The Tab Editor Pokes Me Hard
As I sit at my desk, the blank screen inviting me to fill it with witty banter and such, I notice that it is my birthday (or ‘Girthday’ as one former lover charmingly calls it – only in relation to me, mind). I have turned 21. I’m getting close to the top of the hill, and I just don’t know what to think.
So I go to my archived articles for the Tab. I suggest you all do too, if you don’t already. It is at this moment of supreme narcissism that I realise that my first foray into columns saw me talking of how I wanted to use the Tab as a means to advance myself socially (particularly since the blowie I gave that guy from Eton produced nothing of lasting substance).
Well now blow me down and call me Mary (as they say at the YMCA): I definitely made a good move in those seven days of sunny June. It is safe to say I have hit the big time at Tab towers. And, as Kelvin Mackenzie never did not say, it don’t get no bigger than that [sic].
As you all know by now, I am nothing if not working class. My roots are so deeply embedded in the North I could shit world-renowned stainless steel for a living; unless, of course, that bitch Thatcher tries to cork me up and sell my assets to Shell. We all know that’s all she’s good for.
So as the working class hero from the Fens, you can imagine my glee when the editors invited me to dine at the Pitt Club. I had initially thought it was just going to be me and them, but they asked some others along. I mean, there does come a point when politeness can be extended too far, but I didn’t want to cause a ruckus. For God’s sake, the nearest I’d ever got to the Pitt Club before this was that time the man whose mother’s sister’s best friend’s niece is married to General Pinochet’s son took me round the back of Pizza Express. I wasn’t going to ruin things now.
After a meal of sun kissed tomato and finest Italian cheese on a crisp layer of Italian bread, we moved things into what I’m going to call the parlour. It’s a room with chairs and booze. So parlour’s probably about right.
It was there that things got a little bit outta control.
The editors, prompted by my first article’s revelation of a deep fascination with one of their faces, vied for my approval. Rumours quickly began to spread that a foursome was on the cards. As a fully paid up member of the Lib Dems, such egalitarianism seemed an appropriate and fitting ethical inevitability.
I loitered around the toilets, anticipating, and occasionally pretending not to hear other people pee.
But, alas, it all came to nothing. My assertions that one was well-dressed, the other had seductively moist lips, and my favourite was just sexually ‘Rrrrarr’, fell on deaf ears and flaccid cocks.
I went home alone.
And I thought that none of them cared. Until, a few days later, I noticed a poke on Facebook. It was from my favourite Tab Editor. I didn’t realise he’d done it at first (which wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to me – I’m hoping to goodness for his sake it’s the first time it’s happened to him).
Oh well, I’m sure I’ll receive a more substantial poke from him for my Birthgay; it is, after all, very lonely down them mines.