Confessions of a Pop Star. Timothy Lea

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      ‘I’ll have a glass of the house white,’ says Sid.

      ‘I’ll try the pillar box red,’ I say.

      Once again Rosie’s features do not spring into smile position with whippet-like swiftness. ‘Don’t treat the place like the public bar at the Highwayman,’ she says coldly.

      And to think I can remember when she used to believe that the sun set every time Sid fastened his pyjama cord. Some birds go off faster than last year’s turkey.

      I turn away from this timely warning to anyone considering getting nuptially knotted and take a butche’s round the room. Imagine my surprise – go on, please do – when I see Daffers and the bloke she was with, sitting in one of the alcoves. I can recognise him by the black eye and the lump on the top of his nut – he went out of the window just after Rambling Jack Snorter.

      Daffers recognises me the instant our mince-pies meet and I hear the familiar strains of the love theme from Tchaik’s Romeo and Juliet bashing a hole in my lug holes – with the last tinkling notes running away down the front of my Y-fronts. Surely fate must have thrown us together? Daffers clearly thinks so. She scampers to my side and informs me that Algie is on the point of passing out. A combination of booze and amateur brain surgery has reduced his already sub-standard sex appeal to vanishing point.

      ‘I think he ought to go home,’ she murmurs. ‘He’s not himself.’

      I am tempted to suggest that any change must be an improvement but I control myself.

      ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ I say as if nothing in the world could make me think about anything else.

      ‘You mustn’t say that.’ Daffers squeezes my arm and her fate is sealed. Once birds start touching you it is but a question of minutes before their knickers are spoiling the cut of your jacket pocket.

      ‘Where does he live?’

      ‘Just round the corner, but he’s in no state to drive.’

      ‘I’ll drive.’ The words pop out of my mouth so fast that I think someone else must have said them.

      ‘Would you really?’

      I knock back the red plonk so as not to offend Rosie and tell Sid that I am popping out for a few minutes.

      ‘Blimey, you’re a sucker for failure, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘Don’t hang about. I don’t want to stay here all night.’

      I ignore him and help steer Algie out of the door. There is a glow in the east which makes me wonder if The Prospect of Doom is still burning. Algie has one of those little sports cars with about enough room in the back seat to lay a sausage roll lengthways and it is like fitting a broken umbrella into a shoe box to get him stowed away.

      ‘You should have gone in the back, really,’ I say. ‘Still, I’m glad you didn’t.’

      Daffers pulls her skirt down towards her knees and runs her hand up my forearm. ‘Third on the left and I’ll give you instructions from there.’

      ‘Filthy Irish swine,’ drones Algie’s voice from the back seat. His head drops back and he begins to snore loudly.

      ‘Do you think we’re going to be able to get him out?’ murmurs my new friend. For some reason best known to herself her words accompany the pressure of dainty finger tips against my upper thigh.

      ‘No trouble,’ I breathe. ‘Now, tell me. How do you get this thing into gear?’

      A few thousand fumbles later, we have arrived in a narrow cobbled mews which Daffers informs me is where Algie lives. I would have thought he could have done better than to kip over a garage but I don’t say anything. There is no point in hurting people’s feelings, is there? Not that Algie would speak up if I gave him a lantern slide lecture on the Kama Sutra. He is definitely out for the count. I, on the other hand, am now definitely out for something one letter shorter.

      ‘What are we going to do?’ Daffers’ concern sounds about as genuine as that of a bloke watching his mother-in-law drive over the side of a cliff.

      ‘I think it might be best to leave him here, don’t you?’ I gaze into the bird’s eyes and give a little shudder like a twig snatched away by a dangerous current over which it has no control.

      ‘Yes.’ The word urges her lips a few dangerous inches closer to mine and she shares my shiver.

      ‘Mmmm,’ I say. The noise savours the pleasures to come and the last ‘m’ accompanies the arrival of my north and south against Daffers’ soft, warm lips. At the same instant my right hand glides smoothly but purposefully between the lady’s thighs. She stiffens for a minute and then relaxes, sliding her arms round my neck.

      ‘Naughty,’ she says approvingly.

      I don’t rush things but gently chew her lips whilst brushing my fingers against the fragile fabric guarding the entrance to her spasm chasm. At basement level percy is rolling out like a fireman’s hose and I have to effect a quick readjustment of my threads in order to rearrange the accommodation. Daffers is not slow to diagnose my problem and her thoughtful fingers arrive like a batch of flying doctors. As I hook my pinkies under the rim of her panties her own digits ease down my zipper and prepare to take percy for walkies.

      We are now profitably involved in two areas of mutual interest and as our fingers glide and caress a certain urgency invades our actions. I slide my hand under Daffers’ back bumpers and with a little help from my friend tug her knicks towards an appointment with the carpet pile. For her part, Daffers is equally swift to expose my parts and percy soars upward like a twenty five pounder field gun released from its camouflage netting.

      ‘We mustn’t!’ gasps Daffers, eagerly. Even if your only experience of birds is helping old ladies across the road you soon get to realise that the hot flushes often coincide with the cold feet. They don’t mean it, of course, but a word of reassurance is always appreciated.

      ‘You’re beautiful,’ I breathe. Not the most original words in the English language but they pull more birds than a fleet of tugs. The steam is now running down the inside of the windows and it joins my impulsive lips in drowning any more of Daffers’ half hearted objections. I settle back into my seat and pull my passionate playmate towards me. With encouraging haste she scrambles across my knees and suddenly the car is a very small place. In the circumstances the best thing to do seems to be to make use of every inch of space and I slot into Daffers with a speed that would bring tears to the eyes of any woodwork master in the country. My hands close about her back buffers and we thump happily while I watch the misty outlines in the mews rise and fall in time with the car springs.

      ‘Heaven!’ breathes my new friend. ‘Oh, it’s good.’

      I am in no mood to disagree with her and as the warm currents stirring through my loins race towards the rapids I sense that a small weight loss in the Y-front area is imminent if not even nearer.

      ‘What the Devil!’

      That didn’t sound like me? And it’s not the kind of thing I say.

      ‘What the hell are you doing, Daffers?!’

      With a sense of extreme irritation I realise that Algie СКАЧАТЬ