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Mr Big Works at the Labour
Well, Big Sally-Ann wanted to go for a drive to Loreto Abbey with Tommy Dick-Fingers last week and didn’t I have to go down to the Labour to do her feckin back-to-work interview? Here’s me, ‘No.’
And then she said, ‘Go on – I’d do it for you.’
I said, ‘Why do you wanna go over to Loreto Abbey with him anyway?’
This is her, ‘That’s what you do, isn’t it? With fellas?’
This is me, ‘Eh ... no. That’s Loreto Abbey, not feckin Downtown Abbey. But I’ll do it for twenty smokes an a squirt of your Colleen Rooney perfume.’
So I sauntered on down to the Labour, stinkin of the Rooneys an took a ticket to get in the queue. Sure the number on the ticket was 29 an they’d just called number 2 an I think I’m gonna be here all feckin day in this sweat-box. So, I tramped over to sit down an weren’t my pink Converse trainers stickin to the carpet? An this is me to myself, this has to be the most brutal place on the planet. Sticky carpet an a faint whiff of Dutchy an smokes in the air an the staff look like they are suckin lemons, the miserable feckers.
Then I saw an old tramp sittin at the end of my row an he’s nearly unconscious with the drink an in his hand is a ticket that says 4 on it. So, this is me, ack, he’s almost sleepin anyway, an he’s keepin warm in here, he’ll not mind sittin a while longer. So I got up an shifted past him an on the way I plucked the ticket out of his hand. Then he wakes up an is huffin an shufflin – he probably thinks he’s outside the Spar an somebody’s nickin his carryout. Then I said, ‘You dropped your ticket, mate.’ An I passed him the ticket with the number 29 on an he just smiled an closed his eyes again. So I skipped on an sat a couple of rows in front to wait my turn.
Well, two Polish boyos were eyein me up while I was sittin there. I’m not racist, a ride’s a ride. So I gave them a wink an uncrossed my legs like the woman from Basic Instinct? Now, I had pink leggins on an I said, ‘Here mate, no knickers.’
An one of the lads said, ‘Those leggins are see-through – that’s some bush.’
An they both bust out laughin an made a pig’s arse out of me. Feckers. Then I looked down an didn’t I put my pink footless tights on that mornin instead of my leggins an the Muff was stickin through the material. It was like a big gay hedgehog. But before I could lamp one of them boyos for their cheek, wasn’t Big Sally-Ann called in an I went in pretendin to be her.
The guy doin the interview was like somethin out of the Kays catalogue – tall, dark an ridesome. He had a gorgeous grey suit on, like one ye’d see in Topman, an a grey silk tie. The most gorgeous green sparkly eyes that stared through me, settin my flaps on fire. Proper ride material like. So I said, ‘How YOU doin?’ Then didn’t I trip on my pack of twenty smokes that I’d dropped in shock an fall into the room, head first an into his arms. An my face went bright red but he just smiled at me an I’m thinkin, Oh yeah, he wants into my knickers! An he said to me that he’s fell over before too, an I thought to myself, yeah, probably trippin over his big trouser-snake!
I said I’d call him Mr Big in tribute to Carrie’s fella in Sex and the City. So he said okay to that. Now he’s not from the Flats or anythin. Said he was from outside the city, somewhere called Killiney, but had an apartment near work. He was askin me all sorts – when I last worked an what my qualifications were – an Big Sally-Ann had forgotten to fill me in on the bastard info so wasn’t I makin it up as I went along? Morto. I told him she had a ten-metre swimming badge and was the first-aid officer in the Sunset. Cos when Big Sally-Ann got stabbed in the arm that time, I stook my thumb in the hole til the ambulance came. An that’s all I could think of. But Mr Big seemed to like it.
He was scribblin down everythin I said an lookin up at me every now an then with his green twinkly eyes an half-smilin. I think he was, like, mentally undressin me, the dirty beast. If only he knew I went commando his pecker would be knockin the table from underneath. So then he said that that would be everything for today, and that he’d process the paperwork and that he’d see me again in a few months.
But I couldn’t let it end there. So I flashed him my best ‘ride-me’ eyes. Nothing. It was time for extreme action, so I did a Sharon Stone. Didn’t he just smile an get up to hold the door for me? An I thought to myself, most fellas would be takin a charge at me with their flies down after a look at the Muff through those leggins. And I thought to myself, he must be gay. An I’ve enough gay friends, what with our Will, Big Sally-Ann’s little brother, an his gang of Kylie-lovin muckers. But I couldn’t stop thinkin about Mr Big the rest of the day. His posh accent, his grey suit from Topman an his lovely green eyes.
I couldn’t even concentrate when I was shopliftin a box of fish fingers from Iceland an I got caught by the security guard. I had to promise him I’d meet him out the back of the shop to give him a blowie, but didn’t I do a runner on the dope. Sure he probably stood there til midnight waitin for me, the eejit. When I got home, all I could do was think about Mr Big’s tallywhacker an his little half-smile an I was moist, I’m tellin ya.
