…or so the old folk keep telling me. Great. It means I’m onto a winner with the gummy bear blowjobs. In an ideal world it would be a short-skirted, high heeled, nice little lady tippy-toeing at full stretch to try and reach a high shelf in the supermarket, thus giving me a good glimpse of her shapely behind in the process. Instead it always seems to be old blue rinse Mavis, asking me if I could fetch her down the Bovril. No, it’s sweet really. Especially the 20 pence tip they leave you afterwards. Cheers, luv. You’ve lost your marbles as well as your teeth. 20 pence back in 1876 might have bought you your shopping and a trip to Ibiza to get your young ass Pascha on then. Not now. 20p nowadays won’t even buy me a packet of Hubba Bubba, or a Sun newspaper if I’m out of London. It’s as good a use to me as a chocolate fireguard. I’m joking. I love conversing with old people. They’re sweet. Plus I intend on being one someday.
The one I get the most though, when driving ‘em to the Gala or to check up on their Alzheimer’s is, “You’re a nice boy. Lovely boy. Do you have a girlfriend?”. It does make me wonder, mind. Why? Are you asking, darlin’? I can give you a bloody good send off before you go and meet the big man upstairs, if you are. There’s plenty of room in the back. Plus, I’m sure you’ve already noticed. I’m a big man. 6ft 9in. 6 of those foot being my height.
My God! Has my constitution really sunk so low beyond compare, that I’m having to write about fornicating with the Titanic’s last remaining survivor? And to think, all this stemmed from an innocent conversation at the supermarket this morning. Next time, get your own Bovril and bag of boiled sweets. Again, I’m joking. I’m a nice boy, remember?
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