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Ice Ice Baby

By Johnny Finger

After a long lay off from writing for Swine I convinced myself to put pen to paper. I’m sat here watching the box, waiting for a muse or inspiration to drop by and say hello when an advert for the film, Frost/Nixon comes on.

 

In 1996 I had the honour of meeting David Frost. Well, it was more than a meeting, it was a roller coaster of a ride that took place on a long haul flight to Barbados. I used to go out with a girl who was a stewardess for BA. It was strange relationship, based mainly around freaky sex. The closest she got to compassion was telling me to ‘hurry up and cum, I’ve got to be in Abu Dhabi in the morning’ whilst I wanked into her mouth. Indeed, but that stories for another day, when I don the helmet and hop on my Highway Patrol Harley like Ponch for one more ride with my old buddy Hugh. Anyway, this girl had to work one Christmas and asked me to come along, gratis, to keep her company and no doubt indulge in sort sordid how’s your father. That, plus promise of a free 1st class ticket and just over a week at a five star hotel in Caribbean, was hard to resist.

 

Now the 1st class ticket was not guaranteed. I’d get the ‘coach’ seat no question but to get the 1st class or business class upgrade, I was advised to at least dress for the occasion. This meant something smart, not the usual long haul uniform of tracksuit and trainees. I plumbed for a navy Costume National linen two piece with light blue Egyptian cotton 300 thread count Victor Victoria shirt topped off with black suede Patrick Cox slip on loafers. Resisting the temptation of a panama, with my snide Patek discreetly clinging to my wrist, I could just about pass for a nouveau riche rogue trader or tennis coach playboy type.

 

The bint eventually got the tickets, alas no 1st class, that was full, but I could squeeze into business class. No flat beds in business but the seats recline to an almost vertical position. Not that I planned on getting any sleep, I was going to hog in on the free booze plied on me by said bint and her co-dollies.

 

I boarded the plane and was pleasantly surprised to be sat next to none other than David Frost. I was already rocking off the half a dozen cognacs I’d downed in the Airport bar, not that I’m a nervous flyer, it just seemed right. As he ambled up the row then plonked himself down next to me, I couldn’t help to blurt out ‘fuckin ‘ell, it’s David Frost’ – he extended his hand, correcting me with ‘SIR fucking David Frost’. I burst out laughing and knew immediately that Sir Fucking David was good people.

 

Now, I had a million questions to ask this man, the only person to have interviewed all six British Prime Ministers serving between 1964 and 2007, the last person to interview the Shah of Iran and of course, the man who locked horns with Tricky Dick himself in the legendary Nixon Interview, after the crooked bastard resigned. I knew I couldn’t just dive straight in, I’d have to bide my time, maybe getting him to loosen up with a few aperitifs, laced with a sprinkling of mozam.

 

After a few pleasantries, the seat belt sign went out and Frost unbuckled himself then scurried up to 1st class. Like me, he planned on getting a free upgrade but only managed to get three seats which he let the wife and family take. Usually only 1st class passengers are allowed in the bar but the crew made an exception for the knight. He shot the breeze with other passengers while talking to his family. Damn, I thought I’d never get a chance to chew the fat with is legend. Luckily, my selfish prayers were answered when a serious bout of turbulence forced all passengers to strap themselves back in.

 

Now Sir David’s not a good flyer. In fact, he hates it. He quickly ordered two Courvoisiers, I nodded my approval and ordered two myself, faking that I too was not a comfortable flyer. I thought this may be an ‘in’ – get some bonding going with him and of course get him well oiled in the process.

 

Two drinks quickly became six, the seat belt sign stayed on as the aircraft bumped around the sky violently but Sir David relaxed as we talked about current affairs which varied from Clinton’s drubbing of Bob Dole in the recent election, to the death of ex ‘That Was’ cohort Willie Rushton. I casually asked him, knowing quite well it was true, if he really turned down a contract with Nottingham Forest to go to University. He laughed and pined ‘what could have been’. We then went on to trade apocryphal football stories, Frost topping my Jack Charlton allegedly paying ‘working girls’ to defecate on glass tables while he lay beneath pulling his sick pud which I imagined resembled ET, minus the googly eyes.

 

Frost hollered, slapping me on the back causing me to spill my drink ‘take it easy’ I said, slipping a few pinches of beak into his drink as he turned to get the stewardess’s attention. Frosts retort was an excellent account of Brian ‘Old Big Cunt’ Clough’s ill fated reign at Leeds. Apparently Clough’s training sessions were akin to the football match in Kes, he’d make Johnny Giles shin up the goal and hand from the cross bar like Casper, claiming it would increase his core strength. This infuriated the senior players who swore Clough could be seen noticeably smirking at Giles monkey like forced antics. He said the final straw was when he made Billy Bremner and Norman Hunter re-enact a gladiator scene from Spartacus, complete with tridents and nets, probably a throwback from his brief spell managing Brighton, he noted.

 

Frost was now on a role, as he finished his story, one of my bints colleagues walked past with the trolley. The girl had a slight dimple in her chin and Frost, with Spartacus still fresh in his mind shouted in his best Kirk Douglas ‘you’ll make a great Viking Queen’ right actor, wrong film, but I didn’t care, I was loving it, he leaned over and whispered in my ear ‘nobodies going fuck with Sir David’ the green fog of the brandy clouding his eyes. I contemplated racking up lines on the fold-away table but in a moment of clarity backed off.

 

We carried on talking football.  I argued the 1982 World Cup was better than 1970, pitting the Italy v Brazil and West Germany v France games in 82 against Sir David’s choice of West Germany v Italy and Brazil v Italy. In one of those great drunken moments, we decided to re-create the greatest moments from the games by using the Ferrero Rocher as the ball and our fingers as the players, the fold away table made up the Azteca, Estadio Ramón Sánchez and Estadio Sarriá respectively. Frost’s work during the lead up Carlos Alberto and Brazil’s fourth was sight to behold, it was as if Rivelo himself had possessed his fingers.

 

During the West Germany v France penalty shoot-out, I was just about to step up as Uli Stielike. Frost insisted on drawing a thick moustache on my knuckle. ‘What about his greasy chip pan head?’ I asked. Frost nodded and called the stewardess - he asked for some ghee to grease down Ulle’s imaginary hair, insisting was more authentic. He also provided the perfect Barry Davies commentary ‘…all those German wondering if they will follow Uli Hoeness, who missed in the European championships…OH AND STIELIKE DOES’ as I meekly placed the Ferrero Rocher Tango into Ettori’s midriff.

 

The games died down and I got more serious with my probing about the big hitters, Nixon (bad breath, kept farting), Thatcher (dead eyes like a great white shark), Clinton (as a child he’d chase a donkey around his yard until it go too tired to run, he’d then stand on a stool and assault the poor beast). The turbulence died off, the seat belt sign came off and Sir David stumbled back up stairs to his family. I never seen him again, he didn’t come back down for the landing. I fell out with the trolley dolly and ended up spending the majority of the holiday on the beach with a rasta called Sunshine who I sneaked meals to while he kept rolling high quality joints of the right stuff for me.

 


 


 

 

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