The Motorway Service Station is a frustrating creation. They attract your attention with promising temptation; Fuel for your cars urgent rehydration needed to allow you to reach your destination. They tell you, “You must not drive tired, so stay here where our rates are simply inspired! And they should be, quite frankly, somewhat admired. Vouchers, you say? I’m sorry those have expired. And you’ll require two rooms; one for both you and your child.” Oh, and the food court they offer is the stuff made of horror. Yes, the surfaces are absolutely pristine but you’ll fail to notice once you’ve tried their cuisine. Expensive and bland, it should all be banned! Whilst prising cash from your wallet you regret not taking that shortcut.
From the tiny island of hell, with its bright lights and hotel, You’ll depart feeling quite hassled, sighing, “I think we should’ve cancelled.”
Because I can no longer afford to study a second degree, And I won’t host a party without an erected marquee, Because I refuse to drink Tetley’s; only nettle and green tea, And my cupboards are stocked with chickpeas and Tahini, I think I might have middle class problems.
Because I cried when I misplaced my favourite lip gloss, And injured my elbow participating in lacrosse, Because I won’t try out a festival for fear of serve hearing loss, And took out a loan so I could become my own boss, I honestly think I have middle class problems.
Because I refuse to buy furniture off Gum Tree, And enjoy a decent episode of ‘Come Dine with Me’, Because I moaned when Word didn’t recognise ‘Halloumi’, And was “forced” to sell when the investment property plunged into negative equity, I’m almost certain I have middle class problems.
Because after an excellent meal I enjoy a small portion of sorbet, And consider a snack to be crackers topped with fromage frais, Because I disliked the Ugg’s boyfriend brought me for Valentine’s Day, And I’m keen on trips to the theatre and a first-rate ballet, I absolutely have middle class problems.
The first time I saw her it was just after midnight on a cold New Years Day.
I have seen her three times since that night and I must confess, since our last encounter I have taken to sitting beside the bus shelter hoping to catch another glimpse of her. And what a glimpse she shall be; with long slender legs, short brown hair and dazzling wide brown eyes; she is beauty personified and tonight, I am going to ask her to mate with me. It’s a bold move, I know. We’ve never spoken before, she may say no. She may already have found another to mate with.
Oh, and there she is; frozen on the other side of the street; her eyes sparkle in the dim street light as they turn towards me. Her long legs poised to run should I frighten her.
But I shall not.
I call to her and she cocks her head ever so slightly, watching me with curiosity. She glances towards the corner of the street then turns her gaze to me again. I take this subtle single to mean, ‘Hey there, Sailor, follow me.’ And I do.
I dash across the road and round the corner to find her waiting patiently for me, gazing at me inquisitively through the semi-darkness. She has split open a trash bag that some careless human left lying on the pavement. There is half an uneaten banana amongst the trash, which she kindly nudges in my direction. But I do not want the banana, and by the look on her face, neither does she. There is an elephant on this street tonight, and it goes by the name of Sex. We both know where this is headed.
I brush passed her and head towards the nearest house – there is a lovely, tidy garden here that I’m absolutely positive she will love.
I pause beside the gate and look back for my love. Another male has caught my ladies attention and she is staring at him intently. He calls to her and she tilts her head slightly in response to it, but does not move. I consider emitting a short bark or low growl to warn the other off, but there is no need. My beloved turns her back on the other male and trots, elegantly, towards me and, bowing her head, she passes under the iron wrought gate.
I glance over my shoulder; the other male is still there. Such a fool! I bark at him, making sure he hears the mocking tone in my voice and with a triumphant skip in my step; I too pass under the iron gate, eager to meet my beloved and, of course, keen to show her a bloody good time.
And if you’ve ever been lucky enough to hear foxes engaged in sex, you’ll know how this ends.
‘Kayso, last night the most incredible thing happened to me. Me and BFF were hanging around the stage door at Shepherds Bush Empire after getting completely car-parked and pushed up against sweaty Emo kids during My Razorblade Butterfly, while they screamed their “we cut ourselves and write depressing songs about it so you don’t have too” lyrics.
I only listen to them because Adam, their singer, is the sex.
Oh but about a month ago I read on their forum that he was getting married to this bitch, Anna, and I was all, ‘Omigod, how could this happen?’ I was so completely distraught that I couldn’t listen to any of their albums that day. But it turns out he isn’t anymore because the whore sexed up some other famous dick from some other band. I always knew he could do better than her: the gold-digging slag.
And the bitch totally did cheat on him because I read it in Shameless Fame magazine, so STFU already.
‘Kayso, we were like waiting around outside the door and those sly fuckslice bouncers totally kept telling us that the band have already gone back to their hotel, which we know are complete lies because we can like totally see their tour bus sitting in the car-park. Oh my god, we’re not that stupid!
And we were totally right because ten minutes later My Razorblade Butterfly come outside to see us – their dedicated fans. And all the girls got like totally overexcited? And kept pushing each other to get the front even though they could see there was a queue. Like seriously.
And we headed straight to Adam. It’s not like I don’t like the other guys, really, it’s just that they don’t do anything except stand around and play guitar or drum (how hard is that!). It’s all about Adam; he sings and writes all the lyrics. He’s so like super talented! I heart him so much!
Anyway, I went straight for Adam to give him a copy of their new album ‘Graveside Tears’ to sign and said, ‘I’ve been a fan ever since your first single. Your lyrics like totally speak to me.’
And BFF nods and totally tilts her head to the side to smile [ :) ] even though I have told her like a thousand times she looks retarded.
And Adam smiled – he SMILED! – at me and said, ‘I’m glad you like our music.’ He looked me up and down and his eyes lingered on my breasts longer than 2 seconds. (BBF and I decided that the 1 second rule wasn’t long enough to determine whether a guy like, like likes you. And we bumped Arse Rule up from 2 to 3 seconds.)
And then Adam slipped his arm around my waist and was all like, ‘So, want a tour of the bus?’
And I was all, shrug, ‘... ‘Kay.’
And then we made filthy, passionate love on the bus.
‘Kayso, maybe we didn’t. But he totally sucked my face off.