10. The Fairer Sex

In she comes. Low-cut top right down to there, and what I believe is known as a "Greyhound skirt" - i.e. just behind the hair. She gets her 20 Marlboro (interesting fact, that - yer Poles always buy either top-end, premium stuff, Marlboro, Courvoisier, Jamesons, OR bargain basement rubbish, i.e. Pall Mall, [name of shite cider not mentioned for legal reasons], Old Redwood. Some day I'll write a dissertation on the racial preferences of punters at grotty provincial offies. Your actual African exchange student, for instance, is a devotee of the name-brand spirits. But I digress.) So off she goes, swinging her immensely desirable Eastern-European arse behind her, leaving me alone with Mr 4-cans of cider every four hours.

"Oh, hey, I would though," he says, shaking his head. "Out of our league, though," he adds

AT which point I decide ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

"Like FUCK she is, Stench-Boy," I yell, making a manly attempt to hide my disgust but failing, spittle flecking the corners of my mouth. "Were I single, I would be perfectly capable of shagging her, her sisters, her mates and her acquaintances SO BLOODY WELL that they'd all offer to run away with me, set up some kind of Polish Mormon polygamist deal in the highlands of Scotland, and give me a LIFETIME of incredibly dirty group sex. Out Of Your League, certainly. My League, however, is of an entirely different magintude. BE GONE SIR! Back to your copy of Razzle and four Olde English, whilst I contemplate my destiny as father of the Polo-Irish master-race."


You have to bear in mind, Thursay 3-7 is a VERY dull shift.