by Becci Fox
‘What you worried about, Russ? You split up seven years ago. You’re not still cut up, are you?’ Brooke asked, still intent on stirring.
‘Fuck off. No, I just don’t want her anywhere near me. I might catch crabs again.’
‘What? You never told me about that!’ I actually went really high-pitched with excitement. I had two things on Bucket now. Joy! What a skanky cow. As predicted, she had two men hanging off her while the ‘friend’ was standing behind her in a cloak of invisibility. I was so tempted to tell these blokes exactly what they were getting themselves into – literally.
Actually, I probably shouldn’t call her Bucket as I’ll say it to her face at some point. Also, I know the agony of a nickname. I got one that has stuck like mud. In my promiscuous years, I gave a guy a blowie round the back of Waitrose in Buckhurst Hill. When his friends found out, they started calling me Rosie, as a homage to my supermarket of choice. It’s fine if your friends come up with a piss-take nickname, but not some random blokes with a blabbermouth mate. And anyway, he tricked me into doing it because I told him I had a sore throat and he went, ‘Well, you know what’s good for that, don’t you?’ I wish I’d just gone home and had a Lemsip instead. It makes me shudder when one of those blokes sees me and yells Rosie in my direction. I was only nineteen – give me a break. At least I’ve moved up in the blow-job world. Bucket can’t do anything about her organs.
‘The talent in here is not good tonight.’ Gemma had come back over clutching a handful of business cards. That’s how an Essex man chats a girl up these days – thrusts his card into her hands. The problem is they’re good at self-promotion, but all that glitters is not gold. Like you might meet a property developer and then you sleep with him and see him the next day working the cement mixer on a building site.
‘Right, we’re totally done. Let’s get out of here,’ said Brooke with determination.
‘Why don’t you come to Luxe with us? We’ll get you straight in, free drinks,’ said Rob desperately.
‘I don’t think so, babe. It’s too packed in there on a Saturday night,’ I replied. Truth is, if the talent in Nu Bar is no good then it’s not going to improve across the road, because it’s the same crowd.
Gem called a taxi and it was there within five minutes. Whoop, whoop, we were off to large it at One9Five, as my sister would say. She’s so old-school. Tasha’s ancient enough to remember nights out at Epping Forest Country Club. She even claims to have invented a chant which then took the club scene by storm in the mid-Nineties. Poor love, she hangs on to this as she doesn’t get out much now with a young kid to look after. Well tragic.
There are three queues at One9Five: the normal queue, the guest list priority queue and the VIP queue. You just don’t chance the normal queue. It’s so small in there that by 10 p.m. that queue gets told to shove off cos they’re at full capacity. But still they queue, the donuts. Guest list is as long as the normal queue, so those at the end don’t get in neither. What you want is the VIP queue. It’s so VIP, there is no queue. That’s why you always get to know the doormen. They’re your fast ticket in, but let me tell you, it’s taken me a decade of clubbing to get to where I am now.
You have to understand, every business has a VIP level in Essex. It’s in our mentality to chase VIP, so it’s an obvious way to attract the West Essex punters. But the true VIP is never stated. For instance, guest list think they’re VIP, but really they’re not. And sometimes you’ll find a queue and then get inside to find it empty! Gem’s step-brother is a doorman at another well-known Essex establishment, and he says they’re told to create queues to make a place look more popular. And people get a bigger buzz if they think they’ve blagged their way in, so everyone’s happy.
The other thing Essex is obsessed with is age limits. So I’ve told you Nu Bar’s, and then One9Five is over-21s, but on Fridays it’s over-29s. Totally random numbers that mean absolutely nothing if you’re an attractive girl. It’s just to keep the munters out and all those kids looking for a fight. One9Five actually got shut down because a fight got so out of control. That’s why they’re now well tough on security. People like Jack Tweed are always chucked out, so it shows the system works.
West Essex also has a proper strict dress code for blokes: no jeans, no gloss designer trainers, no Timberland boots, and they’re very specific on canvas footwear. The clubs have had to accept that an Essex boy loves going sockless in his canvas shoes in the summer, so they’re banned, but Boxfresh deck shoes and standard boat shoes are acceptable. In my book they’re unacceptable, but no matter as they’re drowned out by the shoe of choice: the winkle-picker. I think a pointy leather shoe is very Mad Men. You can tell a lot by a man’s shoes. I mean, who’s going to show you a good time – the bloke in the scruffy boat shoes or the bloke in the shiny points? Trust me, the boat-shoe man does not own a boat. The London types get annoyed by our rigid codes, but it keeps things smart, doesn’t it? The way we look at it is, the ultimate club experience is a joint effort. If the club looks flash, we’ll look glam in return. All clubs and bars round here aim to bring the West End experience to West Essex. And we’re talking Mayfair, not Leicester Square.
One9Five was packed when we got there, but that made no difference to us. Again, it’s about who you know, and my ex, Charlie Ferrari, was one of the blokes manning the rope to the VIP Lounge that night. He’s done most of the clubs round here and I always get a buzz when I see him as it’s guaranteed access to VIP. You might think what’s the big deal about VIP, but when you see how crammed a top West Essex club gets, you’ll be after the space and special treatment too. Obviously I did a little bit of flirting with Charlie because that’s what you do with VIP. It’s not strictly necessary with him, since he would have let us in anyway, but I can’t help myself when I see him. He works out and he’s got that dark Mediterranean look about him but he’s nothing amazing to look at. I mean, when I first met him back in the school days, he actually had a pony-tail. Ironically, that’s gone and so has the rest of his hairline. This epic fail in the hair department just shows what a good personality he must have. I exaggerate but his forehead does seem bigger every time I see him.
‘You’re looking proper dapper tonight, hun,’ I said.
‘Heard you were coming, didn’t I?’ he replied. ‘Thought, better have a shower, put some gel in me hair, look the part.’
‘Stop taking the piss,’ I said, shoving him in the chest. ‘You make out I’m some sort of judger. I take people as they come, hun. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how trussed-up someone is because the threads don’t make a man, right? It’s what’s underneath that counts.’
‘I suppose I have found myself with no clothes on a lot when I’ve been around you,’ he said, to get another smack on the chest from me. ‘So what you’re saying is, you’re impressed I look alright tonight because normally I can’t dress myself, but it’s alright because I’m so buff underneath it all?’
‘Not really, hun, but we’ll roll with that.’
‘Well, I’ve never had any complaints from you, so I think that is what you’re saying,’ he said adamantly.
It’s so weird how flirting with Charlie is fun at first, but the banter always turns intimate, almost so he can relive for a split second that feeling of being my boyfriend. See what he did there, ending the conversation with the present tense? That’s what I’m talking about. And it leaves me slightly uneasy and a bit confused. Like, we went out for a drink recently and he ordered a vodka-lime tonic for me, which is actually something I don’t drink any more, but he likes to make out he knows me inside out, and maybe he does in some ways, but I do have changing tastes, you know. So I wave the barmaid back over and say, ‘Actually, can you make that an Amaretto on the rocks,’ and Charlie quips to the barmaid, ‘She always gets what she wants,’ and rolls his eyes like he’s the long-suffering boyfriend. We’ve been split up since 2008! I love him to bits, but he winds me up something chronic.
He’s not actually
called Charlie Ferrari, but he used to do a lot of coke back in the day and owned a Ferrari. He’s scaled down the coke, and the Ferrari is now a BMW, so the name doesn’t work really. No matter. Actually, he replaced the coke with steroids, which is the main reason we broke up. That and he’s short. And he’s a bouncer. Is it so wrong to have aspirations? But them steroids send a man crazy. Yeah, he was looking more bulked-up than ever, but he was always so cross with me. And I just thought, hold on, mate, a short guy’s pretty lucky to get with me, so who the fuck do you think you are, putting me down all the time? He did make me laugh a lot, but the anger started to overshadow the good times. He is lovely, though. I’m not being a big-head, but as you can see, he’s definitely still into me. Just saying.
The first person we clocked in VIP was bloody Bucket. Her speed is impressive, I’ll give her that. Naturally she was all over some Spurs footballer, but then so were seven others. Apparently, Ashley Cole takes a minder out with him now to beat off all the gold diggers. Having seen these girls in action, I wouldn’t say this is an overreaction. There are so many sex scandals with footballers because it’s handed to them on a plate. It’s hard not to resist the opportunity.
I have a mate, who shall remain nameless and sexless, who works in this club, and as soon as I’m in, I ask my Insider who’s who and they’ll manoeuvre us to the good areas. It’s usually in the VIP Lounge, but sometimes it’s the Black Suite or the VIP Private Room. If I’ve had to pay for a drink on a night out here, something’s amiss. The thing is, big spenders come to Essex to boost their egos. If you got the money to pay for a table in VIP, say around a grand, it will be arranged that you can feel like Hugh Hefner for the night. They also offer tables along the dance floor for people who want to feel like they’re VIP but don’t quite have the moolah or the contacts. It’s exactly the same concept as the ‘priority’ queuing. These people get to feel they’re living the VIP lifestyle with their reserved table, but it’s honestly not the real deal. People pack their mates into these areas, drinks are spilt and it gets messy. And then you still have to pay a minimum bar tab. No class.
That night the three tables in the VIP Lounge looked like slim pickings. I turned to my One9Five Insider and went, ‘One footballer? What gives? You’re not losing everyone to Sugar Hut are you, babe?’
‘Fuck off. Got a couple of soap blokes in and some racing driver over there, but these girls haven’t a clue who he is yet so you can get first dibs. Go on, get involved.’
I laughed them off. The racer was so unbelievably fit I actually gasped, but I reminded myself that I just didn’t want to go there again. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had some good times with sportsmen, but I’d made a vow to avoid that crazy life now I was past twenty-five. I was setting my sights on someone who was successful, a business entrepreneur, someone with a bit of get-up-and-go. I was hungry for a lasting relationship with someone I respected. I do not respect sports guys – I just like the lifestyle. If I could have the lifestyle and respect him, then we’re talking.
I glanced over to see who the girls were talking to and it wasn’t great – the two old boys off EastEnders. There was so much despair in Gem’s eyes, her eyelashes seemed to be melting. Something was up, so I slid over to her. ‘Babe, the end of your lash is dangling,’ I whispered in her ear. She reacted like I’d told her she had droopy boobs. Her eyes went all watery, but she held it together.
‘Fuck it. Shit. You have to come to the toilets right now,’ she said, dragging me off.
As soon as we got in the toilets, Gem started sobbing big time. ‘Calm it, Gem. It’s only a fake eyelash,’ I said, all confused. The moody toilet attendant didn’t even move to pass the tissues, so I click-clacked off to the cubicle to get some loo roll and sat Gem on a toilet seat.
‘Oh God, stop crying,’ she kept telling herself as she fanned her face. By this point it was too late and she’d gone all puffy and red.
‘What’s going on? Is it Grant? Has he cheated on you again?’
‘It’s as bad as that,’ she said, letting out a long wail. ‘I’m so ugly.’ More sobbing. ‘My lashes are falling out.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, turning her face around with my hand. Looked fine to me.
‘I got some lash extensions,’ she spluttered. ‘And I had a reaction to it. I’ve only got a quarter of my real lashes left.’
Shit. This was serious. ‘So where’d you get these lashes from?’ I asked.
‘I put on some Girls Aloud fake lashes. Everyone says Kimberley’s are the best, but look at me. I look like a tramp,’ she said, pulling at them. It wasn’t the right time to say this, but everyone knows Cheryl’s are the best. Since that bombshell would’ve sent her over the edge, I kept schtum.
‘Babe, it’s an outrage. Have you gone back to the eyelash technician?’
‘Yeah, but she’d never seen this happen before. She offered to put more in, but I didn’t want that cack-handed cow coming anywhere near me. What was she even going to attach them to? I can’t even sue them cos I signed some form. It’s such a fucking mess.’
‘Well, first things first. We’re going to reaffix those lashes and calm you down,’ I said.
I find I am always really practical in an emergency. Thankfully, I always carry eyelash glue in my clutch. I worked on her blotchy face like it was the Sistine Chapel. I wish there was a job fixing up crying girls’ make-up because I’d make a killing in the toilets round here.
‘People really don’t know the dangers of lash extensions, hun,’ I said. ‘We got to set up a Facebook group to warn other girls.’ I don’t think I’ve ever made such an impassioned speech before. ‘We’ve got to do our bit. That salon needs to be named and shamed.’ Mind you, I wasn’t going to stop getting my lashes done; just not there.
When we got back to the table, Brooke had moved on from the EastEnders blokes (it was inevitable) and was hanging off the footballer with the other girls. She’d gone a step further than them and was having a good feel of his abs. Good on her, but honestly, it’s such a cliché – these blokes always have an ‘understanding’ wife back in their palatial homes in Chigwell who put up with their husbands’ penchant for doing lines off naked girls in hotel rooms. All I know is that it’s preferable being the other woman to being the wife – same perks, no humiliation. These types are always properly suited and booted, but their IQs match the numbers on their shirts. Still, every girl has to try one out; it’s an Essex rite of passage.
I can’t even be bothered to go into the story of the premiership footballer I was doing a while back because it was so brief and boring. And that was just the sex. The nights out and presents were top-notch, and the parties would be fuelled by lines and lines of Colombian goodness (I don’t touch class As any more unless it’s a special occasion). He funded some crazy nights out, but the pay-off wasn’t worth the misery in the bedroom. I knew something was up when he said, ‘You’re moving too much, just lie still,’ as he continued to pump away. And I did as I was told! I can only guess any movement would have broken his concentration.
Anyway, lying there gave me a lot of time to question the relationship and the allure of footballers generally. My sister claims that in 1995 David Beckham chatted her up at the Castle in Woodford. I suppose he did have bad hair back then and a squeaky voice, which would definitely have put her off. But how different things could have been if she’d become Tasha Beckham. For one thing, I wouldn’t still be going down One9Five.
I started to spiral into a depression watching these girls fawn all over the footballer, and then this Italian-looking bloke comes over to me. Let’s just call him Gino Ginelli.
‘I’d really like to buy you a drink,’ he says to me intensely.
I was sobering up, so I thought, what’s the harm, even though I didn’t fancy him. He was quite old, perhaps forty, and balding, but he had a lot of swagger about him.
‘Yeah, go on then, how about a bottle of Grey Goose for me and the girls,’ I said, pointing in their direction
. A lot of Essex men would make a big deal of that request and say stuff like, ‘Gawd, women, they want the earth,’ and do that mock moaning thing to flirt. I mean, why ask if you’re not going to put your money where your mouth is? But this guy didn’t even flinch, waved over the girl waiting his table and got the drinks in. There was something quite unnerving about him so I instinctively felt like I needed to fob him off a bit.
‘You know what? My ex keeps looking over. He’s a bit jel like that.’
‘You still like him?’ asked Gino.
‘I don’t fancy him still, but I wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt him either,’ I said, giving a pretty measured answer.
‘What would he do if he saw you kissing another man?’
‘I suppose it’d have to happen sometime, but it’s a bit too soon for that.’
‘Why, when did you split up from him?’ All his questions were really monosyllabic and a bit cold, if you ask me. I wasn’t enjoying this exchange at all.
‘Two and a bit years ago, but it’s still a bit raw for him.’
‘I’d kiss you,’ he said suddenly. Even though I hadn’t flirted with him one single bit, he’d seen some sort of green light. I swear I’ve got some sort of sexual beam that just cannot be dimmed. It’s the cross I must bear as a Gemini.
‘Oh, right, that’s nice of you,’ was all I could think to say back.
‘No, you don’t understand. I would kiss you. Right now.’
‘Oh, lovely.’ My breathing was starting to get shallow, which is not good because I usually keel over if that carries on too long. ‘Yay, the vodka’s here!’ I screamed manically. He didn’t even look away from me. I’m telling you, he made me feel proper nervous.
I urgently signalled the girls over to diffuse the tension some more. Gino got the bar guy mixing our various drink requests, and I double-checked Gem’s lashes weren’t wilting again. She winked at me as if to say, ‘Get in there, girl,’ but I shook my head with wide eyes and whispered to her, ‘He’s not the full ticket, hun. Proper issues.’ To be honest, I was slightly insulted she’d think I’d want to try it on with a balding Italian. Seriously, not impressed.
