A Tiny Bit Marvellous (12 page)

Oscar

Ordinarily at the weekend, I am content to seek out the solitude of my own company. I am often ravaged with exhaustion due to my heavy academic workload. The work itself is not exacting, if anything I find the standard at my school laughably doddlesome, but the quantities of homework are demanding, sometimes requiring four hours of my time each evening.

I am not a fellow who wishes to waste away my life in pursuit of hedonistic folly BUT occasionally I should be permitted the opportunity to relax. Life is not all beer and skittles, I know, but a healthy interest in leisure time must form a part of every young Englishman’s education, surely? It was in this spirit that I made an exception to my typical weekend routine of hermit-like withdrawal, and accepted an invitation to Rowe’s sixteenth birthday celebration at his home this past Saturday.

What to wear? If only I actually owned the smoking jacket I yearn for. A properly tailored good jacket with plush collar, paisley satin, and three chunky Chinese toggles as fastenings down the front, perhaps in a rich forest green, a gentleman’s green. Oh yes, that would be ideal. Until then, I have to settle for the Pater’s old dressing gown, which I have customized. It does for now, but lord knows, it is severely lacking. I have indicated to both of my parents repeatedly that a quality smoking jacket would be a far preferable gift to any trifling item of the I-phone, I-player, I-don’t-care-for-it-a-jot variety. Perhaps my birthday will bring me smoking-jacket joy? Who knows?

Meantime, I must make do with the cut-off dressing gown and my trademark silk slacks at any jolly social event. On this occasion I decided to complete the outfit with an amusing cluster of pearls and chains wound around one of Mama’s scarves, worn cheekily at the sternum. From time to time, I impress even myself with my ingenuity.

This was certainly one of those times. There was something of the decadent roué about me as I stepped out. Rowe lives on a private housing estate built around a golf course. A location which fancies it is far posher than it really is. For me, the whole estate reeks of the desperate endeavouring to impress the deluded. A merry social dance that leads all the way to nowhere. Still, Rowe cannot be responsible for the misguided aspirations of his hopelessly lower-middle-class parents, just as I cannot be responsible for mine. Mine at least display a modicum of taste and choose not to live beyond their means, an attribute I have long admired in them both. They are honest, dull people and do not pretend to be otherwise, which is commendable, and we share a mutual understanding of my personal inexorable need to shine my own light in my own special way. And that’s just dandy.

The Pater dropped me at Rowe’s house and attempted the usual badinage about drugs and alcohol etc. which, although entirely unnecessary, is très endearing. Rowe’s parents had sensibly decided not to trust Rowe to host the party without their presence so they had decamped to a small summer house in the garden and were waving wildly at each new guest. Rowe was painfully embarrassed and drew the curtains, plunging their drawing room into an unexpected dimness conducive to instant sexual behaviour, and since the party had been in full swing for a good hour by the time I arrived at nine, the sexual tension was palpable.

Most of the chaps from St Thomas’s are sclerotic with fear when confronted with the prospect of living breathing females. They are perfectly prepared to brag or believe the bragging about their numerous fantasy conquests, but when in the company of genuine maidens, they are hopelessly incompetent. I have scant respect for any of them. Not one of them could beguile a girl or woo her with any aplomb. Have none of them ever whiled away a lazy Saturday watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Brief Encounter or Pillow Talk?

It seems, sadly, no wooing techniques are necessary since the brand of female that most often attends this sort of ghastly affair is a filly all too quick for the off. Before the curtains met in the middle, the girls had leapt upon their prey like ants on jam. Their manoeuvres had evidently been intricately plotted for days, so efficient were their tactics. The chaps were powerless to resist and, for the most part, sat back and happily received the attention they so supremely didn’t deserve.

I am so very disappointed with these wretched gals, teaching the moronic boys that no effort is required. They then proceed to behave like the most boorish of oafs, like the type of chaps who should be avoided at all costs.

Ah well, none of it concerned me other than to observe, with increasing chagrin, the decidedly Romanesque orgy taking place under my very nose. I decided to remove myself from the writhing masses and take a seat on the swing in the garden to reflect on the paucity of pride amongst today’s youth, and bask in the glow of the sunset. Rowe’s parents continued to wave frantically at me and I waved back, but we all respected the division of boundaries, and neither actually approached.

What happened next shouldn’t have shocked me quite as much as it did. One by one, the more attractive and popular of the gals came out on to the lawn. It seems they tire very easily of these licentious entertainments. No wonder. There is no thrill in it, no chase, no conquest. It’s all too easy for them, and thus not at all diverting. The boys are hapless, passive submissives. There is no triumph in their capture, one might as well celebrate the capture of a slug. It ain’t difficult. So, bored by it all, they tumbled out into the garden and, of course, in search of treats more challenging and, frankly, less dowdy, they buzzed around me like bees to an exotic bloom. Something about my distinct lack of interest in them beckons them on. I am the siren that calls them on to my rocks. Indeed I am rocks, for I have nothing here to offer them save a brief uncomfortable sojourn on the jagged nibs of my rapier wit. Undeterred by my dangerous cragginess, they flock to me and throw themselves willingly upon my sword.

I confess that one of my greatest pleasures is to perform for a hungry audience. These girls are not just hungry, they are ravenous, emaciated. They long for any tiny morsel of amusement. My mode of frank and free discourse is majorly pleasing to them, and they fall about in a chirruping cacophony of girlish giggles whenever I utter the vaguest of witticisms. They especially adore a heated bout of malicious gossip, and this I can provide in heapfuls, with pleasure.

I was not entirely impervious to their charms, they were as fine a litter of dazzling poppets as one could hope to meet. Fire these girls up with enchantment and they will respond accordingly with many juicy morsels of both fashion and beauty tips. We swapped countless trinkets of information, recommendations for the latest eye-liners and accessories, discussed the merits of the wide belt and condemned the inventors of Spanx to a life in purgatory.

It was a bountiful exchange of populist nosegays and frou- frou culminating in a heated debate about which camp we were pledged to: Team Andre or Team Pricey? Oh joy. Everyone was agog at the sheer depth of my encyclopaedic knowledge of the Adonal phenomenon that is Peter Andre. I urged all traitors to defect back to Team Andre and to eschew their cruel, inconstant mistress. Deny her, reject her, SPURN HER!! She is Beelzebub’s right-hand goblin and must not be permitted to triumph. Over my dead but still undeniably dashing body.

The gals and I babbled on in this pleasant manner for aeons, while the moon glistened on their shampooed and shiny hair. The army of rejected chaps spectated from the stands, jealous and frustrated. After several hours, and completely spent from chattering, we all made moves to go home.

It was then that in the gloaming, in the garden, I was firmly tugged into a bush and suddenly found myself the recipient of several attempts to connect at the mouth by two of the more fair damsels. It has never been my style to appear rude, so I submitted to a frenzied forty minutes of fervent embraces, livid love bites and a pretty thorough tonguing. It was all very hot and high-pitched and breathy, and I found the clawing and snatching of their tiny hands at my clothes irritating, but overall it wasn’t unpleasant.

Fortunately it didn’t get out of hand, and so my disinterest remained fully trousered. I would hate for these delicious dames to find me mannerless or to think me ungrateful. It’s just that, oh dear, they simply don’t float my boat. They couldn’t hold a candle to my beloved, I’m afraid. I couldn’t possibly join them on the road to their Shangri-La because I’m using an entirely different map. I’m taking the scenic route, it will be more treacherous and take much longer but, my dears, I will be amply rewarded for my toil the day I wrap my arms around my darling Noel. He is my only paradise, and I am solely intent upon him. There are those who will think I’m looking for the moon at midday but I truly believe I will only be completely happy when I am in his keeping and he is in mine.

In the meantime I suspect I must put up with many more of these unsolicited attentions from females of every order. Today my mouth is twisted from kissing and so I will rest and soak my lips in milk. I may well add drinking chocolate powder to make it more sufferable. I pray that one day, my lips may yet be swollen from the vigorous and urgent kisses of my one and only. To even think of it makes me shudder.

A Tiny Bit Marvellous

Dora

Still a virgin.

My big Food Tech practical exam is next week and surprise surprise, Mum has bought a copy of my textbook and plonked it on my bed so’s I have like ‘no excuse’ not to revise. Yeah, all right, I geddit, thanks. I’m not a total idiot. I do know I’ve got stuff to study. That’s why I’m on study leave, you dweeb. It’s my bloody life, why doesn’t she just like butt out?!! She’s downstairs right now and she thinks I’m working. Whatever.

So, anyway, I’ve been thinking about my birthday and like, all the arrangements and stuff? I am now told by my cheapskate parents that apparently it will cost too much to hire a room in a hotel. Mum says it will be like five hundred quid or something plus at least ten quid per person for the food? I already SAID bring in KFC but apparently the hotel won’t let you do that, for some bizarre reason. So now, it looks like we have to use the room above the pub where Dad goes, which is sooo rank but it’s better than nothing.

Other things I can’t have apparently, are The Hummer Limo (too expensive), the film all about me (apparently it’s wrong to ask for this upfront … ?) and The Boy Band (also too expensive). The rest is OK and Dad’s doing some prices and has already booked the room. There’s some huge bloody fuss about the alcohol as well, because some of the people who are invited are under eighteen, and they’re not allowed to drink apparently. Yeah, even though they get people to buy bottles of cider from that exact same pub and drink it on the bloody benches right out bloody side every Saturbloodyday night. Wassat all bout?!

Been thinking about being eighteen. Got a leaflet from Dad with like, all the stuff I’ll be able to do but it’s so like random:

I can: vote – Yeah. But like, do I want to? Because I so don’t believe in politics coz they’re all liars who nick our money to buy castles ’n’ stuff? So like do I have to vote? Maybe it’s against the law not to – ask Mum. If it’s not against the law not to, then I’m not going to. I can: get married – Yeah, like, to who? And where? And when? And who would want me? And why? And what for? I don’t think I’m ever going to get married. I will prob go to hundreds of my friends’ weddings and cry and then be all alone and really ancient like thirty-seven or something, when some dork with no teeth will ask me coz we’re the last two left and I will say yes coz loneliness will have eaten me away ’til I’m only half there. Great! Here comes the bride, all fat and wide, Married a mega twat, Happiness denied. I can: join the armed forces with parents’ consent – Yeah, and what, get shot? Thanks a lot queen and prime minister for sending me to Alfganistan to sweat and die for no reason. I know, the soldiers look quite fit in the uniforms ’n’ stuff but that’s not enough. I can: buy cigarettes and alcohol – Yeah, thanks, been doing that for three years now, no bother. Actually, I really hate smoking but I buy the cigs for other girls at school coz I def look the oldest. Mind you, I think a baby could buy cigarettes at that corner shop – they honestly serve anyone. Smoking is disgusting though. Lottie smokes and her breath is like really minging sometimes. And yellow teeth. Urgh. I luurve alcohol though and I’m so going to like drink so much, especially on my birthday. I’m going to get so lashed, it’ll be a total blast. Karen Burton got so pissed on her birthday that one of her eyes popped out apparently. That is so gross but maybe I’ll get drunk enough to like, sing out loud or something. Sing my Christina song. That would be good. I can: open a bank account without parents’ signature – Yeah, and put what in there? Like, buttons or something?!! I already have an account and got into trouble twice for letting it go over. Then I had to bloody pay for that! It’s so unfair, how was I supposed to know how much was left in it for God’s sake? I will open a new one though, when I get my first ever cheque for my first ever record deal. I will like, put the money in there and say to everyone, ‘Hey – let’s get champagne all round and loads of posh small food! It’s all on me darlings!’ That’s going to be a big day. And it’s comin’ soon baby. I can: change my name. Actually, that’s the first really good one. I’m not going to go my whole life being Dora Battle. No hon, I’m here to tell ya – that ain’t happenin’. I’ve always wanted a really sophisticated name like Susan or Terri – spelled like that with an i on the end. Yeah. Terri Trent. Something like that, where the last name is short and quick and has the same first letter. Hi, I’m Terri Trent. Yeah, I’m a singer. Yeah. My autograph would be like,

I can: be called to serve on a jury – Yeah, but why? It would be good to hear all the juicy details of a murder or something but I wouldn’t listen if like, some kids got hurt or something. I would like totally refuse or whatever. Plus you do get to stay in a hotel I think, and get like really good room service. And sometimes you can get really fit guys on there who you can scribble notes to during the boring bits. That would be like, so hot. Especially if you’re staying at the same hotel. Oh yeah baby. Gimme some o dat jury jiggy action … I can: buy a house – Yeah. Why? Got everything I want at home. Except Mum’s there. And anyway, I’m not even going to be there much coz a singer’s life is so full of travelling and gigs and sleeping and stuff? Don’t need one. I can: sue or be sued – Yeah. But I don’t want to be sued? So I’m going to pass on that one because I’m not sure what it really is. Don’t you sue someone if they do a like totally wrong thing to you or say you’re too short or something? Not sure. Ask Dad. I can: make a will – Yeah, like, why? I’m not dead yet am I? Anyway, everyone can have what they like to remember me by – just come in my bedroom and take what you like that reminds you of all our good times. Lottie will def go for my iPod and speakers. Peter will take all my clothes to chop up and sew on his own clothes. Mum will … Don’t think she’d want anything of mine. She’s got pictures of me as a baby and that’s when she liked me best. I’ve def been a total bloody disappointment since then. Maybe she could have my box with all my badges from Brownies and my swimming certificates and stuff. That might remind her there were some things I was good at once. Poo will prob just want my duvet. Which will smell of me. A lot. Poo doesn’t mind that, she loves smelling me. She’s the one I’ll miss most when I die. And she’ll miss me the most because I love her the most out of the whole family. Besides Nana Pamela. Dad will just cry for ages. He’s hopeless like that. I can: place a bet – Yeah but like, someone needs to explain how it works coz I don’t get it. What is evens? What is each way? Does the horse run each way? Both ways? What is twenty to one? Is that the time of the race? I don’t get it but I really want to do it. Dad will explain. I can: buy fireworks – Oh my actual God. I so didn’t know that! I’m going to buy fireworks for my party then. You can get these indoor ones. That will make such a great ending. Not going to tell anyone, just going to get them. As a surprise. Wayhay!

Oh God, elephant-steps of approaching mother on stairs, get books out – look busy … Why doesn’t she just bloody LEAVE ME ALONE!

A Tiny Bit Marvellous