Time was that my ancestral blot on the landscape was known rather pompously as the ‘Queen of the Suburbs’. In recent years much like the decline of minor royalty it is rather more the Dowager Duchess, complete with the hump. Whilst I would be lying if I were to paint an idyllic picture of an Enid Blyton childhood free of worry, stress and predatory perverts it was possible I believe to make it through an average day without being called a cunt by a complete stranger in your own front garden.
Ah the mating call of the young British male when the sun is shining and the blood is up. Although I’ll admit to never being quick on the uptake when it comes to the subtler banter involved in romantic courtship – ‘Oi ginger fancy a fuck?’ is about as sexually alluring as curry flavoured condom. Whether it was the boldness of the statement or the fact that my would be beau had a complexion that would make Freddy Krueger look fair of skin I’m not sure but my immediate repost was shall we say in the negative. Then he called me a cunt. Then better still he took out his door keys and let himself into the house three doors down where, I have since found out he has just moved into with his parents. His name is Dane and he 14. I am older than his mother who also has a daughter who’s name I think, having heard it yelled several times out of the bedroom windows is Chlamydia. Such is the trend for naming your children after significant circumstances surrounding their conception. If I were a betting man I would put money on the family also having a set of fraternal twins being called Benson and Stella.
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