Happy Perv-Day to you

Hungover and hungry, I slithered out of bed and met Clare. She hadn’t been home from last night’s fancy-dress party, and so was only an overcoat away from a Greek princess. On the way up to Sol’s we talked about how West Didsbury was changing, how everything was changing, and how natural and normal that was. We ate in Sol’s, then wandered out to Ladybarn park, past Parsonage Road. Clare told me about getting locked out on the roof of Woody’s brother’s apartment in New York.

We circled round through the park, past a group of three or four scallies. One of them, fat, red-faced, hoody, waved and said “You’ve got a bike, we’ve gotta hunt them kids,” to his mate. The biker shrugged, looked away. Fat Red waddled to a hedge gap, a lanky mate ten strides behind him. Clare and I chatted on as we watched two good kids, blue jeans, long hair, bomb over Parrs Wood Road and down Parsonage. The scallies followed then out of our sight. Snow began to fall. By the time we made it to the park gate, the scallies had turned back, sulking, hands in pockets. Further on, down a side street, one of the long-hairs looked round a low wall at the retreat. The other called from eight or ten houses down, “Shall I get my dad?”

Alison and I had a cup of tea at Orlando’s. It was barely three in the afternoon, and the couple behind us were very drunk. They argued loudly. The barman had to go over and have a word. It was awkward and distracting. I felt queasy. Would he hit her at home later? I was glad to be out of there.

I pulled on my Stormtrooper t-shirt and went down to the Met to meet Pervy again. I arrived to see him wearing a Darth Vader t-shirt. Phil was there too. Also in a Stormtrooper t-shirt. We looked like the Three Amigos of Geek. I’m not surprised Phil put his jumper on. Pervy seemed quite underwhelmed by his handmade cock and balls birthday card. After too long in the pub, we picked up a curry and headed back to 46 to enjoy it. At one point, Pervy fell over, landed on his arse, giggled and then squeaked. And again. And then once more. Squeaked? Was that a fart? Was that a high-pitched girly fart? Was that real? It was. As he sat on the floor, legs straight out in front of him, Pervy’s eyes watered with laughter. And we laughed and laughed as well.