or noisily demanding justice for some allegedly virtuous jailbirds named by the left after some locale, be it the Streatham Six, the Forest Gate Four, or even the Torquay Two. Melvin had set his heart on backpacking round India before university, and after graduating, getting a job as an aid worker with Oxfam. Sam could see the idealism and desire burning in his sonâs eyes, but because he was the kind of pompous, arrogant man who strutted even when he was sitting down, he refused to acknowledge it as anything more than adolescent nonsense.
He announced that he would not pay the parental contribution to Melvinâs grant unless he acquiesced. Realising he was fighting a losing battle, but not wanting to forfeit the chance to go to university, Melvin ended up studying pharmacology at Nottingham. He hated his course and scraped a third, not because he lacked ability, but because he did no work. Instead he spent most of his time standing outside the student union building dressed in his faux-lefty uniform of donkey jacket and Lenin-style blue denim cap, flogging copies of Militant to sociology wonks and African students who were shivering away their time in Britain sustained by dreams of starting their own socialist-dictatorship as soon as they got home. So committed was he to the cause that he became known as Melvin Militant.
Although he was short and had a beaky Jewish face, women, particularly non-Jewish ones, found Melvin extremely attractive. It seemed to be of no interest to them that at parties he danced like a dyspraxic baboon, or that he found it impossible to walk down the street and hold a conversation without tripping over his feet or treading on theirs. They were desperate to play Diane Keaton to his Woody Allen and couldnât keep their hands off him.
As a result, Melvin was never short of a leg-over, and spent his first couple of years at Nottingham satisfying his substantial appetite for tall, blonde shikseh goddesses.
Of all his goddesses, Rebecca Fludd, with her Faye Dunaway looks, not to mention her firm buttocks which were always tantalisingly outlined and divided by the back seam of her Levis, was the most divine. What was more, for a lass of twenty, her shagging abilities were extraordinarily advanced.
Once, just after theyâd started going out, she turned up at his room brandishing a pair of handcuffs. âWotcha, Militant,â was all she said, plunging her tongue into his mouth. A few seconds later she had forced him on to the bed, unzipped his fly and was going down on him with all the skill of a seasoned hooker.
Their backgrounds couldnât have been less similar. Like many middle-class students, Melvin nurtured romantic notions of poverty and was gagging to identify with the class struggle. Rebecca, on the other hand, who had been brought up in a terraced house in south Leeds, felt she had lived her own class struggle long enough and couldnât wait to end it. While Melvin played at jettisoning his privileged past by selling Militant , nicking textbooks from the university branch of Dillons and living in a fetid little house in Dunkirk with an outside bog and intermittent hot water, Rebecca was putting her heart and soul into her business studies degree, had blagged free elocution lessons from a rich Sloaney girl on her course and was nurturing dreams of one day becoming what her parents called âa tycoonâ. Her only problem was that she hadnât the foggiest what she might become a tycoon in.
Whereas Melvinâs world view was shaped by the intellectual might of Marx and Engels, Rebeccaâs was shaped by the capitalist might of Marks and Spencer. As a result, when they werenât handcuffing each other to Melvinâs rickety iron bed frame, they were having blazing rows about whether or not the Co-op represented the apotheosis of benevolent capitalism.
In the middle of one particularly vicious post-coital bust-up which Melvin knew heâd lost the
He announced that he would not pay the parental contribution to Melvinâs grant unless he acquiesced. Realising he was fighting a losing battle, but not wanting to forfeit the chance to go to university, Melvin ended up studying pharmacology at Nottingham. He hated his course and scraped a third, not because he lacked ability, but because he did no work. Instead he spent most of his time standing outside the student union building dressed in his faux-lefty uniform of donkey jacket and Lenin-style blue denim cap, flogging copies of Militant to sociology wonks and African students who were shivering away their time in Britain sustained by dreams of starting their own socialist-dictatorship as soon as they got home. So committed was he to the cause that he became known as Melvin Militant.
Although he was short and had a beaky Jewish face, women, particularly non-Jewish ones, found Melvin extremely attractive. It seemed to be of no interest to them that at parties he danced like a dyspraxic baboon, or that he found it impossible to walk down the street and hold a conversation without tripping over his feet or treading on theirs. They were desperate to play Diane Keaton to his Woody Allen and couldnât keep their hands off him.
As a result, Melvin was never short of a leg-over, and spent his first couple of years at Nottingham satisfying his substantial appetite for tall, blonde shikseh goddesses.
Of all his goddesses, Rebecca Fludd, with her Faye Dunaway looks, not to mention her firm buttocks which were always tantalisingly outlined and divided by the back seam of her Levis, was the most divine. What was more, for a lass of twenty, her shagging abilities were extraordinarily advanced.
Once, just after theyâd started going out, she turned up at his room brandishing a pair of handcuffs. âWotcha, Militant,â was all she said, plunging her tongue into his mouth. A few seconds later she had forced him on to the bed, unzipped his fly and was going down on him with all the skill of a seasoned hooker.
Their backgrounds couldnât have been less similar. Like many middle-class students, Melvin nurtured romantic notions of poverty and was gagging to identify with the class struggle. Rebecca, on the other hand, who had been brought up in a terraced house in south Leeds, felt she had lived her own class struggle long enough and couldnât wait to end it. While Melvin played at jettisoning his privileged past by selling Militant , nicking textbooks from the university branch of Dillons and living in a fetid little house in Dunkirk with an outside bog and intermittent hot water, Rebecca was putting her heart and soul into her business studies degree, had blagged free elocution lessons from a rich Sloaney girl on her course and was nurturing dreams of one day becoming what her parents called âa tycoonâ. Her only problem was that she hadnât the foggiest what she might become a tycoon in.
Whereas Melvinâs world view was shaped by the intellectual might of Marx and Engels, Rebeccaâs was shaped by the capitalist might of Marks and Spencer. As a result, when they werenât handcuffing each other to Melvinâs rickety iron bed frame, they were having blazing rows about whether or not the Co-op represented the apotheosis of benevolent capitalism.
In the middle of one particularly vicious post-coital bust-up which Melvin knew heâd lost the
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