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.