Love: February 2004 Archives

One summer I spent in Rhyll, North Wales, will be remembered - always. Some swine robbed my wallet. This caused me an enormous amount of grief. Not only did it contain a substantial amount of money, signed pictures of a young Bonnie Tyler and a phone number of a bloke who would be able to deal with my troublesome exhaust on my original American Ford Mustang, but also my dry cleaning ticket. Never use "Treat'm'dry, keep'm'clean" in Rhyll. They still, to my knowledge, have, to this day, my specially made suit which I dropped in all those years ago. It was a lilac jumpsuit with diamante decoration, lined with pink satin and with my initials on the back. It was my Saturday night fever outfit that grabbed the attention and accentuated my moves and grooves. I described it to the owner: down to the fine detail of what colour had been used on the hem of the left leg and what I had left in the ankle pocket of the right leg (never enter a club unprepared). No matter how close in detail I went, he refused to give me my suit with out the ticket. Needless to say that I was down on my luck, so I decided to spend the afternoon in the Rhyll Sun Centre.

To the uninitiated, this may sound like some sort of solarium, or for those who think I'd visit a massage parlour (not on a Wednesday in Wales any way), some sort of den of hot hands. This was... is... a centre of aqua leisure with everything from a body board pool to an aqua slide. With my tourist pass, gifted by the local police on the loss of my wallet, I visited the centre to see what all the fuss had been about.

The main pool was a wonder. You could begin by splashing your ankles and then start to wade into the depths of the pool. As I splashed in the beach-like lip of the pool in my swimming shorts (I was one of the first to see that Speedo ballies were a huge no-no), I glanced down to the deep end to see that there was fair amount of excitement. Then, there was an announcement, "There will be waves in the main pool in one minute". It was like people had heard that John Lennon was peeing in the main pool. There were hoards of people charging in. Not one to miss out on something so new and adventurous I followed the charge. Although I felt a slight discomfort when my shorts begin to soak water like a thirsty sponge and the string tie begin to lose support I headed for the 'deep' water. There was then a huge hooter, screams of excitement and a scramble, by those whose fear got the better of them, for any buoyancy aid they could find. Thankfully, I remembered what you're meant to do in these sort of panic situations and lashed out at a number of those coming towards me. Like Ali, I varied my punches, but they all landed and I certainly won on points. For all my ability I was not prepared for an attack from behind. I felt someone throw their arms around my neck. I bobbed and weaved in the water like a bucking bronco, but to no avail. Then it started. The first of the manufactured waves came. I saw the first one, the second and the third. On the forth I was struck in the face by the parent of a panicked child I had hit earlier (he was at least 15) and the fifth I was dragged under by my attacker at the rear.

Lying naked in the shallow end of the main pool was the least I had expected of the day. What I also didn't expect was the accusation that I not only got into the pool naked, but also that I started the near riot, between two local gangs of thugs, in the deep end. As I regained consciousness I could hear people, mainly middle aged arseholes in Speedos standing behind their battleaxe wives, calling for me to be expelled and saying that I was a danger to all bathers. I coughed up some second hand chlorinated water and pointed out the facts. "Had I smoked in the pool? Had I executed a perfect bomb? Had I been involved in some heavy petting? Or had I been used as a float by some burly youths?" It didn't seem to wash with one particular battleaxe, who called for me to be castrated. This was followed, as quick as a bullet, by another shouting, "If you can find it?" Laughter rang in my ears - and in my dreams it still haunts me - as I lay naked in the cold water shallow end.

It was at this point that our eyes met. A pale skinned young women with smudged eyebrows and lots of teeth. I can remember wondering how so many teeth manage to fit into one mouth. She knelt next to me and whispered, "This is all my fault... let's get out of here." She then took off her swimming cap and placed it over my meat and two veg. The plum coloured rubber bonnet may not have been the most ideal cover, but it served a purpose. She helped me to my feet and whispered again into my ear, "You might like to thank Bernard... he resuscitated you." I turned to a large tanned, muscular man with a handle bar moustache and lime green 'Speedo Ballies' that were packed to capacity and held out my hand. He winked and I could think of nothing other than the immortal words, "No tongues, right?"

I was taken as far as the veruca pool by my woman rescuer. She told me to meet her outside near the soup-machine. I showered, dressed and used the blow-dryer as quickly as possible. I was outside trying to stir my golden vegetable soap with a milk straw when she came out of the women's changing rooms. Boy, did she turn heads.

Tilda was stunning. In my earlier state I hadn't quite taken in her beauty. She had long legs, blue eyes, blonde hair and a lovely chest. She was amazing... even in the glasses she wore. She looked over to the soap dispenser and I waved - regrettably - like a gimp trying to swot a fly with a damp tissue. She floated across the room to me. She offered her hand and introduced herself. I could see that her eyesight had been greatly improved by the glasses...she didn't look too impressed. She stood close and whispered in my ear that she was sorry for all the problems she had caused. I couldn't hear what she was saying as all I could smell was her gentle parfum. I have no idea why, perhaps it was chlorine, but I began to feel incredibly aroused. Even more worrying for me at the time was that fact that I couldn't control it. Worse still, it was packed the wrong way in my trousers, so it stood out like a golf jumper at a black-tie event. I tried to disguise it by leaning over, lifting one foot onto the chair next to me and leaning on my elbow, but it was too late. The jury was out... it was completely tasteless. And she knew it too.

Watching her disappear left me heartbroken. I had lost my wallet, my suit and my heart all in one day. I did see her again a couple of years later at a caravan park in Selby, but she didn't see me. Or at least pretended not to. The fact that I was pissed, part of the cabaret and told the audience of twelve (eleven, one had actually died through the performance) how I got a "stander" in a public pool may have put her off me. Who knows. Tilda, if you're reading this... I'm a changed man now. And a lot more in control.

There are days when you don't think that you're in the mood for love. You could have a nose full of cold and a head full of Vicks or a sandal full of dog muck and a toe full of jam... and still tumble into the arms of someone. Their eyes could meet yours and then there'd be fireworks. Sadly, with Angie, our eyes didn't quite meet, but that was more down to her squint. I was fumbling around the Scotch Eggs in the discount fridge of my local supermarket when our hands touched. We both went to grab some Tandori Chicken which had gone out of date the day before (but who believes that stuff any way), we tried to look into each others eyes and then it happened. Trying to look into both of her eyes I pulled a muscle in my neck and nearly burst a Scotch Egg with the pain. Through the pain I could see that there was more to Angie than met the eye (they were individually beautiful). She told me that, although she worked as a receptionist at the local leisure centre, she was also teaching herself how to weave baskets with fallen branches. I couldn't see, at first, how this would possibly work, but then she sunk her fingers into my shoulders and I understood exactly. She had strength in her hands that could mould stone, although when I mentioned it she seemed slightly embarrassed. Within minutes, I had been relieved of any pain and felt a warm feeling of exuberance that I don't think I have ever felt while standing in a supermarket aisle.

To thank her, and to get to know her better, I took her to Mickey's Slop CafÈ in the middle of Swansea. It was a great place, but hardly the sort of place that you would take a lady on your first date. However, I like to think that I'm unpredictable. We sat on a bench made out of the two front seats of a Vauxhall Viva and talked for hours. We talked about where we were from, our hopes and dreams. It turned out that she had always wanted to work as a receptionist at a Bingo Hall. As a veteran 'Caller' (I didn't tell her that I had never done it in a club, but instead at my Auntie June's) I told her that I knew someone who would be able to help. I gave her the number of an old flame, Lauren Bogdanzowich, who hand-painted the numbers on Bingo Balls for Smith and Jones Bingo Machines.

We clicked after a while and were about to leave when she suggested that we both go back to her place for a warm Vimto. She must have read me like a book as I love nothing more than a warm Vimto with a wild woman. We left, arm in arm and a skip in our step towards the number 53 bus stop. As we were approaching the stop she turned a colour I hadn't seen since I was kept incarcerated in Russia for smuggling packets of Sherbet Rockets. She grabbed my arm and nearly broke it just below the elbow. She told me that her husband was just over the road and was coming over. Confident of my physical prowess and skills with the fists, I winked at her and looked across the road. My memory of him is a bit hazy, but suffice to say, I thought walking/running in the opposite direction would be a worthwhile option, but Angie was clamped to my arm and refused to let go. I tried again to look into her eyes and beg her to remove her hand from my arm. My neck twinged.

When I eventually regained the use of my legs, I revisited the spot where I was the first man in Swansea to have his legs broken by a man wielding an Argos catalogue. I don't hold any grudges with Angie and I haven't met her since, although I have visited that same discount fridge on numerous occasions. I will never forget her touch and hope one day to meet her again. As for her husband, if I see him on the road while I'm driving he can give my exhaust an MOT on the go.

Some smart arse told me the other day, "Bobby, you've had about as many lovers as my fridge." Given that this smart arse was once found in a curious position with a packet of sandwich ham, I can guarantee that I have had more lovers than his fridge. But I sat back in my favourite seat in the "The Cupped Ball" - which is no easy task on a bar stool - and thought about all the women I have known: the laughs, the tears and the knee tremblers. From Aada to Zufu (and even Beryl), they have all left a mark on my heart... or teeth marks on my ankles. Each time I think about my loves in my life I remember a long forgotten moment: like when I was in Valencia with Janet Copperbottom and we spent the whole day sharing a toilet after some dodgy paella. This is a tribute to all those who were and are so close to my heart.

NB: I will not allow any DNA samples to be taken to certify that I am the father of a child. That's not my game. My seed is precious and I have yet - in my opinion - to sire an heir to the Beamer legacy. Any claims should be sent through my solicitor, C.C. De'Ablo of Chorley, Lancs.