Friday, 20 March 2015

Fifty Shades of Gary

I am washing my hair with Timotei shampoo because I am worth it and - oh gosh - I have dropped it in the shower and I have to bend over to pick it up, if you can imagine that. Anyway, I am done bending over and I towel myself dry with one of those towels like you see on the telly, like when the lady gets out of the bath and David Niven has a big towel and he says my dear and all that and he raises an eyebrow and you know they are certainly going to have it off a bit later, but they probably won't film that part.

Cor! The dirty devils!

'Are you going to do that case, Jessica?' my flatmate Yolanda asks me. She has black hair and sometimes we have pillow fights and we talk about boys and stuff.

'Yes I am going to do that case, Yolanda,' I say to her.

'I was wondering because you have made yourself look all lush so I thought you must be meeting a bloke or summink.'

I think of my case. I am going to meet the enigmatic disability benefit claimant known as Gary. He has a second name but names aren't important in the world of having it off with people what you don't know very well because it's just like some weird sexy club or something like one of those mucky shows on Channel Four.

Minutes later I have my clipboard and I am stood knocking on the door.

'Wha'choo want?' he says. He is about six-foot-summink, red faced and a bit bald on top. His T-shirt doesn't cover his stummick and he smells a bit. I don't think he's had a bath in a few days. My clipboard says that he is forty-seven years old and a bachelor.

'Hello, Mr. Gary,' I say to him, trying to stop my voice from going up and down with excitement. 'I am here to discuss yore disability benefit. I am called Jessica. Can I come in for a bit?'

He shrugs and says, 'I ain't bothered,' and lets me come in.

'What's in here?' I say and go into one room. It is the sitting room. There is a big fish tank there but there are no fish in it. There are rocks in the fish tank and they are painted blue and yellow and dark red. 'What is that?'

'What is what?'

I point to the fish tank.

'That's my fish tank.'

'Where's all the fucking fish gone if it's a fish tank?'

'There ain't no fish,' he explains.

'So what's all that?'

'Ain't you into football?' he asks me.

'No, I'm more into making love.' I say it in a special sexy way like on an advert or summink, just to let him know. It's like a special sexy signal.

'I painted them stones up in West Ham colours. It's one of me projects, you know?' He gulps. 'You want a cup of tea or summink?'

'Yes, all right,' I say.

'I ain't got any.'

'What? You ain't got any tea?'


'Never mind then.'

'You stopping me money?'

I sit down on the leather couch. There are dog hairs on it. That would explain all the poo out in the alleyway. They don't call me Sherlock Holmes for nuffink.

'I am just making an assessment, Mr. Gary. If you have a disability like it says here on my form you will still get yore money.'

'Do you fancy a bunk-up?'

'Yeah, go on then.'

Gary puts on his tape of Bon Jovi and we have it off. There was an old tin of Kronenbourg 1664 on the window sill, and it had gone flat because it was behind the curtain and Gary had forgot about it, but there is still a little bit in it. So we drink that and then he does us up the wrong 'un. It were dead sexy and romantic and that. It was also a bit smelly and I had to have another shower straight after, but I was worth it.

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