My first one-night stand


Posted by on July 29th

I was lost when the disgruntled grunting of the pig woke me up. What raddled journey of wrong turnings and dead ends had brought me from a date with Mary Johnston – who was blessed with the kind of beauty that could melt your reason – to sharing a bed of shit and straw with 560lbs worth of Gloucestershire Old Spot?

Until that night I was a pig virgin. My intimate knowledge restricted to the consumption of pork, bacon, ham and any other pseudonyms we choose to apply to the dead animal in order to distance ourselves from the living one. The stinking behemoth that I found myself nuzzling up against was very much alive. Indeed the reason for its gruntle being dissed was my kicking it in the arse whilst trying to cure an involuntary spasm of cramp.

The lady in question, well sort of. John Miles 1834  

My head felt like the devil was sharpening his red-hot pincers on my sinus sockets when I tried in vain to lift it from its halo of excrement. Heinous hangover notwithstanding, I had to find the blueprint for my current perilous predicament and reconstruct it from the rubble. One thing was certain; from the moment we finished that bottle of Asbach Uralt brandy, a full 8 hours before my meeting with Ms. Johnston, the mess of my destination lay before me.

There were vague memories of an impromptu siesta in an upside down hedge on the showpiece lawns of the Green Park Hotel. My near emasculation by a hedge trimmer attached to an extremely irate gardener ushered in a brief period of sobriety.

Which served the useful purpose of letting me know it was me who was upside down, not the hedge.

Whatever was soldering my synapses back together offered up another clue to my sorry demise. There had been a refueling stop at the off-licence run by the born again Christians – you had to answer some odd questions before you got your carry out, odder still when you’d just been carried in.

“Are you aware the good lord preaches temperance?”

…Yes

“Are you also aware that abstinence reaps its own rewards?”

…No

“Then what can we furnish you with?”

…Two dozen of your finest Tennents lager.

“May God go with you.”

…He can if he likes but he’s not getting any of my lager.

The next few hours are lost, like jet streams, to the sky. Leaving only a thin vapour trail of redeemed memory and those memories that are beyond redemption. 

The next few hours are lost, like jet streams, to the sky

Suffice it to say that I make it to the party and my date with Mary Johnston but the electricity is going out in the vital (talking) part of my brain – only her luminosity is keeping me in a tiny part of the here and now. Soon I succumb to a sodden inertia, when I try to say her name, like I know her name, the game is up. I can see the patience actually leaving her eyes.

In a matter of minutes I’m swapping the promise of her embrace for the certainty of the breakdown truck behind the garage, whose brutally cold embrace I wake up in two hours later. It is no small journey from its freezing womb to the mind scarring possibilities of a pigsty, but I manage it with practiced ease.

My first ever one night stand, in the shape of half a ton of rashers and raw crackling, draws herself first onto her haunches and thence onto her trotters thus, rather worryingly, achieving her full height. In doing so she punctures my mood of morbid self-pity in favour of the more imminent worry of being crushed to death. The pig has no such territorial imperative, she regards me with that benevolent air of disappointment that women have chosen to bestow on me a thousand times since and stampedes from the sty (trust me, one animal can do this). My body bears testimony.

The final ignominy? She didn’t even ask me for my phone number!

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