Joey Tribbiani

It's Saturday, 12 noon and I'm still in my jim jams with absolutely no intention of getting dressed. I have espresso, cigarettes and Jimmy Hendrix. What more could I need?

As Voodoo Childs particularly sweet guitar solo starts to take its usual air guitar inspiring effect I am suddenly reminded of Joey. Oh dear....

Joey wasn’t his real name, I called him that because he was intellectually challenged, I met him on one of those internet dating sites a few months ago, we batted a few of the usual bull shit messages and met up for drinks.

Joey was HOT, tall, dark and masculine so I wasn’t really listening to what he had to say during that first date. He said he was a plasterer, and having never been out with a manual labourer before I couldn’t help but wonder how refreshing it might be to experience a bit of rough. We went on a few more dates and the inevitable happened.

It soon became apparent that he wasn’t all that bright. I never really talked to him much there was no point, but like I said he was a bit of rough so I thought he could handle it. WRONG!

I had decided quite early on that I’d keep him indoors, I’d go round his, we’d have a drink, we’d screw. I was quite happy with this arrangement as it fit in nicely around other dates. He didn’t know where I lived and so I could cheerfully shake his hand in the morning and be off.

It was about three weeks later that he seemed to be trying to tell me something...

Joey: “I think women just use me for sex”.

Me:  “ Argh, oh dear, really?”

Joey: “Yes, before I met you I went out with this other girl, she asked me to go to a works do with her, she turned up on the night, told me what to wear and said I wasn’t to speak to anyone!”

Me: “ Awwww sweetheart, don’t worry, I’ll never ask you to accompany me to a works do.”

Having handled that quite well, I thought that would be the end of the matter but the conversation kept being punctuated by minor insecurities of this type so I went home early.

I thought that maybe Joey was on a bit of a downer so the following weekend I decided to cheer him up whilst contemporaneously crossing another “must do” off my bucket list.

After having struggled with stockings, suspenders and and rib breaking corset, I found the tallest pair of heels in my collection, buttoned my knee length coat, picked up my overnight bag and Gin and told dad I wouldn’t be home that night. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but the corset was very tight and my car has a very low suspension. After adjusting my seat in such a way as to allow me to breathe I then found it impossible to drive in the ridiculous heels I was wearing and so had to kick them off.. Oh well, he doesn’t live far.

There’s a winding, curvy road that takes me to Joeys house, snaking over hills and generally void of traffic I enjoy the drive immensely. Putting my foot down is a weakness of mine and as I swung past the cemetery at top speed I was in a state of elation.

The policemen in the car at its entrance less so.

Yes reader, they pulled me over.

So picture this, a policeman at my window completely unaware that underneath my coat there is nothing but Anne Summers products and one very sheepish girl.

I’ve got to get it together, sweet smile, butter wouldn’t melt. Problem is I have one of those faces that never looks innocent. I know this about me and have learned to accept that people automatically think I’m up to something even when I’m not. I am the victim of face-ism a prejudice against which there is no legislation to protect me, no equality laws, nothing.

“Do you know why I’ve pulled you over?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea constable..” Smile, open eyes very wide...

“You came round that corner at quite a speed.”

“Oh I’m so terribly sorry officer, you see my shoe got wedged between the pedals and I was trying to kick it off, see?” I indicate towards my stockinged feet wearing a sad expression.

He smiled, thank god, I’ve got him.

“Can I see your licence?”.

“Of course!” I start to rummage in my bag in the girliest way possible and smile as I hand him the little plastic card thus proving I did in fact pass my test.

He looks at it, goes back to his car, exchanges a few words with his colleague and strides back sticking his chest out like a peacock..

“I won’t book you this time, but wear more sensible shoes in the future.”

“Oh I will, thank you constable, sooo sorry.”

By the time I get to Joeys I’m a nervous fucking wreck, there’s a guy parked up behind me fiddling with a car seat and I refuse to get out till he’s gone. Knowing my luck, a gush of wind or worse a fall from the curb will no doubt expose my shame to a surprised father and his small Ribena drinking mistake, causing embarrassment to me and a series of difficult questions that he would rather not answer.

I light a cigarette and open the Gin taking deep much needed drafts while I wait. Father and child at length depart, so one last lip gloss application and I’m ready to totter up to Joeys front door and give him an apoplexy.

                The door opens and with a smile on just one side of my mouth I let my coat drop; this is closely followed by Joeys jaw and now the evenings set to improve considerably.

I had a great time, we drank heavily, he was very enthusiastic and the night soon became a beautiful scene of carnage and debauchery. He knew my tastes by now and so stood on his bed, in my heels and other accoutrements I played my air guitar, mimicking those sexy little guitar hooks with ease, wooohooo this is fantastic!.

It was then he spoilt the moment......

“I love you bab, I want you to be my Mrs.”

Oh no! How could he do this to me now, a wave of panic swept over me like a tsunami. There is just no way I could seriously consider a meaningful relationship of any kind with someone who babs me and Mrs? Mrs! As the room closed in around me I dashed to the bathroom and ran the cold water tap. What to do? I couldn’t just walk out, I’ve drank far too much to drive home... I’m going to have to sit it out till morning. Shit, shit!

“Are you OK in there?” Joeys voice seeps under the bathroom door and sounds suddenly unbelievably common.

“Yep fine,” my curt reply.

“You’ve been in there 20 minutes!”

Concluding I was in no fit state to address the problem now, I feigned dizziness slept it off and left the following morning before he came round. I then text him to say I was leaving the country having being offered a job in Italy and ignored any subsequent calls. I’ve used that one a million times and really should come up with some better ones; please feel free to post any particularly imaginative dumping techniques in the comments section, I will use as many as I can and let you all know how they pan out.

So there you have it, two out of three just doesn’t cut the mustard.