Triumphs and disasters part 3

After I left theYarmouth track in the capable hands of Rob the new Manager, things became quieter on the social side for me partly because I wasn’t in the mood for the complications of courtship, but mainly because I was so busy with work. I was to travel to Ibiza to reconnoitre a rundown outdoor go kart track that was part of a hotel complex with a view to buying and turning around the fortunes of what could have been a very good money spinner.

The companies business plan was to set up five or six tracks as a group and make it a buyable commodity. We had given ourselves five years to do this, not a lot of time but it was (in theory) a workable plan. The Ibiza complex was to be our venture into the European market. Unfortunately the reason the Spanish track was in such dire straits was because even though several attempts had been made by other people to make a success of the business, the intrusion of the local villains wanting their cut of the profits effectively brought to a halt any hope of success.

We did toy with the idea of taking a crew of our own over to maintain security, but there was a distinct lack of enthusiasm from the police to this idea. Quite apart from the logistics and expense involved in flying people backwards and forwards. There was also the matter of tribute to the police who needed their palms greasing for that to have worked.

On my return to Manchester I fell into the hands of Carol a buxom blonde whom I had crossed swords with on several occasions over the years at various social functions. She had made it quite clear that my being married made no difference to her intentions towards me and that should I ever feel the need for female company all I had to do was whistle.

We met up again at a mutual friends funeral, the deceased Graham had tried many times in life to get Carol and I together maintaining that we were perfect for each other. His premise for this was that as she was an attractive, curvy, fun loving and sexually gregarious woman, and I was a dirty little bugger we couldn’t miss. I felt somewhat slighted by this assessment of me considering the articulation he used to describe Carol. It was ironic that he managed in death what he couldn’t manage in life. He would have been pleased.

I was in no doubt that she enjoyed sex, but to what extent and under what circumstances I couldn’t have imagined. In fact it overshadowed everything else and was the basis of every date or social occasion that we enjoyed. In short she craved the buzz she derived from making love in situations where there was a possibility of being caught inflagranti.

At first I enjoyed these sometimes impromptu assignations, in the Blackpool tower ballroom during the day, the back of a car in Morrisons car park, a gazebo in a garden centre, all of these were exciting but a tremendous strain on the nerves. I had to call a halt to the relationship after a particularly bad experience on a fairground ride. It was in Blackpool a favourite haunt of hers because of the variety of interesting places that one could perform the deed.


The pleasure beach had just opened up for the morning, in one of the arcades there was a N A S A shuttle ride. It seated about eight people at a time but as Carol and I were the only two waiting to go on it the operator was reluctant to allow it to go through its paces without a full compliment of passengers. She pouted and pleaded and pushed her boobs out at him, and to give him his due he held out for quite a while until she took him to one side and whispered in his ear.

The shuttle was quite large inside with four rows of seats facing a large screen that displayed various images of space whilst speakers gave a commentary. The operator buckled us in, but as soon as the door was shut and the show started Carol was out of her seat, unbuckling my harness and desperately trying to ravish me where I sat. I protested on the grounds that as the damn thing was swinging and bucking like a mad horse it was dangerous. She pulled me out of my seat and as she bent across the back of another she said “Don’t worry, I paid him extra so we could have a longer ride”. My heart sank I was about to protest more but the shuttle tipped forward and I was flung into the breach.

It was the longest and scariest ride of my life (I think). Sexual congress in the vertical position isn’t the most comfortable way to enjoy oneself. But when the floor is swaying from side to side and bumping up and down at the same time, it takes away any kind of control, obliterates technique and introduces an element of surprise that whilst not unpleasant can be disconcerting. It didn’t help my nerves that over the noise of the loudspeakers informing me that I was about to shoot into space, and the mechanics and hydraulics of the shuttle grinding and moaning in the background, Carol was doing her best at drowning it out with a little noise of her own.

Mercifully the ride ended and there was just enough time to make ourselves presentable before the shuttle doors opened. As we stepped out of the door and on to the gantry at the top of the stairs, we were greeted by a sea of smiling faces all stood waiting patiently for their turn on the ride. One or two in the crowd made a point of looking the other way. There was three guys together who were laughing, one of them nodded at me and punched the air silently.

I immersed myself in work after that; it was far safer than the histrionics and gymnastics that being with Carol demanded. Shame really because in every other respect we were compatible.

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Triumphs and disasters Part 1

I was reflecting over the weekend on my dating score since my second wife left (For the final time) ten years ago. It doesn’t seem like ten years have passed since she slung her proverbial hook with a Yugoslavian Knife sharpener from Belgrade, but as the saying goes Time fly’s when you are enjoying yourself. True I was gutted at first, nobody likes change but within a couple of hours of the door shutting behind her, I became used to the idea of living without the woman I had always assumed I was going to drag the rest of my life out with.

The last few months we spent together was a bad time for me, she left and returned many times and as the year hurtled toward its end. I knew it would soon be over. Call it intuition, call it a hunch, call it what you will but I knew somehow that things were not right between us. At first it was little things that tipped me off that something was wrong. Things like my watches and rings going missing, having my card snatched at the ATM because there was no money in my account, other men wearing my clothes, my wife calling me Olaf when we made love. Incidents that on their own wouldn’t mean anything but put them all together and they add up to Get a grip you thick bastard, Are you blind man? or who comes home at four in the morning after visiting their Mother wearing a little black number with her tights inside out?..

She walked through the front door for the last time on Christmas day at four in the afternoon as I lay on the bed sleeping off a huge great turkey dinner and two helpings of plum duff with rum sauce. I was awoken by the sound of her creeping around the bedroom on all fours gathering the clothes she was to take with her for this final departure. I didn’t open my eyes but pretended to sleep, as she crawled onto the landing and down the stairs.

As the front door closed quietly behind her I opened my eyes and forced myself to rise and sit on the edge of the bed, It wasn’t easy; it took all my willpower to force my muscles to comply with this simple task. A turkey dinner with all the trimmings and a four and a half pound plum duff pudding is a lot of weight to carry around, but I forced myself up into a sitting position and then on to my feet. Slowly I walked to the landing window and looked out at the woman I had spent twenty three years of my life with walking away from our marriage with her possessions in two black bags and several ammunition cases. I was to spend the rest of what should have been a day of celebration alone, and as I necked several bottles of Baileys I wondered what the future would hold.


I was to find out on New Year’s eve when friends who insisted that I shouldn’t spend the beginning of a New Year alone dragged me to a party. They were adamant that I should start as I meant to go on. Well that new years eve I got as pissed as a carrot and stayed that way for more or less the rest of the year. Through the foggy haze of alcoholic excess I managed to carry on as normal, I ate, I slept, and I worked. I had plenty of female friends I could go out with for a meal, a movie or a couple of drinks. But I was giving myself a year before commiting myself to any kind of sexual relationship. It was only fair to the dwindling memory of what once had been a mediocre marriage.

In the event I only lasted three weeks with the sexual thing; I put that down to my will power being out of whack due to the vodka I had become very fond of. You mustn’t get the idea that I was hopelessly addicted to Vodka, far from it, I had become hopelessly addicted to Gin too, and I wasn’t shy about accepting the odd Rum Dachery when it was offered.

I met Lesley at an AA meeting in the spring of that first year as a bachelor. She was blonde, pretty; bright as a button and twenty years younger than I was, but we hit it off right from the start and she was a refreshing change from some of the pot-boilers my well meaning friends had introduced me to. Her story was much the same as mine, abandoned by an uncaring husband, she had taken to drinking cans of lager with a Tia Maria chaser as she did the housework. Over a short period she become dependant on drink to get her through the day, and by the time she had sought help with the AA was in the habit of knocking back seven or eight pints of lager in an afternoon. She had these amazing stomach muscles and could burp like a man.

We would sit next to each other at meetings and soon became friends, then one night as we left a meeting I offered her a lift home, she accepted and as we drove we talked. The conversation turned to her sadness at breaking with her husband and her hatred for the long nights she spent alone. As we pulled up outside her house, she turned to me and almost crying said, “I don’t want to go home just yet, I don’t, I don’t”. I suggested we go for a drink, she threw her head back and laughed loudly saying "Yeah f**k it, lets get f*****g pissed”. That night we drank, and later made love wildly in the back of a bread van left in the pub car park.

As the dawn broke over our naked bodies covered in bread rolls and the contents of squashed jammy doughnuts, we collected our thoughts and our clothes and made our way (Somewhat stickily) to our respective homes. Later as I stood in the shower allowing the hot water to run over my aching body I relived the passion of the bread van and marvelled at the versatility of bread products.

We were to meet many times after that night, and on every occasion we managed to put foodstuffs to good use during our sexual exploration of each other. We tried it all, the exotic Hot pot supper samba, the Bar-B-Q bang, sex through salad, we even went Vegan but it was a little too fetish for our taste. It wasn’t to last. She met another guy at a weight watchers club for insomniacs and whilst he was completely ok with the idea of sharing her both physically and culinary, I knew it was a recipe for disaster. She had to choose and unfortunately for me she chose fast food over Cordon Bluer.

It was the first of many disappointing relationships, but I will always remember that time with fondness and relish (No pun intended) and it was good fun and great practice for what lay ahead for me in the dating game.

To be continued………….

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Don't listen to me I talk shit.

It’s always been a mystery to me why it is that people have for most of my adult life asked my advice about anything and everything. People who do the asking really do think that I have no problems whatsoever, I know this because they have told me at the time of asking for the advice. It seems I sail through life without a care. It’s not that I mind helping, but the responsibility lies heavy if they actually take the advice I offer.

Mostly they don’t, thank heaven, I have found that a request for advice is really a search for confirmation of their own ideas about what it is they should do and if what you say differs from what they think, they will look elsewhere for wise words. Usually its women who ask this old sage for a solution to whatever problem is troubling them, and the problem usually is a man. No surprises there, but a couple of weekends ago it wasn’t a teary eyed beauty whom I could have taken advantage of (Just joking) but a pal of mine who is probably the last person I would have thought would have had woman trouble.

He is tall, good looking, well dressed and a confident type of chap, so it was with some surprise that I opened my front door early Sunday evening to a distressed looking, stooped and thoroughly dejected looking, far from confident gibbering idiot. That it was pissing down didn’t help, he stood there soaked through apologising for bothering me on my day off, and as he spoke his voice wavered and hiccuped in that way young kids do when talking and crying at the same time. I just knew this was gonna be juicy.

I invited him in and gave him a towel to dry his hair; he rubbed vigorously for a minute or so, which left his usually neatly couffered locks stuck out in all directions. So eager was he to reveal his tale of woe to me that he left it uncombed and for the rest of the consultation my eyes kept wondering to the birds nest on his head. However as I didn’t want to interrupt his flow, I kept my mouth shut.

“She is ending it Dave, after two years together she is dumping me” I asked why, he tearfully replied “She said I don’t do it for her, never have. She said all these years she has pretended to be happy with our sex life hoping it would get better, but it hasn’t so she has found someone who does do it for her”.
I asked if she had ever tried to talk about it before now and try to work things out. He screwed his face up and said, “Nope, never, I always thought things were ok in that department. She was always verbally demonstrative when we made love”.

Do you know whom this new guy is I asked? Choking back tears he said “Yes, its some muscle bound bastard from the gym she goes to. I tried to placate him, your not exactly thin and weedy yourself old boy. He looked at me through ever more reddening eyes; “Well he has got far more muscle than he needs and besides, she said he had a bigger widji than me. (His words not mine) “What do I do”.

I looked at his sticky out hair and thought for a moment about offering to lend him mine, widji not hair but mercifully I bit my lip. Humour never helps when it’s a case of widji size; men can be very sensitive about this subject. I asked him what he said after she gave him the devastating news, “Nothing, I just walked out of the house and drove around for a few hours, then I came here”.

I asked him if he wanted the truth or just some kind words that would make him feel better, he opted for the truth. I stood up to deliver my monologue. “As hurt as you feel right now, spare a thought for the fact that she has lied to you for the last two years. She lied by pretending to enjoy your lovemaking, and I know that’s true for a lot of women, if only to spare the feelings of the one whom can’t perform to their satisfaction. But at least at some point most women will say enough is enough and bring it to the table for discussion, usually because they love that person and want to make it better. He wrung his hands.

She has also lied to you in that for her to know that Mr Muscles can perform better than you can, she would have to have tested the water so to speak to gain that knowledge. He winced. By allowing you to continue thinking that everything in the garden was rosy she has been underhanded and cruel, it occurs to me that she could possibly have held back on purpose waiting for someone like Mr Muscles to come along who could offer her what she wanted. I was in full stride now. In fact it’s a distinct possibility that Mr Muscles wasn’t the first time she ate out as it were. He winced again and wrung his hands.

Whichever way you look at it my friend she has thought of herself and not you, do you really want to live with a woman who can deceive you without a second thought for your feelings. She didn’t even spare you the humiliation of her thinking you a bad lover. She could have just said she had met someone else, but no she had to twist the knife. He grimaced as though the knife were being twisted as we spoke.

I paused from my verbal whipping of this cruel, woman and saw the very real pain in his eyes. You really love her don’t you? He sobbed. “Yes, what am I going to do”. I’m a sucker for tears, so I poured him a drink and asked again exactly what he had said when she gave him the news. “Nothing, I was so shocked, I just walked out”. Ok I said, that’s good, no need to backtrack. The house belongs to you doesn’t it. He nodded but said she had asked him to find a Hotel for a week or so until she could make arrangements.

Right, you go back, tell her that you are relived that she broke up with you because you have been trying to find a way to do that for months, but couldn’t come up with anything. Then you tell her, not ask her to leave and find herself a hotel, or move in with Mr Muscles who by rights should be prepared to house her as well as sexually entertain her. If she argues, just tell her that you have already informed your new girlfriend of the break up (The reason for your leaving so quickly) and she is even now packing her things ready to move in when you leave. He looked ashen, “But that will make things worse surely, I’m not sure I can do that”. You can and you will my friend, trust me it will work. After another drink and a great deal of trying to convince him that my strategy was faultless, he left hair still pointing in all directions to pursue his destiny.

At this point I have to admit that I thought it wouldn’t work, I know his girlfriend and she isn’t a pleasant type, without doubt he would be better of without her. So playing God and going against my policy of none interference I urged him to have the bollocks to dare it out and play her at her own game. Surprisingly he did have the bollocks, and surprisingly it did work, her bluff was called and she collapsed, after two nights away, she came back asking for his forgiveness and another chance to try again. My plan backfired.

He phoned last week to tell me the good news and I can only assume that she has gone back to her verbal acting in bed and he spends rather more time than he used to in front of the mirror inspecting his widji. Was I wrong? Well was I?.

Just another day.

Its Friday again, last working day of the week for some. Remember the days when the only thing that kept you sane was the thought of that big fat wage packet that was shoved into your hand on a late Friday afternoon. And the thought that later on after a hurried tea and a bath you would be taking part in the age old custom of leaning on a bar trying to look cool, or displaying your latest moves on a sticky dance floor?

Those were the day’s ehh? You could keep track of your money then; you knew to within a penny where you stood. These days it’s in the bank. Out of the bank, other people have control and all behind your back. For all we know whilst we sleep there could be hoards of people utilising our money to make yet more money and sunning themselves in the south of France on the profit they make, after putting our pittance back of course. On reflection I think that is what happens, oh well easy come easy go.

No, Fridays are not the same anymore; there is no run up to the weekend for me. Just the same old drudge that makes one day run into another. My life is bereft of fiscal landmarks. I mourn not only the Friday wage packet, but also the dreadful feeling on waking up Saturday morning after a night’s shenanigans and rummaging through my pockets to find I only have four pence left, that and a lump of chewing gum wrapped in an unused condom.

Going out isn’t the same anymore, where once you could strut your stuff and play the mating game, now the best that you can hope for is a booty call from a female friend as desperate as you are. I paint a glum picture I know but its not really that bad I suppose. Trouble is though the years take their toll on the body, the mind is as agile and as gutter based as it was when bursting through puberty and ready and willing to accept any sexual challenge thrown its way.

Oh well youth is for the young, it’s a bleeding waste though they have no more idea what to do with it than I did when I was young. Life is a separation of the two most important components that make up the ideal sexual gig. On one track you have, youth, energy and strength. On the other track you have knowledge, technique and experience. Both are travelling in different directions, for a brief moment they cross each other’s path and it all comes together brilliantly. But before you know it one is behind the other and getting further away with every passing day.

Friday’s motto: Don’t waste your time looking back, because you have missed the bleeding train.