Month: March 2020

New! Tracy’s Twenties Hot Mail.

THRUSH

Hi Emma,

Sorry to hear you’ve got Thrush, I hope the itching isn’t too bad, I scratched my way through two pairs of knickers when I had it.

I’ve still got some tablets, and the cream, if you haven’t managed to get hold of any yet. I can drop them off after my promo tonight, it might be a bit late though, it’s at Fatty Artie’s, Fish and Chip Megastore over at Claypole. They’re having a themed 60s food night and all their stuff is going to be cooked in beef fat instead of oil. Blimey! I think he’ll have to change his shop name to Fatty Arteries after that.

Still, he’s paying me in cash from the till, not in chip suppers, so I don’t care.

I’ve got to get dressed up like a dolly bird from the 1960s, you know, like that Twiggy. She had no boobs though, so I’ll look more like Nancy Sinatra when she was singing that song about her boots. She had a right pair on her.

I once caught my pervy ex: Simon, knocking one out over the video of her singing that song when I came back from my electrocution class. Do you remember? That time I was learning how to talk posh for when I got famous. I only lasted a week. I didn’t care where the bloody rain in Spain fell after the first thirty minutes.

‘Speak as though you have a plum in your mouth,’ said the tutor, Mrs Poshly-Smythe.

That put me off for a start. All I could think of were Simon’s plums, and I wasn’t going to let them get past my lips. He’d been begging me to suck on them for months.

Anyway, it shouldn’t be a bad night, though the crowd might get a bit rough. You know what Claypole is like on a Friday.

Back to the Thrush.

I remember the second time I had it. It was only a few months ago. It started after I had to borrow a pair of knickers from Stacey Macey at her coming out party. She was just looking for a bit of notoriety, really, she was never a proper lesbian. I caught her sitting astride Frankie Arbuckle on a stack of pallets at the back of Hardwall’s DIY shop the week before.

Anyway, I’d got my pants snagged on Stacey’s little sister’s rabbit hutch when I went outside with Jimmy McCorker. There wasn’t an inch of privacy in her house, and unlike that tart, Olivia, I wasn’t going to perform in front of five other couples in the back bedroom. (So, what if Olivia had been first in? She got there within five minutes of the party starting, the tart. Any self-respecting woman would have at least pulled the duvet over their coupling.)

My knickers snagged on the rusty wire of the cage as I leaned back to think of England. Before I could let him know I was caught up, he yanked my knickers down my thighs and I heard them tear in half.

I wasn’t too fussed; they weren’t new ones or anything. I got them in a multi-pack from that new street stall in the precinct, but it did leave me embarrassingly knickerless, wearing a dress that barely covered my arse in the first place.

So, I copped hold of Stacey as I walked back up the stairs, trying to pull my dress down to cover my modesty and to stop Jimmy, (who was two steps behind,) continually lifting up my dress and shouting, ‘Och Aye! there’s a full moon tonight.’

She dashed into her bedroom, (sadly, the one that Olivia was being carnalised in,) grabbed a pair of Tesco’s big girl pants, and tossed them across the room to me.

Olivia savoured the moment.

‘Ooh, taking a souvenir, are we?’ she chortled.

I told her the only souvenir she’d be taking home, was crabs from the favourite to win the greasiest, hairiest, ugliest, tramp of the year contest, and slunk down the passage to the lavatory where  I had to evict a couple of crackheads getting their two hourly fix, before I could pull on the garish, monthly pants, tidy my hair, lip up and make myself presentable. Luckily, the pants were only two sizes too big, so I wasn’t in danger of finding them round my ankles as I walked down the stairs. I grabbled hold of the waistband though, just in case.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, Jimmy was nibbling the neck of a mousey-looking girl with buck teeth and a hairy top lip.

Most of the fanciable men had already copped off and the ones that were left, looked like they wouldn’t know what the word, conversation, meant, let alone produce one. So, pushing past a line of groping fingers, I let myself out and walked the short distance home, across the estate.

Now, you know when you realise you’ve made an horrendous mistake, but it’s too late to do anything about it?

I reached that stage by the time I’d got home, sat on the loo and looked down at those pants.

Stacey isn’t a smelly sort, usually, but I think this grisly garment had missed its annual treat into the washing machine. Under the light of our bathroom, (Stacey’s house had been decked out in mostly, red light bulbs,) I could see the stains quite clearly. I tried to tell myself that she’d just forgotten to Oxi-Action them and the baggy bloomers were clean, but I couldn’t convince myself.

I chucked them in the bin, scrubbed my fanny to within an inch of its life and fell into bed feeling more than a tad, depressed.

Two days later I woke up with an itch that would take an eagle’s talon to sate. It drove me nuts. This wasn’t just Thrush, a Thrush whistles sweetly, this thing was screeching like a starving seagull, swooping down to grab someone’s seaside sarnie.

I still shudder at the thought of it.

The cheeky cow even asked for her knickers back when I saw her a few days later. I just smiled and nodded because she was with that tart, Olivia at the time.

Olivia looked sad, stuck her bottom lip out and said, ‘Aw, Stacey, do let her keep them, she loves them so much, did you see her little face light up when you gave them to her?’

I was livid. It was one of those moments when I needed a wisecrack about the new, drug resistant Syphilis that was infecting the world or asking her if the boffins had signed her up for testing the Incredible, Vagina-shrinking cream that was about to revolutionise post-natal care for new mothers, (Olivia’s fanny is legendary in size and she’d make a great guinea pig,) but I couldn’t think of a single insult worthy of the name, so I just ducked my head, looked at my, fake, leather look, Shoo Shoes, and slunk off home.

Right, I’d better dig out the 1960’s mini dress and get ready. It’s one of those black and white, harlequin patterned ones. I’m going to wear my knee-length, white leather boots with it.

Do you know what? I WILL look just like Nancy!

Are you ready boots…?

I’ll drop the cream and pills off later Hun. Tracy, the Go-Go- Girl.

NEW! Tracy’s Twenties Hot Mail.

Powerful Women

Hi Emma,

I’ve just been listening to Dad and Gran discussing the news, but it’s confusing the life out of me as usual.

Dad said the main headline in the Daily Mirror was, ‘hot political news,’ and it might bring down the Home Secretary.

Gran said you couldn’t believe a single word that Commie rag printed, and the story was probably made up by that sad loser, Jeremy Corbyn.
Dad called Gran a Filthy, Right Wing, Nut-job Fascist. Gran said that was the nicest thing he’d ever said to her.

It seems that some bloke called Cyril Servant has resigned from Westminster because he didn’t like his new boss, who is a pretty woman, telling him what to do.

I wondered if Julia Roberts had gone into politics, but she hasn’t and it’s just a coincidence.

It’s always the same isn’t it Emma? People never like being ordered around by attractive women. I can’t remember that munter, Theresa May having anyone resign when she was Home Secretary, and she tried to kick all the black people out of the country just because one of them had a boat called Windbrush.

When I was half-listening to Dad ramble on, I realised that I was having my first #MeToo moment.

About six months ago, the Dog and Duck darts team asked me to take over as secretary for a few days because Mrs Arrows, who normally did the job, was in hospital for investigations into her prolapse.

I didn’t really want to spend my nights typing up dart player’s scores but Dad said he’d do that and he just wanted me to turn up for the grudge match against the top of the league team from the, Spears of Destiny pub, further down the road.

All I had to do, was stand there looking glamourous for the publicity photos that would be used in the sports pages of the local Evening News.

I was okay with that. I asked if I’d be paid, but Dad said the team couldn’t afford it. I would get free drinks all night though, so in the end I agreed to do it. I would be in the paper again and I haven’t had my photo in there since their reporter snapped me sunbathing in my bikini at the Lido. Remember that headline above my picture, Em? PHEW! Wot A Corka!

I decided to wear that low front, green top I got from Ali’s market stall. I hadn’t worn it before so none of the jealous bitches reading the paper could accuse me of always wearing the same thing. It was a bit tight, so tight I didn’t really need a bra, but I managed to squeeze into it.

Anyway, come match time, Dad asked me to stand right next to the dart board when the opposition was throwing, but turn away and pretend to be jotting down notes when the Dog and Duck players were chucking their arrows.

I don’t know how the Spears of Destiny ever got to be top of the league, Emma, their team are absolute rubbish. They missed the board more times than they hit it. I’m not surprised really, because they spent more time looking at me than the dart board. During the first tie, I bent down to retrieve a dart that had somehow been thrown into the skirting board and two of the buttons popped off the front of my top. Their star player muttered something about a Double Top, as I stood up and his next dart hit the scorer in the back of the head.

By then, their entire team was crowded onto the oche and the thrower didn’t have room to pull his arm back to chuck his third dart. The scorer wasn’t taking any chances and after a quick glimpse at my chest, he nipped off to the toilet, presumably to dab some water on the hole in the back of his bonce.

Anyway, it was then that this woman wearing a T-shirt that said, I want to have the Crafty Cockney’s Babies, wobbled up to the front. Honestly Emma, she had at least five chins. She was a dead ringer for Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars.

She glared at Dad and accused him of cheating by putting my chest in such a prominent position.

Dad denied it, and said that as acting club secretary, I was entitled to put my chest where I felt like putting it.

She immediately whipped out a dog-eared, rule book and pointed to a regulation, regarding deliberate distraction.

Dad said that if she hadn’t picked a team full of perverts I wouldn’t have been a distraction at all. He suggested she set up a gay darts team if the players she had were unable to concentrate on the job in hand.

Just then, the scorer came back in from the lavatory looking a bit flushed.

Jabba, who was, apparently, only the team kit washer, pushed her way past Dad and glared at me.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself, turning up to a sporting event dressed like that. I didn’t dress like that when I was your age,’ she whined.

I sniffed, looked down my nose at her and told her that the male population must have been eternally grateful to her for that, and walked out of the bar while her mouth was still wide open and her chins still wobbling.

I don’t know, Emma. Some people can’t stand to see attractive women in positions of power, can they?

I resigned as secretary the same night. I hope the pretty Home Secretary doesn’t do the same.

Tracy. #MeToo

© 2020

Theme by Anders NorénUp ↑

%d bloggers like this: