Beale de Jour

The Diary of an East End Fish & Chip Shop/Car Mechanic Empire-builder

lundi 15 août

Got home from work, covered in chip fat residue, and the aroma of fetid batter and unwanted cod. Gasping for a bottle of Stella and a long soak in a bubbly bath. Just about to open the fridge door and uncork a green one when I hear a low, trying to be alluring moan from the bedroom - "Ian? That you?" Bloody Jane, innit. Gagging for it, as usual. There's me, still reeking of stale deep fried King Edwards, and she's angling for a quickie before tea. She doesn't half pick her moments. And the Gherkin I rushed down for what laughably passes for my 'lunch' nowadays - that won't win me any prizes in the amourous department, I can tell you. It's been repeating on me all day. My mouth still feels like a vinegared chip. What with the bad breath and the soiled white overalls, I must make bloody Charlie Slater look like Sacha Distell at the minute. And then there's the throbbing in my gonads from the reverse vascectomy. Hurts like merry hell it does. It's like wearing a tight fitting stilletto on your cock and banging the heel with a mallet into your groin every five minutes. I can't go through with it feeling like this - I don't care how much she wants a bloody kid. I've already got four of me own anyway - well, three if you don't count Stephen. And even I'm not sure if Bobby's mine or Gary's. Still, you can't say I haven't got a way with the birds, can you? Mind you, I've not exactly set the bar high. There's not many'd do the deed with Janine without having been pumped with industrial strength hallucinogens and a litre of Diamond White first. Oh, I've got baggage alright - enough to keep the British Airports Authority in industrial action for the next half century. Dot Cotton's about the only one I haven't had a tumble with, and that's probably more down to her religious convictions than any sense of propriety on my part. I have to say, in a certain light....No, she'd only break my heart like all the rest. Mind you, now the pain's receded a bit, I have to say that Cindy was a bit of a minx. Shame she turned out to be a hysterical, heartless, ball breaking harpie. Still, what's new? Anyway, that's it, I can't go through another marathon session of gyrating with Jane and then sit reading Harry Potter stories to Peter and Lucy as if nothing's happened. No, I know - I'll make something up. I call upstairs to her, "Sorry love, gotta dash. Something's come up at the Minit Mart" and with that I'm out the door and half way to the Vic. It's only when I sit down with Gary and Minty that I realise that the Minit Mart is about the only small business holding in Walford I've never owned. Shit. She'll bladdy kill me when I get home!!


// posted by beale @ 6:00 PM