The collective serotonin level in my home town is waning like the back end of a Harvest moon. Situated on the ‘Party Line Expressway’, (known locally as the East Coast Mainline), narcotics have been couriered to my hood since the dawn of time. And there I was, at Christmas, like a modern day folk legend…barely 3 hours after alighting on Platform 1, being passed a J at the back of Ma Hubbards car park.
*Obviously I did not partake and reported the relevant parties to the authorities immediately.
I still feel 19 when I return to the mother country. 19, and part of a tribe. It’s nice not to be the only grufty weighing down a pub bench. And it’s nice to be educated on the latest slang. Apparently, ‘binger’ means to insert ones finger into anothers bum. Always useful in a sticky situation.
But the ‘binger’ wasn’t the highlight of Christmas. Oh no, that would be the moment I sent Babs down town to pick me up a preggy test. Luckily, my sickness wasn’t down to a bun in the oven - there’s only After Eights and flat Prosecco in the Lollster’s beast. Turns out I had the norovirus, (and a few too many rums). But the damage was done.
“Do I know this man”?
“Is he local”?
“Will he stand by you”?
That would be a no babe. Try explaining to Babs that things were different in the 70s. Before N-Dubz became our heroes and the lyrical sway of Method Man, our mantra.
I suggested that we take a wee test together because it was a duo pack and it would “be fun, like gal pals”. That went down like a sack of shit. Still, it stopped her commenting on my roots for 24 hours.
ME AND BABS WATCHING THE OLD DEAR IN 3D
So with diseased insides, I crawled my way to the
Suffolk countryside for a
New Year shindig. There were gay men, an
escaping dog, award winning soups (thanking you!), a horny ghost and of course,
“I SHOULD BE SO LUCKY IN LOVE”…
My one resolution; to not slag anyone off, was broken at a quarter past midnight. And once again, before my morning coffee. And a few times after that. Ah well.
And so that was Christmas. In a town that has wrapped around itself like an Etch-a-Sketch. When you can’t so much as go in
Argos without having
dated the man in the back room. When your
timeline becomes tiny diamonds on unscrubbed hands. When you can take the girl out of the ghetto
but not the ghetto out of the girl.
Where, even miles from anywhere in a small, unknowing countryside, you
can accidentally moony an old man and his dog. When you try to be a better
person but give up before dawn. When you
want to save the world but your heart is Ferrero Rocher and four cheese pecan
And should YOU ever find yourself on the Party Line Expressway whilst feeling a little sentimental, (or you just fancy a plain old binger), drop into a certain historical market town because you just might have the most festive time of your life. Unless it isn’t Christmas, in which case, head down to Ma Hubbards car park and ask for Dave. Then it will be whatever you want it to be.