Monthly Archives: March 2006

I don’t know about you but Friday is my favourite day of the week. When I was a regular working man you took it easy on Friday, the day strolled by, then there were always pints after work and it didn’t matter if you had one or four or eight too many you had the long luxury of Saturday in which to sleep in and recover.

Saturday is a good day too but it lacks the promise of Friday. On Friday there’s the excitement about the weekend and the two full days that stretch ahead. On Saturday, even if something cool is going down that night, you know that Sunday is just going to be a day when you sit around and drool and wish you had a bigger blanket to hang over the shutters because there’s still a bit of light getting through.

Lots of great things have happened on Fridays too. For example, without Friday we would never have had that series of great horror films about that bloke in the hockey mask who, every Friday 13th, would go on a rampage and the rampage would involve killing people on Friday the 13th and it would continue for the whole night of Friday the 13th. I think it was called Jason and the Argonauts.

Also, Icarus made his attempt to fly to the sun on a Friday, annoying rapper Tupac Shakur was shot dead on a Friday and I once won €50 on a scratch card so it’s truly the greatest day there is.

One of the best Fridays ever was some years ago when Dirty Dave dumped his girlfriend. Naturally she was born with no sense of smell so she could live with his odour.They’d been going out for about 9 months and he kept insisting on bringing her to Ron’s. She was a moany old cunt, let me tell you, always complaining.

“Twenty, do you have to fart in public and do you have to life your leg when you do it?”

“Fuck off”, I’d say.

We had a nickname for her. To put it into context have you ever seen one of those people that has a little white blob or a lump underneath their eye, usually towards the corner? I don’t know what you’d call it medically but lots of people have them. It’s almost like a teeny tiny white teat. Unfortunately for Dirty Dave’s girlfriend she had one of these right above her top lip in the middle of her cupid’s bow. For this reason we called her ‘Clit Face’.

Now, after 9 months of her harping on every fucking time Dave brought her to the pub, and we asked him not to after her second visit, we were well and truly pissed off.

“Lads”, said Jimmy. “I love it here at Ron’s but I can’t stand it when Dave brings Clit Face with him. We have to do something.”

“Agreed”, I said, “but what?”

So we hatched a fiendish plan. Dave is a very easy going chap and doesn’t get passionate about too many things but he is a massive fan of soul crooner George Benson. You slag off the Benson and Dave will be in your face.

“Never give up on a good thing is the perfect fusion of pop and soul with a tremendous dollop of funk and a bassline that slaps more than Gazza does his wife”, he’ll tell you.

So our plan was to for Jimmy to talk to Dave while I got the short straw and had to keep Clit Face occupied which meant some kind of turgid conversation. We’d give a wink to Ron who would lash on ‘Give me the night’. About two minutes into the song I was to pipe up as loud as possible ‘Hey Ron, the lady says can you turn that shite off?’ at which point Dave would lose it and then we’d say ‘Hey Dave, she’s been saying George Benson is a poor man’s Luther Vandross’ all evening and that would surely be curtains for Clit Face.

The best laid plans of mice and men (what the fuck does that mean anyway? Mice are well known for lack of strategic thinking) though. When we gave Ron the signal he cranked up the Technics behind the bar and soon the Bensonmeister was doing his stuff. However, before I could deliver my killer line, she says “Oh, I love George Benson. Dave has really got me into him”.

‘Bollocks’, I thought. That was until Clitty started dancing. Imagine, if you can, a spastic crab crossed with Madonna’s scary dance music dancing mixed with Joey Deacon style drooling and hopelessly out of time clapping. To a man we all looked on in horror. Those 3 West Coast Coolers Dave had bought in the off licence and brought into Ron’s for her (he’d never stock such a drink) had obviously gone straight to her head. It was mesmirisingly vomitous.

Dave was gobsmacked.

“Turn that off, Ron”, he commanded in a rare moment of self-confidence. He took a gulp of his pint.

She had stopped her gonzo goofstep.

“Get out”, Dave told her, “and never come back. You have ruined that song for me and given its subtle horn section, its funky double bassline and it’s ‘bapa-dapa-dapa-dapa-dap’ backing singers I never thought that would be possible. Go home, Clit Face, I never want to see you again.”

“You bastard!”, she roared at him. “I’ll tell everyone you like me to put me finger up your hole during sex.”

“I don’t care. Go now. Quickly.”

She made her way to the door. I spoke.

“Wait”, I said. She turned around.

“What?”

I lifted my leg and farted. I love Fridays.