I look back in a melancholia haze because my dearest wife wasn’t what she seemed; she stole my innocence, youthfulness and optimism while I was in my bouncer prime – but, you can’t help who you love. She claimed I was no Magnum Private Investigator even when I harvested and manicured a rather fetching caterpillar upper lip, in homage to the handsome actor Tom Selleck. Oh yes, back in the day 21 million years ago, my good-looks was a sight for sore eyes and they’ve not really faded, today. My dearest wife then proceed to do unmentionable dirty dancing with the lodger, poor lamb… she crushed him like an ‘Eddie Stobart’ lorry would a penny-farthing. Oh the pain!
He didn’t stand a chance; his brain was woollier than Woolworths and had difficulty in stomaching the pick n mix on display. Her vocal was emotionally deep and neutral just like a male newsreader, delivering news of an atrocity, an act of home-grown terrorism. The greater her lustful urge, the slower and studiedly neutral her announcement was…will you be my Eartha Kitt…and I’ll be your…… (lick lips)….. Liberace?” --- “Eeek” he responded as my dearest wife grabbed for his joystick and vigorously played ‘Grand Theft Auto.’
She then stuffed a six
week old sock in his cake-hole and sang our song: “Strangers in the Night, exchanging glances…wandering the night. What
are the chances…” for approximately four minutes seven seconds. He’d crawl out from beneath my wife while
sporting a beetroot red chin… Meanwhile, I was furthering my career as a
nightclub bouncer; I was this mean action man, treat em mean keep them keen sort of a fella; alas, getting
bruised by the city slags with hefty handbags, smelling of Henry Cooper’s
‘Brut’ ‘splash it on all over…’ “Alan” they’d burp out, “thought it was you in that ridiculous Stetson
hunched over a pile of fag ends.” Ironically, it was what my dearest wife said
daily as I readied myself for the chores of modern life, such as thinking about
trimming my caterpillar lip, Tom Selleck style, indeed; call me the Antoine
Riboud of entrepreneurism.
The food chief, therefore salad for everyone, apart from the
caterpillar, that was the tickling fancy for Liberace - although, I couldn’t
help but notice the many beetroot chinned males in town, walking just like John
Wayne, and speaking like Aled Jones during that epoch when he was walking in
the air with a snowman. “What I could do
with Aled…” my dearest wife would announce in a very deep, slow seductive
way; “Imagine how high his voice would
reach, they’d be no need for grabbing flying snowmen, that’s for sure.”
Liberace performed eight more times
over a marriage, 0.25 times per year. Albeit, always on tour was my wife
dearest.
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