* OPEN THIS DOOR NOW! STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING THIS INSTANT!

It was only at this point that it delta dawned on me that the manager thought we were cottaging. I opened the door, only slightly. Lee still hadn’t got his pants on and despite having lost weight recently, I still needed to get my top on so that my man boobs couldn’t be pointed and laughed at.

ME: *All sweetness and light* Hello! Can I help you?
MANAGER: WHAT on EAAAARTH is HAPPENING in THERE!
ME: Nothing.
MANAGER: Who is in there with you? What are you doing in there?
ME: Errrrr, not having sex. Or taking drugs. Or shagging. Oh, I’ve said that… (I was slightly annoyed by the assumption, even if I could kind of see where he was coming from: two jolly boys holed up in a public toilet, not having rumpo. Who’d have thought it?)
MANAGER: *Trembling with fury* GET DRESSED AND LEAVE THE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY.

By this point we were almost falling over laughing and as we were frog marched out the door, I told him that I wasn't George Michael, that I was a classy bird (although use of the phrase 'classy bird' kind of negated the sentiment a tad, but hey ho) and that even if I was going to have it off in the toilet, then I'd at least pick a clean one that didn't smell (I’m thinking Harrods). My protests fell upon deaf ears and we are both now barred from Fascist-run pub.

I might write to Tony Blair and get him to tell the manager off and say sorry. And hopefully make him cry. I've never been soooo insulted!

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

You godda have faith-a-faith-a-faith!!

Anonymous said...

Brilliant! xxx

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