Monday, July 13, 2009

The tricolour woman

Those fucking portaloos, is it any wonder I never frequented Oxegen or Witness or Glastonbury or Woodstock or the Newport Folk Festival? It is not.

I missed 'The Ghost Of Tom Joad,' missed the opportunity to drift off into the world of my 15-year-old leafing through 'The Grapes Of Wrath' looking for symbolism.

Instead I was eating greasy chips and two sausages that had been recooked 17 times, queueing with the other ponchos in the pissings of rain.

I offered a chip to the couple in front of me. She took one, he didn't, he just glared at me, like the proffering of potato-subsitute to his missus was an invite to coitus.

He left her there, though, heading back to his seat and I got talking to his better, blonder half.

"I'm 27," she said, shaking my hand. "I'm dying for a piss."

I think she was drunk.

"I'm 30," I replied. "I had one too many banana daiquiries."

Nothing from her.

"The gig's shite, isn't it? I don't even like Bruce Springsteen."

"Ah, no, I think it's good. I just wish this fucking queue wasn't so long."

A girl fell out of our kabin, puke trailing down her face and a muddle on her shoes.

"Holy fuck," said the girl. "I don't think we should use that one."

"Well I'm not queueing again."

She looked me up and down.

"Are you single?"

"Come again?"

"Are you here with someone, like? I'm from Monaghan."

"Yeah I'm here with someone. Was that not your fella?"

"Yeah, my husband," she told me. "I was just asking, like. I'm from Monaghan."

"Well that explains.... nothing at all really. Want to finish my chips?"

She took them, she ate them greedily.

"Does he not feed you?"

Again, she didn't laugh.

"Ach, he's in shite form. Leave him off. We've been fightin' all day. What's your name?"

"Radge. What's yours?"

"Elaine. Radge is a funny name. You don't look Indian."

"Well, Michael Jackson didn't look black, did he?"

Again, she didn't laugh.

"My husband would kill me if he saw me talking to you. He gets very jealous."

Nothing from me.

We got to the top of the queue, I wished her luck. Aeons later and she was still inside, I'd grown a beard in my standing, so I gave her a knock. The door opened and she reappeared, her green face off-setting her golden hair nicely.

"Oh look, you're a tricolour!"

She laughed at that one.

10 comments:

McMuck said...

She was a hard one to break. That was some grade A material. But credit to you, you stuck with it. Bet you're glad you didn't join her in the portaloo.

adogwoof said...

Glory Days

Radge said...

McMuck - I had nowhere else to go. I was very, very stuck.

AG - Aye.

Holemaster said...

When someone asks "What kind person would...."

She's that person.

Maxi Cane said...

Classy bird.

I'd do her.

EW said...

"like the proffering of potato-subsitute to his missus was an invite to coitus"

In Wales that's practically a marriage proposal!

Radge said...

I'm moving to Wales.

Meadow said...

Beard good. Gravitas.

swiss said...

so what're you saying like? you've never resorted to a portaloo for some 'private time'? they must breed journos different in your neck of the woods....

Sarah Gostrangely said...

ha! deadly story R!