A Prospective Nipple
So anyway, there I was waxing my hair when who should come knocking on the door but Kevin. That boy does give me the gip sometimes! I tell him, “You can come in for five minutes and have a cup of tea but then you got to go again, I’m busy.”He says, “Right-o,” plonks himself down himself down on the settee, pours himself a stiff Glenfiddich, pops on a Gina X Performance record and says, “I decided I want to be in the group.”
“Oh yes,” I say, taking another fingerful of wax and rubbing it into my fringe which I’m trying to get into a spike like that Flock Of Seagulls fellah, “And what group might that be?”
“Your group,” he says, “You know, Dollybird and the Tits.”
“The name,” I say, sternly, “Is Dolly Pop and the Raspberry Nipples.”
To tell you the truth, I don’t think that Kevin has grasped the subtle play on words involved in that name and, as I am not sure he has the mental capacities to understand even if I explained, I decided against attempting to illuminate him.
“And what is more,” I tell him, “They’re all girls. Which means that there is no suitable vacancy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I know they’re all girls. That’s why I want to be in it.”
By now he has put me off my stroke with the waxing so I wipe my hands on a nearby copy of Smash Hits, screw the lid back onto the wax pot, turn to look at Kevin and fix him with my most baleful basilisk glare.
“Let me try to make this simple,” I tell him, “The group is all girls. Female. Not a single solitary male involved. You, on the other hand, are of the masculine gender. QED.”
From the way his mouth is hanging open with no words issuing therefrom, I deduce that the light of understanding has yet to burst upon his few and widely-scattered braincells. So I make it simpler for him: “They are girls,” I say, “Whereas you. Are not.”
A smile spreads slowly across his otherwise vacant face. Finally, with a pause sufficient only to refill his glass, he says, “Yeah, you got it! That’s just what I thought. They are girls. And I’m not. Great combination!”
I often wonder how on earth I ever got involved with an idiot like Kevin. Then I remember that fateful night in Camden Town when I got pissed as a parrot and somehow found myself being taken back home by him. My memories of what happened thereafter are, happily, non-existent. All I know for sure is that if ever anyone sees me puking in the gutter and offers to take me home in future, I shall run in the other direction. Or at least, I shall if I am capable of so doing. Which, if I am puking into the gutter at the time, I probably won’t be. Ah, such are the terrible ways of Fate!
Anyway, by this time I am starting to wonder why Kevin wants to be in a group at all. I mean, there was me thinking that he was set up nicely with his new job as the hand and voice of Flapjack the Duck on the soon-to-be-aired late night adult humour show, ‘Big Bazoomers!’
But it seems I was wrong! Apparently in a moment of blinding sanity, whoever offered Kevin the job in the first place suddenly realised that a man with his hand up a duck’s arse going “Quack! Quack! What a quacker!” might not be the height of late-night hilarity for the more sophisticated audience which they are hoping to attract. So they cancelled Kevin and hired a woman who shoots pingpong balls from her fanny.
Anyway, when he’d drained the last drop of my Glenffidich, I finally managed to push Kevin out of the door with a vague promise that we’d audition him for the Raspberry Nipples only if we don’t get enough actual girls for the job. In his inebriated state, he seemed to find that satisfactory, little knowing that I wouldn’t audition him for the job of toilet cleaner, let alone for a Raspberry Nipple.
I’m still not really sure about my hair, you know. I mean, I’ve got the ‘beak’ effect sorted out ok, with a pointy bit plastered down between my eyebrows. But I’m none too happy about the wings out the sides. The effect is a bit too much on the Ken Dodd side for my liking.
Oh well, it’ll just have to do. I’m off down The Camden Palace tonight. Probably have a word with Steve Strange while I’m there. Give him a nod and a wink about The Raspberry Nipples. He might be interested in featuring them at the Palace one night, I reckon. Mind you, I suppose he’ll want to know what sort of music they do. To be honest, that’s a problem that hadn’t really occurred to me. The group will need some songs, I suppose. Well, I could probably knock out a few, I reckon. How hard can it be? I see that Neil Tennant who writes for Smash Hits is trying to put together a band. Load of rubbish they are, that’s what I’ve heard. But anyway, if he can do it, I’m damn’ sure I can!This is the image I am striving for...
...but this is the image I am achieving:
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