Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir)

by Spalding, Nick

  Annabelle succeeded in herding the raging mutt out of the lounge and up the stairs, locking it back in the bedroom.

  As she got back to the lounge, I’m wrestling with my jeans, while at the same time offering up prayers of thanks that the naked girl had saved me from a nasty canine mauling.

  I have to say my behaviour for the rest of the evening was not on top form. I hung around for another hour or so, but then started looking at my watch every thirty seconds, chucking glances toward the front door.

  ‘Do you want to go home?’ Annabelle said.

  Yes I did.

  With my virginity gone to the winds and my nerves shattered by the diabolical doggie, I wanted nothing more than to show the evening my heels and get back home for some serious sleep. No insomnia or superhero related sleep-walking in Spalding’s life at this point.

  I gave Annabelle a half-hearted kiss at the door and wended my merry way home, pleased to not be a virgin anymore and relieved to still be in possession of the organ I’d accomplished it with.

  My attitude to Annabelle was very poor that evening and if I had the chance to apologise to her now, I would.

  We saw each other a few more times after that night and the sex got a little better - we made sure there were no domesticated animals about for one thing - but the relationship spluttered out in a couple of months, as so many teenage romances do.

  A lot of people say their first sexual experience wasn’t great, that it wasn’t that exciting. I have to agree with the first point, but on the subject of excitement, I can’t think of anything more pulse-pounding than the prospect of having your winkie-woo bitten off by an incensed collie dog.

  As life has gone on, I’ve got better at screwing, and I enjoy it immensely.

  Even when actual sex isn’t on the cards, I have to confess that the odd gentleman’s entertainment film has made its way into my DVD player.

  There’s nothing wrong with a bit of pornography in my book.

  Where I do get a bit uncomfortable is when pornography becomes a group activity - conducted in public.

  Yuck.

  It should be a purely solo venture, behind closed doors, with the curtains shut!

  I’ve never had the desire to see a skin flick in a cinema and my one brush with public sex-capades is one I’d rather forget.

  Cast your mind back a few chapters and you may recall I talked about a trip to Las Vegas with my cousin.

  I promised I would speak more on the subject and the time has arrived to do just that.

  As Vegas is generally considered to be the home of sinners and dodgy morality, what better place to investigate the idea of watching sex in public, eh?

  James had one ambition while in Las Vegas. He wanted to visit a strip club.

  Not just any strip club, but one where young ladies would entertain the customers with large and vibrating rubber implements.

  It may sound like James was a colossal pervert, but in reality he just wanted to broaden his horizons before marriage.

  Personally, I would have broadened my horizons by not marrying the pasty looking rodent of a woman he was betrothed to, but then who am I to judge?

  So off we all went one night, seven partially drunk British men in a cab, wallets stuffed with bills of low denomination for the g-strings of the local good time girls.

  The cab driver, a grumpy looking individual who’d done this kind of thing a million times, takes us to a strip club called Rhinestones.

  This turns out to be a dreadfully tacky looking place - even by Vegas standards - with some large plastic cow-girl statues parked outside the entrance and the kind of exterior lighting you’d normally find on an aircraft carrier.

  It may have been one o’clock in the morning, but I still needed sunglasses to look at the damn place.

  We all go in, naughty school boy expressions on our faces, and are greeted, not by a semi-clad lovely, but by a grinning fat man in a suit three sizes too small for him.

  ‘Hello boys! Come for some fun with the girls, have you?’

  No mate, we’re here to check your plumbing…

  James, too carried away to bother with sarcasm, nods his head enthusiastically, requests a private table and the works.

  The fat pimp grins even more and leads us to a private booth at the back of the club.

  We walk past gyrating ladies on four separate stages. They’re being eye-balled by a variety of truckers, tourists and all-American college boys. The way they sit: heads up and bodies forward like penguins at feeding time, is a trifle unsettling.

  Disconcertingly, as we are led past the tables and chairs I notice that under the ultra-violet lighting there are white stains all over the seats.

  Now I don’t know what these stains are. They could be beer, they could be spirits. But I’ve seen enough forensic crime shows on the TV to think they could be something much nastier.

  I’m now starting to think this trip is a bad idea.

  Trying to put it out of my mind, I sit down in our private booth - cut off from the rest of the club with a lovely set of bright orange curtains - and await developments.

  The fat guy takes our money and retires.

  A few moments later, three women enter the booth.

  They are not what you’d call stunners.

  Stunted maybe, but definitely not the kind of woman you see frequenting the front cover of glossy men’s magazines.

  None of them look particularly healthy and I’m pretty sure the tall brunette is in her late forties.

  The red head in the cowboy hat looks like she’s suffering with a good case of acne and the blonde one appears to be cross-eyed.

  They’re dressed in a variety of sexually alluring outfits, which feature a lot of leather, rubber and - of course - rhinestones.

  Two of them jump onto the table in front of us, while the cross-eyed one walks uncertainly over to the back of the room and picks up a large black bag. I’m fairly sure she’s walking slowly so she doesn’t bump into any of the walls.

  James and the others start to make strange cat calls and grunts of excitement.

  When an American man does this it sounds loud, brash and heartfelt. When a British man does it, it sounds very awkward and like he needs the toilet.

  I join in, trying to get into the spirit of things. I’m not doing a very good job, as my mind keeps returning to the horrible stains I saw out front.

  The two girls start to fondle one another on the table. Items of clothing are removed, and much slapping of flesh and licking of lips follows. The cross-eyed one starts to delve into the black bag, producing an increasingly eclectic variety of sex toys:

  There are long ones, there are short ones. Some vibrate, some are tied together with rope.

  They come in various shades of black, red, purple, pink and green.

  One looks like something you’d clean your fish tank with.

  Cross-eyes hands these to the two on the table, who proceed to insert them into various orifices.

  Contrary to what you might believe, this is not arousing.

  It’s just… mechanical.

  I might as well be watching robots putting a BMW together for the sexual thrill it’s giving me. You can easily tell these girls have done it a thousand times for groups of men much like ours.

  You get the impression that while they’re poking implements into each other and moaning gratuitously, they’re also thinking about what food to buy for the cat and what time Oprah’s on that evening.

  Unbelievably, I’m starting to get bored.

  The others look more into it than I am, though I’m sure they’re faking most of their excitement to keep up appearances.

  Miss Cross-eyes asks me if I’d like her to sit in my lap. I give her a terrified look and metaphorically straighten my tie.

  I’m acting so damnably British, it almost hurts:

  ‘Oh… er... no thank you. I’m quite alright as I am, but you’re very kind for asking.’

  What a stud, eh?


  She looks at me in disgust and turns to help with the implement insertion.

  This gynaecological display goes on for another five minutes, with the girls collecting up a nice bundle of singles, fives and tens.

  By this time, I’ve started looking closely at the orange curtains, wondering if they’d look good in my bathroom back home.

  The fat guy puts an end to the fun by sticking his head through the curtain and telling us the show’s over. I’m quite relieved to hear it.

  The girls immediately stop acting like rutting hyenas and bugger off back into the dressing room to clean up before the next load of horny idiots come-a-knockin’.

  I ask James if he’s happy. He nods his head slowly, as if not entirely sure he believes it.

  We return as wiser men to the nightclub proper and proceed to get drunk on vastly over-priced lager.

  I certainly drink enough to be able to sit on one of the bar stools without worrying about what fluids have dried on it.

  As we leave the club to return to the hotel, I can’t help looking at the plastic cow-girls out front and thinking that there really isn’t a lot of difference between them and the ones inside.

  Not the most titillating or exciting of trips in the end, despite what the brochure may have advertised.

  I guess I’m just not one of those men who can get aroused by sexual displays in public - where intimacy is non-existent and the time it lasts is directly related to how much cash you’ve got in your wallet.

  For me, sex has to involve a level of interest from both parties - otherwise the thrill is most definitely gone.

  James got successfully married to his woman and as far as I know the Vegas sex show has never been mentioned in their household.

  Every time I see him, I like to go cross-eyed for a moment and ask him if he’s cleaned his fish tank recently.

  It always cracks him up.

  4.14 pm

  42664 Words

  That ended up being a long chapter didn’t it? Sex is always fun to talk about.

  Mind you, the theory might be good, but the practical is way better.

  We’re closing in on the magic twenty four hour mark now. I’ve kept a few milestones in my head while writing this and passing a full day is definitely one of the big ones.

  I may have a beer to celebrate.

  You can have one too if you like. It’s one of those low alcohol ones that claims to taste exactly the same but never actually does.

  That’s good marketing for you:

  Ten percent truth, seventy percent bullshit, twenty percent cleavage.

  Twenty four hours ago I was down the park with my son Tom.

  …it seems like months ago now, not just yesterday.

  Funny how that can happen when you miss a night’s sleep.

  Tom likes the park, mainly because it gives him a chance to run around on those sturdy little legs of his, with no danger of head-butting any nearby obstacles such as walls, sofas or other people.

  I’m fascinated by the way he makes the simple task of crossing a playing field into an action-packed adventure.

  I think I envy him as well.

  It must be wonderful to still live in a world where nothing is mundane and everything you see is a potential plaything.

  He’s at that age (five) where he’s got the sense to appreciate the wonder of the world around him, but hasn’t had the magic of life knocked out of him yet by cold, hard experience.

  Can you remember being like that?

  If you can, you’re luckier than I am.

  I meet people from time to time who are always smiling and drift through life with a happy go lucky attitude that means they worry less, stress less and live in the moment.

  I’m convinced this is because they still remember what it was like to be that dreamy five year old, running across an open field, giggling at things only they can see.

  I love my kid without reservation and without condition.

  Yes, sometimes he can be naughty. He can be wilfully disobedient and will push the envelope of parental patience as far as it can go.

  But he has this way of diffusing your towering rage after he’s put pen marks all over the new sofa:

  As you’re about to give him a telling off of epic proportions, he’ll give you a slight, but winning smile. You try to ignore it as much as possible and keep on track.

  Slowly though, the smile will start to work its magic and you find yourself trying desperately not to copy it.

  The words coming out of your mouth may be ‘That’s very naughty, Tom’, but the impact is ruined by the smile traitorously spreading across your face.

  He’ll smile even more - and you’ll smile even more.

  He’ll then start to laugh and so will you.

  And when you’re giggling with him, you’ll decide its best to give up on the scolding and instead you’ll stumble into the kitchen, laughing for a few more minutes before realising you’ve just been neatly handled by a five year old boy – who’s gone back to drawing all over the sofa.

  I find that both amusing and deeply troubling.

  Like many men, I was thoroughly unprepared for fatherhood.

  I never liked children and would throw menacing glances at the two brats wailing in the corner of the restaurant, their caterwauling ruining my chicken jalfrezi and pilau rice.

  Squalling bags of mucus was the way I’d describe babies, and indeed when Tom was born, he was a squalling bag of mucus.

  But he was my squalling bag of mucus and that made all the difference in the world.

  Sophie told me she was pregnant as I was eating a bowl of spaghetti hoops.

  I didn’t spit them out in comedic fashion, but did sit there staring at the spoon for a few seconds.

  I remember speaking to her from roughly ten thousand miles away:

  ‘Really? How far along are you?’

  ‘Two months. You’ll be a dad before the summer.’

  ‘B-b-baby.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right Nick. I’m having a baby.’

  ‘F-f-father.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right Nick. You’re going to be a father.’

  ‘S-s-spaghetti.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Nick. You’re eating a bowl of spaghetti.’

  When I recovered from the shock, I was pleased to find I was happy about the whole thing.

  Sophie was happy too. She put back all the sponges in the bathroom cabinet she had been planning to attack me with had I not been so enthused.

  Neither of us are very patient people and don’t like surprises, so the first order of business was to find out what sex the baby was.

  I was extraordinarily pleased it was boy.

  I would have loved a girl equally I’m sure, but was glad that I wouldn’t be pulling my hair out in fourteen years, as she went out on her first date with the local teenage scumbag.

  In the next seven months we attended to all the tasks future parents have to. We bought books, which we barely read because they were universally pompous, about the business of raising a child. They irritated both of us beyond measure.

  We picked out a cot and redecorated the spare room. I wanted it covered with pictures of ninjas and soldiers for my brand new bouncing baby boy. Sophie wanted it a nice neutral lilac.

  She won.

  We bought lots of baby equipment. It all went in the downstairs cupboard and I had to shift my car magazines into the loft.

  Grrrr.

  We went to classes for new parents, where Sophie learned a lot and I thought up some lovely new stories while I daydreamed and paid absolutely no attention to what was going on.

  She got bigger and I tried not to make fun of the pronounced waddle she developed in the final stages.

  I know women are supposed to glow and look healthy when heavily pregnant, but my wife was more inclined to scowl and look angry - mainly at me.

  We talked to parents with babies, who all gave us their sage advice about how to handle the birth. Sophie and I both
thought they were smug gits. We promised each other we wouldn’t turn into them once Tom was born and kept that promise for a whole two weeks after he popped out.

  Tom’s birth was quick.

  Sophie was only in labour for four hours and out came Tom: healthy, noisy and messy.

  Very messy.

  No-one prepared me for just how messy the experience would be.

  Sophie wanted me in the delivery room as Tom came into this world and who was I to argue? She was the one going through the agony, and the least I could do was to be there to suffer the insults and death threats she’d want to throw my way.

  The death threats were mercifully absent by the time we got to the final stages, as Sophie was spending too much time breathing like a malfunctioning steam engine to do much more than throw me a few angry glances.

  She’d also had an epidural, which took a distinct edge off her towering rage. This was good for both my eardrums and the bones in my right hand.

  I knew the birthing process was not like it is in the movies.

  The baby does not slide out like it’s on a greased ramp and is not a gleaming shade of pink, with a few small blood spots on its head. It does not cry for a couple of seconds before settling down into a soft cooing noise - and the mother does not take her new born child in her arms and look lovingly into its eyes.

  What actually happens is that the baby arrives into this world covered in some of the weirdest looking shit you’ve ever seen outside the latest horror movie.

  It doesn’t slide out, but emerges incredibly slowly from its home of nine months, eventually plopping out with an unpleasant squelching noise that wouldn’t sound pleasant in Dolby 6.1.

  It’s covered head to toe in horrible gunk and its head has gone lumpy.

  It’s extremely pissed off and lets you know this by immediately launching into a blatting scream that rattles your eardrums and makes you wish you’d brought earplugs.

  The child’s mother is not bathed in a rosy afterglow either, but is covered in sweat, eyes goggling out of her head. Her hair is plastered to her face and her skin is a disturbing combination of hectic red and pallid blue. It looks like she’s gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson at his most anti-social.