the country.
Yardie threw a party one night when Old Mrs Yardie was off staying with her sister in Kent. He went to a lot of trouble, preparing fancy nibbles. Sausages on cocktail sticks and squares of cheese and Pringles with dips. That kind of crap. Park didn't think anybody would turn up cause the place was so bloody hard to find.
Martin and Effie had come along. Just engaged. All night, she fiddled with his hair, long and blonde. Hers was too short for him to play with. Martin was beefy, Effie looked like a boy with boobs. Martin wore a big collar. A cravat. Other kinds of 70s gaywear. There was lots of touching, holding hands, wistful smiles. Enough to turn your stomach if you were at all sensitive.
Park ignored it, butted in, started talking to Martin. Bloke might be dressed like a Frenchman, but he was a good listener. Could have had a good conversation going if Effie didn't keep sticking her tongue down Martin's throat every couple of minutes.
A while later, the lovebirds stopped pecking at each other long enough to join Park in taking the piss out of Yardie's mates, a bunch of mutton-headed blissed-up neds. Yardie was showing them his prize possession: a shitty little closet chain.
Closet chains were just like handcuffs but with a long chain between the cuffs. Several feet long usually. Designed to allow the wearer—usually a con attending a family funeral or wedding—to use the bathroom in privacy without the risk of him escaping through the window. He'd wear one cuff and his escort would be on the other side of the door wearing the other. Had to keep the door ajar to let the chain through, but that still gave the con a little dignity while he did his business. But Yardie's closet chain looked to be on the short side. Three, maybe four feet long. He'd nicked it from a prison officer's home. The screw shouldn't have had it there, so it never got reported stolen.
Yardie's mates had paired up, tried it on, and now two of them had the chain stretched tight about three feet off the ground and a third was about to jump over it. Park hoped he'd trip.
Effie pointed out the girlfriend of one of the mutton heads. Effie knew her vaguely. Rumour had it she swung both ways, Effie said.
Park got on well with lezzers. And this one was a looker, too. Not that he was going to hit on her, him being a married man and all, but there was no harm in saying hello. He left the happy-couple-to-be in the corner to snog for a while, grabbed a bottle of white wine and went off to talk to the dyke.
She wasn't very talkative, though. Any topic of conversation he brought up, she replied with a one-word answer. He thought long and hard and came up with a topic he was sure she'd be interested in. Muff diving. Told her it'd been a while, but that was something he'd always been good at. Did a mean butterfly kiss.
She dropped her drink and ran off.
Seconds later he was on the floor with her boyfriend looking down at him, clenching his fist and snarling. No, really: snarling. Park had never heard anything quite like it.
The boyfriend hadn't actually hit him. Just shoved him sideways onto the ground whilst Park was off-balance picking up the lezzer's glass. Pretty embarrassing. And totally uncalled for. Wasn't as if Park had been chatting her up.
But even if he was, it wasn't as if this guy was married to her. And she swung both ways, so he probably wouldn't ever be married to her, cause if he was, she'd only be able to swing one way. If that was technically possible. And if she swung both ways, then she'd need to be able to swing the other way, cause that was in her nature. Which is why she couldn't ever marry him. Stood to reason.
Not that Park managed to explain it to himself as rationally as this, cause he was fuming at the time and incapable of thinking clearly enough to put on his own trousers.
As he got to his feet, an audience gathered round, all the fun of jumping over a closet chain forgotten for now. Rage was thermalling
Yardie threw a party one night when Old Mrs Yardie was off staying with her sister in Kent. He went to a lot of trouble, preparing fancy nibbles. Sausages on cocktail sticks and squares of cheese and Pringles with dips. That kind of crap. Park didn't think anybody would turn up cause the place was so bloody hard to find.
Martin and Effie had come along. Just engaged. All night, she fiddled with his hair, long and blonde. Hers was too short for him to play with. Martin was beefy, Effie looked like a boy with boobs. Martin wore a big collar. A cravat. Other kinds of 70s gaywear. There was lots of touching, holding hands, wistful smiles. Enough to turn your stomach if you were at all sensitive.
Park ignored it, butted in, started talking to Martin. Bloke might be dressed like a Frenchman, but he was a good listener. Could have had a good conversation going if Effie didn't keep sticking her tongue down Martin's throat every couple of minutes.
A while later, the lovebirds stopped pecking at each other long enough to join Park in taking the piss out of Yardie's mates, a bunch of mutton-headed blissed-up neds. Yardie was showing them his prize possession: a shitty little closet chain.
Closet chains were just like handcuffs but with a long chain between the cuffs. Several feet long usually. Designed to allow the wearer—usually a con attending a family funeral or wedding—to use the bathroom in privacy without the risk of him escaping through the window. He'd wear one cuff and his escort would be on the other side of the door wearing the other. Had to keep the door ajar to let the chain through, but that still gave the con a little dignity while he did his business. But Yardie's closet chain looked to be on the short side. Three, maybe four feet long. He'd nicked it from a prison officer's home. The screw shouldn't have had it there, so it never got reported stolen.
Yardie's mates had paired up, tried it on, and now two of them had the chain stretched tight about three feet off the ground and a third was about to jump over it. Park hoped he'd trip.
Effie pointed out the girlfriend of one of the mutton heads. Effie knew her vaguely. Rumour had it she swung both ways, Effie said.
Park got on well with lezzers. And this one was a looker, too. Not that he was going to hit on her, him being a married man and all, but there was no harm in saying hello. He left the happy-couple-to-be in the corner to snog for a while, grabbed a bottle of white wine and went off to talk to the dyke.
She wasn't very talkative, though. Any topic of conversation he brought up, she replied with a one-word answer. He thought long and hard and came up with a topic he was sure she'd be interested in. Muff diving. Told her it'd been a while, but that was something he'd always been good at. Did a mean butterfly kiss.
She dropped her drink and ran off.
Seconds later he was on the floor with her boyfriend looking down at him, clenching his fist and snarling. No, really: snarling. Park had never heard anything quite like it.
The boyfriend hadn't actually hit him. Just shoved him sideways onto the ground whilst Park was off-balance picking up the lezzer's glass. Pretty embarrassing. And totally uncalled for. Wasn't as if Park had been chatting her up.
But even if he was, it wasn't as if this guy was married to her. And she swung both ways, so he probably wouldn't ever be married to her, cause if he was, she'd only be able to swing one way. If that was technically possible. And if she swung both ways, then she'd need to be able to swing the other way, cause that was in her nature. Which is why she couldn't ever marry him. Stood to reason.
Not that Park managed to explain it to himself as rationally as this, cause he was fuming at the time and incapable of thinking clearly enough to put on his own trousers.
As he got to his feet, an audience gathered round, all the fun of jumping over a closet chain forgotten for now. Rage was thermalling
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