Ally and Sally did not come alive in the night and attempt to wank anyone off (well if they did, Pete didn't say anything about it). I had though had a disturbed night of sleep, so it's probable that even thinking about dummies coming to life at bed-time is a stupid thing to do. I half-jogged down to the bank to pay in last night's SCOPE money and then walked through Cheddar reminiscing about the any events and scrapes we had got up to as kids here. One house I recall was where I used to wait for Brian Bancroft so we could walk to school and a lad from a year or so below us lived there. One day as I waited I looked up at the bedroom window and saw the vague shadow of this boy's mum through the net curtains. She was wearing a bra, which even as a ten year old I found very exciting. Or maybe just funny. It had been the merest whiff of a glimpse, but back then that was enough. I remember saying to the woman's son, affecting casual cool, "Hey, your mum's got a nice bra." I was letting him know I had seen his mum's bra, which gave me power over him. Though of course, a bra is not really all that much of an achievement. I could probably have seen the bra more clearly if I had just looked at her washing line. But I had seen a bra with breasts in it, which I thought made me quite the playboy (rather than a peeping Tom). He didn't believe me, but I insisted I had seen it. And that it was nice. As far as I could tell through net curtains anyway. He was humiliated. I doubt he's ever been able to form a relationship with a woman after knowing what I had seen of his mum.
Passing the house again I thought that the net curtains looked quite familiar. Was it possible the same family was there 33 years on? And they hadn't changed their net curtains in that time? Would I get a second look at that lad's mum's bra? It might not be quite as tantalising now if I did. We've all got older. Even firm young breasts wither and decay. Curse you God. How could you create something as alluring and wonderful as a breast and then let it atrophy and waste away. You are a prick!
And I wish I could still be as excited and animated about a breast, covered by a bra, covered by a net curtain as I was then. But now the breasts need to naked and clamped to the testicles of a straining ox for me to get any interest from them at all.
Round the corner was the house of the girl who was the "fleabag" in our class. So strong were the fleas that we were sure she had (because she was a little bit quiet and unusual and that's just the kind of person a flea would be attracted to) that we had to run past her house on the trip to school, for fear that some of the fleas might leap on to us if we were too slow. What horrible little shits we were. How unhappy this poor shunned girl must have been.
In a way it's lucky she had those fleas to keep her company.
I did feel contrite though, but I suppose we all have stories of being bullied and picked on at school, and probably also have stories where we were the bullies (though we tend to try to forget those). It was a constant jockeying for position and popularity that I suppose doesn't even disappear, just becomes more subtle. In its pure and unsubtle childhood form it is perhaps at its worst though. I don't even remember the girl's name or what happened to her (I only recall her from primary school so now am hoping that she moved to another town rather than killed herself or something. Let's say she blossomed into a beauty and no one remembered it had been her that they had mocked so relentlessly and then she used her beauty to ruin the lives of all the people who had made her life Hell).
She did unwittingly become one of the models for the Fist of Fun character "The girl who smelt of spam". I don't think that would make things any better for her.
Soon we were driving through the sunny countryside to Cambridge - this week hasn't felt like work at all, though I was sad to be leaving our idyll behind, but quite pleased that we had made the decision to come back to London after the Cambridge gig tonight. Eight nights away in a row had turned into three nights away, then a night at home, then four nights away, which is a whole lot less miserable, especially when we were based at my parents for the first three. After two runs of 13 nights out of town, we now don't have more than five days on the road and there's less than 30 gigs to go. It really doesn't feel like we're that far into the tour. It has been plain sailing so far, on the whole.
Pete and me got to Cambridge early and decided to use up one of the Nandos cards that a kind podcast fan had given me some time ago and treated ourselves to a whole chicken with extra hot sauce (Pete, like me, likes food as hot as possible, which is lucky because if he was a garlic and herb type of man I would have had to sack him on the spot - instead, like me, he coated his extra hot chicken in extra, extra hot XO sauce proving that he is not a twot).
I sat in the dressing room looking at the 300+ photos from this week's photoshoot trying to work out which would make the best poster. It is a pretty tough choice. But the talented Steve Brown also took some nice head shots, which will no doubt be useful to publicise the podcast show amongst other things. Here's one to whet your appetite. I don't want to reveal any of the poster images until Steve has had his chance to work his magic and photoshop in my open chest cavity. Think it's going to be a good one though.
After another sold out show we raced down the M11 (you know at the speed limit) and I was home my midnight. Even if I would only be here for 14 hours we had made the right choice. Home is a good place to be.
But don't stand too close to the window if you're in your underwear, even if you've got net curtains.
Unless you want to be seen. As I am sure I implied to that embarrassed lad that his mother had done.
