How’s the jogger’s nipple? I hate that, I got it once when I wore that hessian blouse without a bra to Bryony Chalmers’ end of engagement party. I was really popular with the lads that night but Christ, my nipples felt like they’d been chewed on by a starving buck toothed Piranha. I used up three-six-packs of Greek style yoghurts trying to cool them down.
That bastard, Simon, my ex, put my name down for the wet t-shirt competition at Tossers night club. The lousy sod said I’d be a shoo in with my cast iron nips.
Gran’s been giving us a lecture on how tough life was back in the 1960s tonight. It all started when Dad came home from work saying he was going to see the doctor about getting a few days off. Mum got all worried, she doesn’t like the idea of dad being on the sick. The last time he had a few days off he didn’t go back for twenty years.
Dad said the stress has caught up with him at work. Gran said if he stopped selling knock off fruit and veg to all the criminals in town he wouldn’t have to worry about being caught. Dad said she didn’t know the meaning of the word stress. He said she was a freeloading bitch and she ought to be worried about the state of his heart as he paid for everything she had. Gran said she lived on her pension and the only things he had ever given her was a rent-free room and the night terrors whenever she thought of his face. She said she’d give it all up for chance to see him thrashing about on a defibrillator for an hour.
Dad took a big slurp of tea while he tried to think up something pithy to respond with but he obviously failed because he took his mug and went to sit on his chair near the fire. By the time he got there, she was in full flow.
Gran said that most blokes have had an easy life going back centuries. It was women who did all the work, they had to do the washing, cooking ironing, bring up sickly kids and stress over making food last the week. She said it was bad enough now, but back in the sixties women lived a third world existence. She said all men were useless back then and the only help women got was from a trip to the doctor for a Mother’s Little Helper.
Gran explained that the Mother’s Little Helper was a pill and mums used to ask for it when things got on top of them. Dad said no one in their right mind would have got on top of Gran.
For once Gran couldn’t think of anything to say, so she won the argument by throwing the tea pot at him.
Gran said they didn’t make a little helper for men because men have always had it all. When women were stuck in the house all day with their snotty nosed brats, men got out, went to work with their mates, when they came home they ate the dinner that was already on the table, then went out to the pub to see the mates they’d just said goodnight to. When they got home, pissed and smelly, they’d jump into bed and demand a two-minute sex session before rolling off onto their backs to snore through the night. They didn’t know what stress was.
Gran reckoned a woman’s day never ended and they couldn’t even enjoy the two minute’s worth of sex because some snotty little brat with a chest full of mucus would come bawling into the room and puke on the mat next to the bed just as we were getting interested. Gran looked at mum and narrowed her eyes.
Mum stuck out her bottom lip. ‘I was a lovely child, everyone said so.’
Gran snorted and said mum was a snivelling little germ bag who had more bugs than the second-hand mattress they got from the Salvation Army.
Dad decided it was safe to come out from hiding and he carried the tea pot back on the table.
‘You’ll be claiming to be a feminist next,’ he said.
Dad sat down and pushed his mug into the middle of the table. ‘I’m a real feminist We had a talk about it at the labour club the other week.’ He tapped the pot and looked at mum. ‘I’m parched, do the honours,’ he said. Mum got up but Gran told her to sit down
‘Let the bone-idle sod make his own tea.’
Dad started to spout about slogging his guts out at work all day to keep Gran in the lap of luxury, so the least he deserved was a cup of tea when he got home. He said he didn’t ask for a lot out of life.
Gran went on a rant then. She said people have everything now, but back then no one had two beans to rub together. She said that things were so desperate in their house that the cockroaches moved next door.
Gran pointed to my laptop. ‘We didn’t have porn movies on the computer either. Back then grandad had to put on an old mac and a false beard and sneak in the back door of Mr Patel’s newsagent to buy a couple of mags and he had to carry them home stuffed inside a copy of the Daily Express. Then, when you opened them up the models had star-shaped stickers covering the interesting bits. There were porn movies at the back-street cinema on Scuttle Row, but women weren’t allowed inside in case they put the men off masturbating.’
Gran looked at me, sighed, and her face took on a wistful look. ‘Your grandad would have loved to have owned some nipple clamps and I think he’d have been in heaven with a butt plug, but we didn’t have any of those things back then. I had to tie him up with the bit of oily old rope that he used to use to drag people out of ditches with when he worked for the RAC. We didn’t have a ball gag either. We used one of your mum’s snotty handkerchiefs and the wrong end of the plunger I used to clear the sink with. We didn’t even have oral sex back then. Blow jobs only happened when you needed to cool down your porridge.’
Gran reckoned she was there at the birth of feminism in the 60s, she said she burned her bra on a pro nuclear weapons march. Dad nearly choked at that. He said Gran couldn’t be a feminist because she hated every other woman on the planet except me, mum and Elsie in the warden-controlled flats. and she only liked Elsie because she was daft enough to get her pension for her when she couldn’t be arsed to get it herself.
Gran said she respected a lot of women, she said Lucretia Borgia knew how to handle the men in her life, if the men hadn’t been bastards, she wouldn’t have needed to poison them. She said Margaret Thatcher was the founder of Macho Feminism, she had steel balls instead of tits. Dad tilted his head to one side and tried to work that one out. Gran said there were no female role models any more.
I wasn’t having that, Emma. I said, ‘What about Kim Kardashian? You know who I mean, Gran, we watched her show on TV last night.’
Gran said, in her day, if someone had an arse that size, she wouldn’t be allowed on the bus let alone the television.
I don’t care what Gran says, I reckon they had it lucky in the 60s, I mean, they got stress relief just by taking a pill. We have to spend hours on a vibrator.
Right, that’s it for now, Emma. I’m off for a bath. I’m meeting Spotty Irene in the Dog and Duck tonight. She’s found a new acne treatment online and she wants to show me how well it’s worked. She’s not allowed out in the daylight with it on as it can cause the flesh to rot.
See you later babes.