round my hampton than a swarm of bees any day of the week.
‘Ooh!’ I say. ‘Ah! No! Don’t – don’t – don’t – DON’T STOP!’
‘You’re sex-mad,’ she says, looking up from my gleaming knob. ‘You’re an animal, aren’t you?’
‘Do you like animals?’ I say.
‘Ye-es’ says the lady and she starts again.
O-o-o-o-o-o-o-H! Talk about thrills running up and down your spine. Mine are travelling by motor bike – and I wish my old man was wearing a crash helmet. If she goes on like this much longer there is going to be a nasty accident. O-o-oh! Another few seconds and she stands to cop the cream off the top of my bottle. This cannot be in the best interest of ultimate client satisfaction and my astute business brain wakes up to its responsibilities. Removing my dick from the lady’s cakehole – it is rather like trying to take a bone away from your pet pooch – I measure the bird’s length against the slippery lino – five foot two and eyes of blue – and give her rose hips a gentle going over with my brewer’s bung. She is clearly not averse to this treatment and squeezes my hampton like it is one of those gadgets for strengthening your grip.
‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘I know what would be nice now.’
A few years ago I might have thought she was talking about a cup of tea but wise men find time an instructive mistress (good that bit, isn’t it? Gives the whole narrative a touch of class) and I have a pretty clear idea what she is getting at – or rather what she would like me to be getting at – a touch of the old cunning linctus, or whatever they call it. I know it sounds like a cough mixture – and you can need some of it if you get a few hairs wound round your epiglotis. Anyway, I have got to be nice to her if I want to convert her to Meadowfresh and after a nifty muff dive she should be putty in my hands. No point in throwing it away too lightly though. I might as well weigh in with a bit of sales chat. I expect Fred Glossop would in my situation – though, come to think of it, I can’t really see Fred Glossop in my situation.
‘Oh yes!’ I breathe passionately. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Notice the clever way I get her thinking in terms of the affirmative. She is practically nodding as I close my Teds gently round her strawberry ripples. ‘Have you ever thought of changing?’
She raises her head slightly. ‘You mean, being a fellow?’ Fortunately I stop myself from grinding my teeth together.
‘No!’ I say. ‘I mean, no. I was talking about changing your dairy. Meadowfresh has got a lot to offer.’ I drop my nut down to her tummy button and start eel-darting my tongue into the dainty little dip.
‘Oh yes?’ she gasps. ‘Ooh.’
‘I was wondering if you would be interested?’ I say. ‘You could keep the milt – I mean, the milk – as a free sample. I think you’ll notice the difference. Rich, creamy …’
I get my tongue down till it is nearly part of the pattern on the lino and bring it up slowly.
‘Oh, oh, OH!’ The lady’s backside lifts off the floor like my tongue has the power of levitation.
‘Would you like me to give it a try?’
Her hands go into my barnet and for a moment I wonder if she has Red Indian blood. ‘Oh yes!’ she says. ‘Yes! Yes!!’
What a satisfying moment. A contented customer and she hasn’t even tried the product yet. This must be my best ever start at any job.
I give her dilly pot a few more tongue tickles and then reckon that the time is favourable to give Percy his head – well, he has had her head, hasn’t he? Rising to my shapely knees I prepare to drive proud perce home – and I don’t mean back to 17, Scraggs Lane, ancestral home of the Leas. As it turns out this task is unnecesary because Meadowfresh’s latest recruit has her greedy mits round it like she fears it might disappear if exposed to the light. With the speed of British Leyland going on strike she has whipped my action man kit into her snatch and clamped her ankles over mine. ‘Wheeh-ouch!’ Unfortunately her bum catches on a ridge where the lino is breaking up but the floor is so slippery that we don’t stay in one place for long. I try and brace my legs against the door, but end up sliding the length of the room and nearly fracturing my nut against the washbasin holders.
‘This is no good,’ I say. ‘Come on!’ I sit on the edge of the bath and the bird is on to my lap like your moggy on to Dad’s favourite armchair. The aim is what you might call unerring. I bet she is a minor miracle at quoits.
‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘This is the third time I’ve come. Do you do deliveries on Sundays? That’s when Edwin goes to his Gran.’
‘Not every Sunday,’ I say, beginning to calculate that I could be on the way to an early grave if all my new customers appreciate the same line of sales technique. ‘Ooh! Ow! Eeh! Ah!’
Fortunately, release in the form of sending a few million sperm cells to a better place and falling backwards into the bath comes to my aid and I am eventually able to limp away with an assurance from Mrs Nyrene Gadney – for that is the lady’s name – that it is Universal out and Meadowfresh in! What a triumphant start to my new career. Fred Glossop will be pleased with me. I do not exactly dance but my step is light as I emerge from the staircase and find the man himself standing by the empty milk float. ‘Where in the name of the Lord have you been!?’ he says.
‘Just signed up a new customer, Fred,’ I say. ‘A Mrs Gadney. Nice lady. I’ve got her down for—’ I break off when I see that Fred is staring at the empty float and shaking. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘You had to finish the round by yourself, did you? I didn’t know it was going to take so long. It took a bit of time to get her interested in my bollocks – I mean, products!’
‘You stupid half wit!’ shouts Glossop. ‘I haven’t delivered a drop. While you’ve been frigging about, the whole bleeding lot has been knicked by kids!’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Pissed off with it yet, are you?’ says Sid.
‘Course not,’ I say. ‘It’s very interesting. I wish they’d turn the bloody muzak down in this place.’
Sid refuses to be diverted. ‘I reckon it’s a comedown, myself,’ he says. ‘You wouldn’t catch me trying to flog bleeding yoghurt.’
‘They haven’t got around to putting blood in it yet.’ I say. ‘Are you going to buy me a drink? My glass has dried out.’
‘A half?’ says Sid hopefully.
‘Pint, thanks,’ I say. ‘What are you doing these days?’
‘I’m weighing things up,’ says Sid.
‘On the veg counter at Sainsbury’s?’
Sid pats my cheek. ‘You’re full of fun today, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘How would you fancy a plate of scrambled teeth for dinner? When I say “weighing up” I am referring to a judicious appraisal of the career opportunities currently pissing themselves to get at me.’
‘So you’re on the sausage,’ I say.
Sid sighs. ‘How typical,’ he says. ‘You
