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Girls Girls Girls Girls...

by Bernie Bostik


....Girls, I do adore

Yo put your number on this paper cause I would love to date ya

Holla at ya when I come off tour

I love girls, girls, girls, girls

Girls all over the globe

I come scoop you in that Coupe, sittin on deuce-zeroes

Fix your hair in the mirror, let's roll....


It's all girls girls girls as usual from Bernie this month, but what did you seriously expect, especially with it being Valentines an' all!  So sit back and get comfy as I attempt to recall my most copious cornucopia of carnal conquest's with the chicks of the clan. That was until I moved to the Dam and done brass daily, but brass don't count eh? (and that fable's for future fulfilment). It was London in the 90's and Bostik was on the sniff.



Working in a hotel had it's benefits. Be it Scandinavian receptionists(x2), Italian housekeepers(x4) or big African chambermaid mamas with tribal markings on kite (just the once). But it was the guest's I craved, I would have serious daydreams (wanks in the guest's toilet) about taking a fit business women up to her room,  only for her to seduce me 'Mrs Robinson' style on the Queen-sized bed. I'd had many a blimp due mainly to the doors of the rooms having about a three inch gap at the bottom and us porters always having a small mirror handy. I didn't just want to look, I wanted to touch, taste, squeeze, suck and fuck. I wanted the whole fantasy. When the fantasy arrived in the post that fateful day, I gripped it with two hands (I had to use both hands cause she was so big).



She was some thirty something lump from St Helier in Jersey. I had missed her first two days at the hotel with it coinciding with my days off. I was filled in by Ed the other porter about her. She had been flirting with Ed and some of the maintenance lads, but with none of them willing to take her up on her offer, due to her 14st frame. I was on her in an instant, my first encounter was in the lift. I commented on her long nails and instantly she fronted me with "yeah, imagine these clawing down your back" I called her bluff and with in seconds her hand was up the back of my quarter length gold braided and blue inform jacket and was hoisting my shirt up so she could scratch my back. The lift doors opened and she retreated saying "she YOU later". I rode the rest of the lift ride with a stiffy.


Our next meeting happened when I spotted her entering the lift again, so I darted over to join her. And with in no time at all i had a little tongue action going until I got disturbed by Juicy(x3) the Italian Housekeeper on the third floor. Who was this woman? and what was she up to? Was she just some lonely wealthily fat woman who couldn't get a hump trying to live out her fantasy? If so she couldn't of picked a better pupil to help her.


Later on she phoned down to the Desk and asked if someone could come and fix her broken TV - which was part of a porters job and she knew it. I took the job, fucked the lift off and flew up the stairs three at a time. I knocked on the door and she answered, I entered the room, which was a wash with bouquets of flowers (we later found out she had been sending them to herself??..weirdo) She suggested coming back after I knock off so we could continue the back scratching in piece. I legged it not believing my good fortune. What the fuck if she was hefty, it was game on.


I sneaked up the fire-escape steps in my Fila blue suede boots, I reached her floor and waited outside the door, with a thousand thundering thrills awaiting me on the otherside, I gave the door a couple of taps. She answered in a see through nightie with all the parachute gear showing through from underneath. I was a tad nervous and was thankful of the brandy she offered me from the mini-bar. We made small talk, plus I wanted to know more about this woman. She was over here on business, she worked for Keith Prowse - some big noise in the theatre ticket game. Which was a lie because our head porter and Mr Prowse were good buddies. She had lots of fellas on the go who send her flowers, another lie. She lived in Jersey in some big house, possible truth. Fuck it, who cares what this weirdo is up to get the deed done and get out.



The talk soon turned blue, I pulled out a pre rolled cone, she didn't smoke but didn't mind me chonging away. ( It was good shit maaan! ) So I spent the next hour tattooed to the bed, while thunder thighs sucked me off twice. I was thinking about going in for the growler, but when it swallowed four of my fingers, I gave the wide one a wide one. And as them hacks in the Sunday Comics always say "I then made my excuses and left" - Yeah right.



 The hotel job got jibbed as I jumped on the groovy train and went to live with a few lads who had money to burn. This meant being out on the ale every night. Our days went something like this: Wake up, get out of bed, drag a comb across your head. Go out see a few people, do a bit of shopping and by late afternoon end up in some pub on the Becks. By early hours you were either getting kicked out of some beaut club (Hombres just off Oxford St being a favourite) by the bouncers or you were leaving of your own accord, with a dirt bag on your arm heading for her flat or a hotel. Some of the treacle's stayed on board for a while and others got the 'Spanish Archer' the moment you woke up and realised what you had done.


Three that stick in my mind are three that I was doing all at the same time. Not in a orgy type way , but they were all my so called bird. It was hard graft keeping them all on the boil but I did my up-most till one of the sluts gave me an STD and put a stop to the proceedings. Before I tell you about those three let me quickly tell you about a brass I done while seeing them three birds. I had a grand of flims in my pocket and I was looking for some action, but all I found was a copy of Mayfair and an Escort's number. I was in the Watford Hilton giving it Charlie big spuds at the bar, with no takers I retreated to my room. I flicked through a copy of Mayfair - bought from the garage earlier - and phoned a number up in the back for some agency. The girl arrived, some mixed race manc who was sound. She got stuck into the mini bar, as I sorted her 300 pounds out. She laughed when I paid her in flims but followed it up with,  money's money right. She put the dough in her purse and put her purse in the draw besides the bed. We drank the mini bar dry and we were now ordering booze off the night porter. Not long after I was plating her (her in the doggy position), she collapsed off her knees and elbows and slumped on the bed asleep. Bitch! nobody falls asleep on Bernie with out paying for it. So I got my things together and I got her black dress, knickers and bra (leaving her with only her Knee length fake fur coat and black leather boots ) put them in my bag, pocketed the dough out of the draw and sneaked out the hotel. I had checked into the room in a blowse name and had paid cash for the room, so there was only the extras outstanding.


Right back to the other three. The first one was some okish girl out of the local we drank in, I blew her socks off on the first date. We jumped in a cab to the West End and ended up in the Radisson Edwardian Hotel on Leicester Square. I blagged the concierge (who I knew) into getting me a Junior Suite at a good rate. I spent the night walloping her from behind while looking at the fireworks on display in the square. No it wasn't Nov 5th, it was a couple of mates who phoned me up to tell me to look out of the window at the display. You see, the lads had a fetish for fireworks and with them stumbling on some snide shop selling authentic Chinese fireworks, their fetish got worse. Their favourite trick was to sit in some boozer, while one of them went back to the car to collect the fireworks, then he would get back to the pub, light the huge roll of firecrackers outside, before strolling back in the pub cool as you like, just in time to see everyone run outside to see were all the screeching and banging was coming from. A few sharp exits were needed when the plod turned up on occasions. Very childish I know, but it bought extreme jollity to the chaps. , Well they lit up Leicester Square that night.


The second one I kept on the boil for a good six months. Simply because she was a good goose. She had the look of Miss Dynamite-he-he and from what I've been told the same parentage (Scottish mother, African Father). I met her at the Nottinghill Carnival. I was a regular at the Carnival for six years. My first one, me and Holsten Joe dropped a couple of tablets, got behind a sound system on a lorry and that was it, we were off. We ended up at some soundsystem  set up outside the Derby boozer on Manchester Drive, where we pranced around to SL2 on a ragga tip. That was until the plod in gangs of ten ran round the estate closing down all the party's about 10 o'clockish.There had been quite a bit of bother around this time down the All Saints Road, with drug raids and such like and it was a very hostile place. I had been mistaken for plod on many occasions when out on a late night scavehger hunt for persians.

"POLICEMAN.......POLICEMAN ON THE LEFT HANDSIDE" me and Kev O heard one time. When we stopped and told them we weren't coppers they approached with knives and weren't having it. We tryed to convince , but twas all in vain.

"It's dem haircuts maan....serious policeman haircut" - we both had a skinhead and we went home empty handed.


The Earl of Warwick was also a stopping off place at the carnival, it used to be our local when we lived on the manor, so we were comfortable in its surroundings. It might of been ten deep at the bar but you always got served first, by Paula the barmaid. And you should have seen the queue for the womans bogs on carnival day, sometimes it was a hundred strong as it snaked out the door and around the corner. It was in this queue that I first spotted Miss Dynamite, our eyes briefly met as I made my way to the bar. I returned with drinks to my mate Dave were we continued to blimp the hordes of scantily clad fit bodies in the piss queue. Dynamite returned to sit with some fella after her squirt but continued to pipe over at me. She was making it pretty obvious,  even Dave got on it and he's as blind as Mr Magoo.



We continued to watch her for the next half an hour or so, and she continued to watch me. Her fella must of sussed something because they started rowing then he stormed out the pub. Quick as a flash I flew over. Call me Mr Vain, but I know what I wanted and I wanted it know. Right, compliment, introduction then question - all the best chat up techniques coming out for this one!.

 "I just had to come over and tell you I  love those shorts your wearing, sorry my names Bernie by the way what's your name?"

 We got chatting for a few minutes then her fella arrived and I retreated. They drank up and started to leave,  Justine (which was her name) hung back a little and managed to give me a scrap of paper with her number on, she then winked and disappeared into the crowds outside. Dave got the beers in, I couldn't believe my luck and done a stupid celebratory jig.


I phoned her a few days later and she invited me down to her flat in Peckham. I asked about the fella and she told me he wasn't her fella,  so I borrowed one of the plazzy gangster cars the lads were driving (a dodgy Saab 9000 - that cost grands everytime it broke down) and headed south of the river. I met her at the Elephant and Castle then she took me around some of her local boozers. Were she explained to me about her ex-fella, he used to be so bomb graffiti artist when she first met him, but had some how ended up on a chase for the dragon. She had booted him out months ago and was now helping him come off it. What did I care, I just wanted to bed this beauty. But having spent a couple of hours in this girls company, I liked her attitude and her personality was appealing.


We got back to her flat and what a flat it was. It was only a one bedroom flat but what added colour and vibrancy to the joint was all her artwork on display. She was on some art and textiles course at a near by Art college. There were bra's made from wire hanging on the walls, fashion type sketches littered the floor, sculptors,  materials and photographs cluttered every surface. There was a tailors dummy in the corner with a half finished dress draped over it and my favourite,  a magazine rack in the kitchen with every edition of the Face magazine (barring one or two) squeezed in. On later inspection she showed my her bedroom which was crammed full of clothes; bin-bags full in the corner, racks the length of the room full of clobber and they were even hanging from the curtain rail. She told me her and her friend done a stall at Camden Market every weekend.


My favourite night with her was the one when I paid a visit to Ann Summers and returned with a Basque a vibrator and a feather boa. And her,  good on her promise, performed a provocative strip tease for the tailors dummy, while I watched and wanked on the couch. And if them polaroids surface with me wearing nothing but the feather boa,  she's fucking getting it (I was off my nut peacocking about saying "I need a bohemian atmosphere" - while Justine took photos of me). That night we ended up in her rather minute bath, we were facing eachother but because of it's elfin qualities, my legs were around her ears. I felt a rumble in the jungle and before I knew it, I let out an eggy fart. The bubbles burst right beneath her nose. The last I saw of her was when she just got up and left me in the Dublin Castle one night. She later explained to me on the phone that I seemed more interested in the girls sat behind her than with her and she told me in no uncertain terms don't bother ringing again. I was actually more interested in the mirror and razor blade. Pity that, she was a good girl Justine, oh well, as the aids riddled moustachioed one once said "dun dun dun....another one bites the dust"



As well as spending time in the big smoke-o I used to frequent back home quite a bit also. It was during a weekend home that I bumped into number three of the trio. Me and a couple of lads were staying in a hotel in St Helens (the one through the lights past the big cinema complex on the left) we were joined by a few more mates for a quiet drink in the bar. The quiet drink turned into a rowdy one when we discovered the hotel run a nightclub full of office types and such like, dancing away to chart type dross. The lads commandeered a table and drank the hotel dry of Moet. We were woken the next morning by the maid banging on the door, she got told to fuck right off. On waking up and surveying the room, I now know what it must of been like for a member of the stones to wake up in a hotel room during a tour in the 60's and 70's. Bottles, cans, glasses littered the place. Ciggie stumps and roaches were in abundance along with keycards to the room caked in gak. The only thing missing was the groupies. There were about seven bodies but  all of them male.


When heads were finally shaken no one can remember much apart from comical dancing to naff records trying to impress the t'elens mutants. The maid came back and started banging on the door again and someone let her in and in walks this cute little nineteen year old local girl. Her face was somewhat Elizabeth Hurley like, she had the same eyes,  nose and her hair was brown and straight. She started on the bathroom as we all got ready to leave, two of the lads had her hemmed in by the toilet chancing their arm. I quickly got a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled down my number and went to join the other two in chatting to the girl. I made sure I was the last out of the door and I slipped the girl a tenner and my number and apologised about the mess. I then told her If she fancies a night out sometime just give that number a call. The call came four hours later when she had finished work. We ended up in a hotel off the East Lancs were I pummelled her senseless. Which happened for the next six months or so when ever I was in town.



But which one gave me a dose? It was the fucking St Helens slut! I fronted her and she tearfully confessed , she told me she'd been putting it around with a couple of lads who worked the door of the night club in the hotel. Shame really she was another little cracker.



Next on my travels in the smoke I ended up living in a boozer in The Angel Islington. Virtually every barmaid that worked in the pub, I had some kind of sexual connection with. Be it a snog one night, a drunken frig in the bogs the next night or a full on roman orgy with me the Irish barman and a bevy of beauties the night after that. I was dripping in minge.  When ever a few girls were knocking about you could guarantee they always got invited to the lock-in. I fucking loved the lock-ins, especially if the Liverpool boy's were in town. . Once the riff-raff had been shown the door by Fran "haven't you got homes to go to" and my particular favourite "I've seen yer faces comin in I wanna see your arses goin out" the doors were locked and the fun would begin. In attendance you had the regulars:


Dougie the Gooner & friends - His family ran a boozer close to the Packington Estate (were I was pop lad for a time when I needed a roof over my head). Doug was sound and a 100% Gooner, his only problem with us was,  everytime we won at Highbury we always bumped into Doug & his friends somewhere around the ground. Not in a snarling kind of way just in a mickey taking way.

"Fackin' ell Doug ere's em scarse mate's of yours again!!!"

 "Alwight boys, tell your Fran I'll pop in on Monday and settle up wiv im......you lot were lucky"

"Yeah yeah Doug, so we wont be seein yer in Frans tonight then.....the ales on us Ha Ha".

You never pushed it to far cos I always got the feeling if Doug wasn't there, things might have been a bit different.


 Dave the Tout, another Gooner who's family had a ticket booth on Leicester Sq and was friends with the Arsenal players. He had some very juicy tales to tell about nights spent drinking with Merson, Adams and the rest of that lot when they were at there most addictive stages of drugs/booze/gambling.


 Chelsea Dave and their friends.-  I dont know were Dave was from. he wasn't a cockney but spoke with what I call a Middlesex accent, sort of posh cockney. He owned a Tele-sales company round the corner but spent everyday in the pub with the remote in one hand, phone in the other held up to the ear, talking telephone numbers with his bookie, with his eyes transfixed on some gibberish (to the rest of us) spread betting Ceefax page on the TV. He was a complete scruff bag, he dressed like a tramp but was worth gazillions. He was a genuinely nice guy, but his bird was a pan faced rat. She walked into the pub one time weighed down with shopping bags, Fran quizzed her "a see yer got a new one then?"

 "Got what?" abruptly she sqwaked.

 "A new body" Fran threw right back at her.

 "A what?"

"Yer know a body" now pointing to the two Body Shop carrier bags festooned at the top of the  pile. It took a while for the joke to sink in, well it took fucking ages If I'm being truthful. When it finally registered she returned with "I'm not coming in here to be insulted" and with that she turned on her heels and left.



Also in attendance sometimes would be six young professionals who lived in the four storey Georgian house next door. Who the 'This Life' prog on BBC2 could have been based on. You had Harvey (Miles) studying law , he was half French and actually come to think of it he came in quite handy when we smuggled him to PSG with us one time. Next was Rachel (Anna) who was an outrageous dick tease- one time they had a house party (DJ, Dry Ice, the lot) I kept popping back and two from the pub to collect more crates of Becks ( I was doing a roaring trade 2 a-go or 3 for a fiver) Later on I was getting up to some dirty dancing with Rachel and was just in the stages of kissing her and was just about to throw the tongue down her throat when one of the house mates, Daniel (Egg- northerner from Yorkshire and liked football) came to inform me my bit that I was shagging at the time (I will get to this one soon) had arrived and was touring the house looking for me. Rachel retreated not before saying "This will have to wait" and I am still waiting. On sunny days she would perch herself outside on one of the beer tables reading Simon DeBovouir,  sipping a glass of white wine, giving me,Fran & Dreamy a slight glimpse of her slit as her short skirt rode up her thighs the more she became enthralled in the tomb. She had an S&M themed birthday party upstairs at Fran's one time. I was told I couldn't go unless I dressed up. So I stripped off , got a bin bag, put three holes in it, put my head through one hole and my two arms through the remaining two holes and entered the party.


There was also a Rock band who drank in the pub, they all worked for Chelsea Dave of a day but of a night they could be found upstairs in the pub smoking pot. They were a weird bunch; they had a slap head scouse lead singer/rhythm guitar  player from Kirkby, who looked and spoke like Frank Clark and wore fur coats, a Richie from the Manics look alike on lead guitar, Seal on bass and some speed freak Robert Plant on drums. They frequented the pub because of the juke box they would tell us (Fran made sure he had a healthy music selection on the jukey - it had everything). Me and a friend went to the Dublin castle in Camden to see them perform once, with only twenty static people watching them play , me and my mate decided to liven things up so we went on the vodka and it wasn't long before we were pogo'ing our little boxes off in front of the stage, much to the amusement of the other people in the crowd. They even went as far as having a video produced which they gave me a copy and were made up that I noticed it was little snippets of the Woodstock crowd the producer had cleverly used and intermingled with the  images of the band performing live. The pub also had some musical connection of it's own, it was up stairs were the Islington folk club used to meet every month in the 60's and it is were Bob Dylan once popped in for a quick strumming session one time whilst in London on tour - so Ronny Rumour say's  and I believe him.



Over the road was Sadlers Wells theatre and what ever production was on you  always got a splattering of stars and luvvy types who dropped in now and again. Just up the road you had the Old Red Lion which had a small theatre above showing smallish type shows. They attracted a more thespian crowd, it was the local of Paul Whitehouse & Kathy Burke. One or two regulars from the Lion and Frans turned out to be characters in the Fast Show :  cockney geezer telling you how to play the fruit machine, cockney geezer who agrees with everyone all the time, old cockney geezer "man and boy".  Ray Winston you would see in there. In-fact Ray Winstone and Kathy Burke and a few others came into Frans one day to practice some lines from a film they were doing together up stairs, because the Red Lion theatre was being used for some amateurish production. The piece they were practising was no other than one of the many violent argumentative scenes from Nil By Mouth. I couldn't believe my luck, I crouched down behind the upstairs bar listening to them perform (we thought they were having a proper squabble). Ronny Ancona also used upstairs to practice some sketch show just before she made it with that McGowan bloke.


The reds always in attendance were a mixture of young and old. The younger lot consisted of  lads from home, the lads who worked in the smoke and a few reds who lived in Bournemouth & Eastbourne. The older lot were a group of older relatives and friends who had the most amazing stories of following Liverpool all over Europe during the 60's, 70's and 80's. There would always be a couple of slappers/drunken birds that had been told to stay by Fran and a couple of the local head-the-balls for entertainment.There was times after Arsenal games when the pub was literally rocking in its foundations as the choir was in full flow. The local Gooners (Doug included) have been seen to cross the street instead of walking past the pub on there way home after a defeat. But you can bet your bottom dollar the times when we did get beat there would be a queue a mile long wanting to enjoy the lock in and rub salt into the wound. We just drank,sang and danced whatever the result.


Right back to the girls (got somewhat side-tracked there) You had the young girls from the estate opposite who used Fran's as a pre-club/after club chill out place. They started the night blaggin free Zambuca shots , then would return in the early hours to enjoy more free festivities during the lock-ins. These were young street wise cockney birds who had the Tiffany's and Bianca's about them. When the Liverpool boy's weren't in town me and the Dreamy the Irish barman used to venture up Upper St with the girls to some club called the Complex (I think). And it was in this club were me and Dreamy copped for a couple of sisters. We had fucked Tiff and Bianca off because they weren't putting out. We ended up in the early hours in the smallest boozer I know, which was sardined full off Postman and nurses. It was sandwiched behind the Royal Mail sorting depot and the Royal London Ozzy in Whitechapel. it kept  open  24hrs to accommodate all the different shift patterns.


Dreamy knew the Irish Landlord Pat so after a few hours on the black Russians, he let us make good use of the two bedrooms upstairs. Well dreamy made good use of his, if the girls screams were anything to go by. I never put on a good performance and had a case of the lazy lager lob on. I ended up fucking her with my two thumbs. The girls left and promised to show up at Frans next week, I wasn't looking forward to it,  as my sister must have got her looks from her old fella. Anyway the week quickly rumbles by and it's Saturday night and Dreamy's bird turns up minus her sister, but with some horny black goddess called Tammy. Fran later said,  he heard the thud when our chins hit the deck, the moment Tam walked through the door. She had this little shimmery black number on, barely concealing her small athletic figure (Think that French athelete who has got that perfect bottle, the one that won the gold in the 200 or 400 metres a few years back....fuck me what's her name - after googling -Marie Josee Perec ). D fronted me as I quickly threw on my salmon pink Ralph Lauren shirt and doused myself in ferenheit. He wanted to swap and I wasn't having any off it. We bumped and grinded for a bit in the Complex (?) before retiring to Pat's for a night cap. Pat's was heaving it was the night of the second Bruno Tyson fight, not that I seen much of the action. I was to busy going up and down the stair's every half an hour or so to shag Tam. We did it five times till it was (PM) Dawn and I was set a drift on memory bliss.


Tam was a top bird, she was twenty one and worked for Islington Council. She had started off on a scheme type thing with a gang of painters and had progressed quite quickly to a comfortable job in an office. Her head foreman when she was a painter had become a sort of father figure to her (with her having only a mother) and had kept her on the straight and narrow. Where as her mate's - the two ugly sister - had gone down another route and had become a thieving pair of twats. So Alan the foreman wanted to meet this northern monkey to see if he approved. Alan was a gooner and we got on like a house on fire.



Fuck me could Tam sing, she went down a treat at Frans unpromptue karaoke nights. As a teenager she toured the pubs of Hoxton where she lived, entering and winning karaoke competitions and using the money she won to help feed her mother. She was a tough little nut, but I had cracked her. One Christmas eve , she gave up her works party just to come all the way over to the otherside of London to spend ten minutes with me before I fucked off up North for the festivities. That was one intense ten minutes!.


I did take her home one time, were she was greeted with a 'Yo!' Then a blood or crips (I couldn't tell which) hand gesture off my dad and a warm and loving embrace off my mother. When my granddad heard the news my girlfriend was of Jamaican origin he blurted out "What brown? like a coon?". That weekend finished with a night in the Campanile in Runcorn, we both had the peppered steak in the rezzy and then dashed back to the room for one mind blowing session. Things couldn't get any better than this, I remember thinking at the time.


Within a week my circumstances changed dramatically and I drifted from living above Dougie's family boozer, to living above Pat's boozer in Whitechapel. Tammy came along for the ride for the first few months, but in the end she tired off it. 'What are you doing with your life?' 'you can't be a pop lad all your life' 'You have to start thinking about a career'. I did have a career, couldn't she see the master-plan, she was right though, I was in a pickle , but this was the time I needed her most. This time more than any other time I needed her support and what did she do , she left me. I give it the old 'you watch me make something of my self' speech before departing. Out of spite I used to send Tam  postcard's from places all over the world I had visited on my travels (New York - Sidney - Amsterdam - Bangkok - Mexico - Barcelona, to name a few), with a big smilie face on and   B x  written underneath.


The one from the World Cup in Japan must of caught her eye (Yeah I know, 8yrs later and I was still sending them?!) as my mother informed me she had phoned and had left a number on my return. We got chatting again and I asked her if she was in contact with the ugly sisters, and if so, could she get back the 200 quid they owed me. I invited her up to a mates wedding in a Cheshire Castle, and this is were her true colours shone through "I ain't saying she a goldigger, but she ain't messing with no broke nigger" to quote Mr West. She had changed quite considerably from our last meeting. You see Tam had missed out on all the E and other drug scene that had gone on, when she was busy making a career for herself at the council. Nonetheless she was making up for it now, and it was pityful to see a grown woman flirt with anybody who had a bag of gunpowder in their top pocket. She had turned into a rootin' tootin' snozzle fiend. She was all over my mate Kinny, after seeing him arrive in a big blacked out Jeep. We got back to the hotel we were staying in, the Carden Park(?) I think it's the one were Martin Edwards got caught in the lady's bogs. I left her in the room with a nose bag and I toured the bar looking for a bit of strange.


I seen her once more after the wedding, when I was in the smoke for the Liverpool Charlton game, she had a small flat on the Isle of Dogs. I had spent the night before the game out with a few friends and only just managed to make it through the match with a hideous hang over. I called at Tams after the game just looking for a place to crash for a few hours. As luck would have it she was working that night behind the bar in the local (something had happened with her job at the Council and know she was scraping along trying to pay a morgage), so she let me stay on the couch with a Chinese and MOTD. She phoned about 12 asking if I fancied the lock-in but I was in no mood so swerved it. She returned home about 4ish wired of her nut and kept me awake chundering garbage at me. I got up about 8ish and left Tam warbbling to herself, as I fucked off for a cab to Euston. And I have never seen or spoke to the girl since, they always say (who ever 'they' are?) that it's never the same second time round.


OK,  one more quick one, just before I go. The African Mama from the Hotel. It was the hotels crimbo do and I was celebrating.  Having fiddled the raffle 'Ted Bovis style' with the help of the Head of Personnel, I had won a weekend away in a five star hotel in Edinburgh and I was quaffing down bottles of Diamond White to celebrate. It comes to the end of the night and I can hardly walk, the next thing I know I am in the back of mini-cab with a twenty stone African chambermaid. We get back the flat I was staying in at the time (just off the Goldhawk RD) which I shared with Wally and his Danish girlfriend. They weren't in yet and had been to the same party as us. Well what can I say, apart from on my defence, the beer goggles were that thick that I thought she had the body of Naomi Cambell. This one didn't wash with Wally who said "Bollocks - how come I heard you shag her again in the morning when you must've been sober". I quizzed Wally about who had seen me leave with her?. He told me no one had seen me and he would keep schtum....the lying twat. I returned to work after two days off, thinking that no one had a clue about me and Bertha. How wrong I was!! Someone had taken a photo of me with Bertha sat on my knee at the party and to make matters worse we were touching tongues. And with Wally the tell-tale-tit, every tom, dick and harry was on my case. I got to my locker to see the first of many 'blown up photocopies of that picture' blue tacked to the door. They were everywhere canteen,kitchen, luggage room, one was even pinned up in the managers office and Alan the cabbie had two cellotaped to the doors of his cab. I dreaded going up on the third floor were Bertha worked. If I got a job on that floor, I would run down the corridor bang on the door, through the bags in and would sometimes not hang around for a tip. If she spotted me, she would chase me down the corridor shouting "LUVVER BOY......COME HERE LUVVER BOY". To this day when Tom & Jerry comes on the telly, I get a cold sweat on everytime you see the stocking legs of the maid as she shouts  "Thomas.......come here Thomas".





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