Tuesday, 5 May 2009

Guess Who's Not Coming to Dinner?

Now, I'm not the biggest fan of dinner parties; I tend to find them invariably stuffy and stilted affairs, rife with snobbery and just a little too stiff for my liking. Therefore, when I decided to head off for a few days over the Bank Holiday weekend, the last thing on my mind was sitting down with people I hardly knew and being force-fed poorly prepared food. It was with a very heavy heart, about as heavy as a fucking anvil actually, that I agreed to have a quick drink with some old friends of Mrs SC who lived in the area we were visiting.

As inevitable as old people pissing themselves, the drink turned into an invite to dinner. Before I could point out that I'd rather saw off my legs and waddle over broken glass and fiery coals on my still bleeding stumps, the other half agreed and I was royally shafted.

Now, as I sat at the table with the crowd of strangers, I understood the desperation deep within the typical Tourettes sufferer. All I could think was "Don't call them cunts, don't call them cunts", as they talked about lawn fertiliser and swine flu and the need for more sanitation workers on the European mainland.

Then, as if by magic, the subject came up of who would be the worst person to have at a Dinner party.

"You lot, you bunch of cunts!" screamed my brain, but I managed to stiffle the words. The first suggestion, made by a man – with a face like an old pork pie – whose name and occupation escaped me (due to me not listening), was the unannounced vegetarian. This was further qualified by his ugly wife, who spluttered "Or a vegetarian who lectures you."

As the conversation grew, I switched off. In my mind I had travelled back in time, to the day I met Penny, a photographer with the body of a model. Now, I must say that it's unlike me to go for traditionally 'beautiful' women. I seem to be drawn towards real women, sometimes quirky-looking women. Other men might call them dogs, boilers or freaks, but I like to think of them as ladies with character. Now, the only thing about Penny was she was knocking on over six feet tall. Apart from that, she was what most men would call perfect.

She bought me a drink and we talked bollocks for a while. Then she told me she was a vegan. I nodded sagely and told her I was a vegan too. What a coincidence. We could be vegans together. We agreed to meet later. She went to buy some shoes, and I went to library and brushed up on being a vegan.

The sex was unbelievable. It was raw, passionate, animalistic. It was utterly fantastic. I could go without meat for the sex, I decided. She lived in South London and I lived in North London. She had a job, and I was writing, so I could pretty much fit around anything. I spent most of my nights at her flat. About 8 o'clock in the morning saw her dash off to work. I'd get up a few hours later, head for the train, picking up a burger on the way, go home, write, have a light lunch of steak or chicken, then I'd write for a bit more, clean my teeth and head back to South London. We'd fuck like animals, eat some tofu and bulgar, go to the pub, get pissed, go back to her flat, fuck like maniacs, sleep, wake up, fuck again and she'd go off to work.

I should have seen the ending coming when I started to get up and leave when she went to work. I'd chat to her until her bus came, then I'd be off to the station and into the cafĂ© next door for double sausage, double bacon, black pudding, egg, chips and toast. 

On the fateful night I headed to her flat. We fucked like animals, ate some tofu and bulgar, went to the pub and got pissed. As we walked back she clung to arm, telling me how horny she was. I just nodded. We walked past the late-night crowd at the kebab shop. The smell of charred greasy fatty meat was unbelievable. We turned the corner and passed a burger van. Never had pulped crap fried in old oil smelled so good. Even a discarded box of Kentucky Fried Chicken bones smelled good. When we got in I looked in the fridge. There was some tofu and some fucking bulgar. I went into the bathroom and urinated. When I came out, Penny was lying on the bed, a chunk of pure sex wrapped in fine black lingerie.

"I've, umm, got to go. I've got an early start."

She looked shocked, upset, confused. I walked out into the night air, my erect penis chastising me for walking away from some utterly fantastic sex. My stomach, however, cheered me on. It was a Thursday. On Fridays we didn't see each other. I went out with my friends and after the pub we played cards, usually all night. I did try to ring her at her work, but she was out on a colleagues birthday lunch. I didn't ring back.

On the Saturday morning, a few of the lads were sat in my kitchen while I made bacon and sausage sandwiches. Jim from down the road nipped out to buy some cigarettes. There was a knock on the front window. I went to let him in, still munching on my sandwich, and opened the door. There stood Penny. She didn't speak. There was a tear in her eye. Was it because I had lied to her, or was it for the mortal soul of the pig I was eating?

I never found out. She walked away, taking with her the most fantastic sex I'd ever had. Was it worth it? Well, I look at it this way; you can fake good sex, but you can't fake a fucking good sausage.

Case closed.

2 comments:

  1. Excellent post, Vincent. EXCELLENT. I could never do the vegan thing either. Although, I did make six years as a total vegetarian. I could never do that now.

    Dinner parties SUCK. They are so excruciatingly BORING.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Also, thanks for adding the link to my blog on your site. I appreciate it.

    Love,

    SB

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