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When You Gotta Go….

The summer of 2004 was one of those extremely hot and humid summers I’ll probably boast about to my Grandchildren: “I remember the summer of 2004…”  I’ll reminisce, with a cock-eyed smile on my wrinkly face. “I bought the coolest lilac fan from Stoke Newington High Street. Ooh…it were hot”. 

But I doubt I’ll tell them the real reason I remember that summer….

On a particularly humid Monday in July, I was in a transit van approaching the Blackwall Tunnel in East London.

I was accompanied by a bassist and a saxophone player after an afternoon jazz gig at the Royal Opera House. We had enjoyed a nice lunch - avocado salad and spicy wedges - following our two hour set. And we were feeling pretty smug; a Monday lunchtime gig is a rare thing for the humble jazz musician.

As we entered the Blackwall Tunnel, the traffic predictably ground to a halt. And as the traffic predictably ground to that painful halt, my stomach started churning and a bead of perspiration trickled down my sticky forehead. I let out a sneaky fart hoping it would be all that was required for immediate relief. As a torrent of trumps started escaping my booty - each hotter and wetter than it’s predecessor - I realised I was wrong and became aware of a real risk: should I continue fart, would I follow through? 

“I really need the loo”, I said to Pete.

“It looks like we’re going to be here for a while”, was his unsatisfactory reply.

“Can’t we try and pull over somewhere?” I pleaded.

“Where?” he queried. “We’re practically in the tunnel”. 

“Ok…. I’ll try and hold it in. But as soon as we’re out, I have to go to the loo”. 

I lent forward a little, hoping my stomach pain would ease but after another 30 minutes of standstill traffic, my stomach had bloated to twice it’s usual size. 

“I think I’m going to shit myself!”  

 “What?” Pete asked, in shock.

Pete and I had only been boyfriend and girlfriend for a month or so. David - his best mate and saxophonist - was chuckling away quietly. It doesn’t take men long to realise that although I look angelic, I do actually fart and shit like the rest of them. 

“Why don’t you go in my lunchbox?” David helpfully suggested, taking his sandwiches out and passing it to me. It was a pretty thing; his childhood lunchbox, as he had informed me at a previous gig. I didn’t WANT to shit in it, but I couldn’t refuse his kind offer.

“I’m going to have to!” I replied. “I can’t wait. I feel ill. We could be here for hours right?”

 “You’re not going to go in front of us are you?” asked Pete. 

“Only if it turns you on!” I replied; the joke wasted on Pete who by now was wondering what the hell he saw in me.

“Don’t worry. I’ll go in the back”.

I got out of the van, opened the rear sliding door and went inside. It was pitch black, had no windows and I had to navigate over and amongst Pete’s vast amount of PA equipment. 

“Tell me if you start moving!” I yelled. “I don’t want to shit on your gear!”

I did my business, all the while worrying about the lunchbox; is it big enough? Oh fuck, it’s almost at the brim… God, this stinks… what will they think of me? etc etc… But in the end, I felt quite proud of my watery brown mush. It only JUST fit. I put the lid on, wrapped the box in several plastic bags, clambered out of the van and climbed back into the front. 

“I feel so much better. Thank God for that!” I said with a smile on my sweaty face.

“Well it fucking stinks”, chorused Dave and Pete simultaneously. 

 “I’m sorry. When you have to go, you have to go” I replied.

It was at this point that the gridlock finally lifted and we steadily made our way to Pete’s place in North London. 

When we got out of the van I took the lunch box over to Pete’s bin. 

“You aren’t throwing it away?” David asked and ran over to grab the lunchbox off me. 

 “Do you really think you could wash this and put food in it again?” I replied. 

 ”Er…. yes” said David, in an obvious way; as though I was a complete dunce for suggesting such a thing.

“Do you think that’s normal Pete?” I asked. 

“Well, it is over 12 years old”, he replied.

I passed the lunchbox to David, shit included. If he wanted it, he could empty and wash it himself.

A few months later I was at a gig with David. When it was lunchtime, he took his apple and sandwich out of the pretty childhood lunchbox. “The dirty bastard”, I thought. 

Perfume

Perfume is something that evades me: the simple, straight-talking and thrifty Northerner. I am of course referring the smelly stuff I like to call ‘posh piss’ and sadly not the film ‘Perfume’ which has that amazing mass orgy at the end.

And today it hit home that I must smell like a tramps purse. I’m slightly concerned that ‘tramps purse’ is in actuality a metaphor for vagina. It should be if it isn’t. And I’m not saying I smell of vagina, I don’t. I just smell cheap.

My friend the Irish-Shagger (aka Irish) phoned me yesterday. She knows I’m a bit tight with my finances and hesitantly informed me of her latest purchase. 

“I bought a new perfume Emilie….”

“How much did it cost?” I asked, sounding a little too motherly for comfort.

“£100…for 30ml”

“Irish! That could have been £100 towards legal fees so you can buy your own place!” 

“Well that’s why you have a house and I don’t”, she retorted.

“What the hell is it anyway?” I asked.

“It’s called Black Afgano.. it evokes the smell of the finest Hashish. I smell rich Emilie!”

Irish does make me laugh. She’s the coolest chick I know.

In the perfume stakes, my observations conclude that not only is there a North-South economic divide in the United Kingdom, there is also a North-South perfume divide. Irish: a Southerner, is clearly classier than me and isn’t freaked out by spending money on frivolous items such as perfume. Me: a Northerner, from the delightful food town of Grimsby - armpit of the UK - would NEVER spend as much as £100 on a bottle of perfume, or even as much as 20 quid. And the majority of my Northern friends and family feel the same way, only reserving this kind of expenditure for important birthday gifts and Christmas presents (where we’ll happily spend as much as two mortgage payments to please our kin, even though we can’t afford to, and then spend the rest of Christmas hating each other). In fact, until last month, the most I’d ever spent on a bottle of perfume was £5 for Woolworth’s own brand of Calvin Klein.

I think living in the South must be rubbing off on me - I do long to be posh - as my most recent purchase was somewhat frivolous and cost £8. I bought it with a voucher my Aunty gave me for Christmas.

It is actually eau-de-toilette - toilet water - and is supposedly the sexiest and naughtiest fragrance ever seen at Ann Summers. How could I resist it’s hearty floral notes with a musky base for perfect balance? And, it is for Dirty Stop Outs. I can’t profess to being one of those although I’d certainly like to be. I tend to save this delightful perfume for best and only wear it on really posh nights out to the local pub.  

I spoke to Irish again today. 

“You know, my perfume is called Sexy Minx: for Dirty Stop Outs…”

We started roaring with laugher. 

“I’m wearing mine”, said Irish. “I smell so rich Emilie - like an Arab’s arse!”

“Well…” I replied with a smirk on my face, “mine came with a free thong”. 

* You can buy your very own Sexy Minx and receive a free thong here.

The Hairdresser

I’m not the kind of women who has beauty treatments and I rarely visit the hairdresser; preferring to cut my own hair with the kitchen scissors. But today, I decided to treat myself and booked in for highlights and a restyle at the local hair salon.

I was disappointed with my hairdresser because I wanted the mustachioed and creative-looking camp man who was working on the women sat next to me. Mine couldn’t have been straighter if he tried and I’m sure it makes no difference whether your male hairdresser is straight or not, but if I had to choose, I’d want a camp gay one. Mine was a grumpy, short and squat man who kept adjusting my head position by pressing very firmly on the top of my scalp with his thumb. It hurt but I didn’t say anything, hoping he was some kind of creative genius who had a penchant for being firm with young ladies.

He tried to comb my recently washed hair with the tiniest little fine-toothed comb and wasn’t having a great deal of luck. I suggested he used an afro comb as I have the long thick curly hair. He followed my suggestion and said he was also going to use some detangler and leave-in conditioner to ease the knots out. I noticed half way through that he wasn’t actually using the correct product; it was some kind of greasy smoothing lotion that stank, but I didn’t dare say anything in fear he might also be prone to pissy-ness if not obeyed. 

 And it’s not the first time a man has struggled to comb my hair.

Several years ago I had a fuck buddy of sorts; another short squat man who when naked, looked like a barrel. He also had a matching chode but I didn’t mind. His hair was Nicky Clarke-esque and I absolutely adored him. We had a weekly arrangement and would spend at least two hours fucking like rabbits. He was really heavy and every time he fucked me, my whole body would shift up and down the bed, causing my long hair to tangle. After each shag, he would then spend an hour or two trying to comb the knots out of my hair which was almost dreadlocked at this point. Once, after an hour of detangling, we ended up snipping the knots out and decided it would be easier for me to go on top.

Anyway, the hairdresser today was so short - and my hair so long I could sit on it - that I had to stand for him to cut it.

At one point he asked, “do you get headaches?” When I replied with a yes, he claimed, “it’s because you have a lot of hair, it’s pulling on your scalp and causing headaches”. He then pulled very firmly on my hair to demonstrate. “Ouch!” I exclaimed, “I thought it was because I do a lot of computer work and don’t wear glasses when I should. Is there any proof to this theory?”

He evaded answering my question by asking me if my fingernails were weak and broke easily. “No”, I replied, and didn’t bother to ask why he’d asked me such a stupid question. 

After a cut and a ‘scrunch dry’, my hair looks, smells and feels great. 

On leaving, I glanced at the floor and found it odd that only 3 inches of hair, weighing perhaps 0.05 grams could potentially cause me headaches.