Skip to main content

Five Shag Enid Blyton, Part 2.

This is actually Part Two of "Five Go to a Bar", so if you haven't read Part One yet, go there first.  We'll still be here when you get back*.  I've retitled it based on the TwitFam suggestion that anything related to sex in the title gets clicked on.  This also explains the fact that my blog on Dining at the Y has twice the views of anything I've ever written.  Including 3 years worth of student rent cheques that each bounced 4 times. You can find it on this site after you've read this.  And after you've read Part One.  Because reading ain't free, bitches, as Enid always said.

*<SPOILERS> Except for Timmy, George & Anne.  Oh, and Julian doesn't get a look in, because he's a lanky, posh, ineffectual cock womble who makes David Cameron look like Danny Dyer.  Although DD probably never got a blow job from a pig's head.  Or BD, thankfully.  Plus he's called Julian, which is enough in itself.  Dick, however, will eventually make an appearance. 

Ryan sits down.  Ryan has been holding the door open for the beer barrel man.  Ryan is helpful.  If he was in school, teacher would give Ryan a merit point.  If he was in Catholic School, Ryan would need to stay behind for an extra-special "It's Our Secret" award.  And some mouthwash.  But Ryan is not in school.  He is in a Hipster Goblin grotto, with ladies present.  Ladies are a distant memory for Ryan.  Ryan is married.

Beer barrel man appears outside again.  Valiantly, BD leaps to his feet, like Arthur preparing to seize the sword from the stone.  Except clumsier, and less kingly.  He holds the door open, and then sits down without stumbling, to mild applause.  Beer barrel man returns again and again.  He has a lot of beer to deliver.  In barrels.  This is why he is called beer barrel man.  Take nothing away from Enid's narrative excellence and eye for detail.  Sometimes the girls hold the door.  Sometimes the big, blonde shiny one, sometimes the quite famous one.  The boys perform their manly duties too.  Sometimes Ryan, sometimes BD.  You get the drift, but Enid would milk another chapter from it.  Eye contact is made, except with Dobby in the bobble hat.  She is dead to our happy gang.  Two tables become one.  Goblin juice and conversation flow.  Time ticks by, even on the clock with the stopped hands.

Beer barrel man appears again.  He is a persistent fucker. Dobby opens the door, and then slips out silently into the night, possibly in pursuit of the missing socks of the Hipster Goblin who gave her his pocket square.  Or his galoshes.  Who cares?  She will inevitably die, heartrendingly, on a beach.  It is written in the stars.  The stars that could be glimpsed through the leafy branches of the Faraway Tree, before Anne's selfish act.  Anne's thirty years of penal servitude on Kirrin Island with only the magpies will not bring Silky and Moon Face back.  Silky was crushed by a twig.  Moon Face got wedged in the Slippery-Slip and fed through a wood chipper by unaware travellers, working for cash.

It's Enid's last, great, unfinished book; bringing together beloved characters such as Noddy, and Fatty from the Five Find-Outers.  (Enid loves a bit of fat-shaming, but this makes BD uncomfortable)  We know that the story finishes with a showdown between the Famous Five feat. Noddy & Big Ears v The Secret Seven, but the cats that ate Enid's body also used the manuscript as a litter tray, so the outcome is lost to posterity.  Perhaps Larry, Fatty, Pip, Daisy, Bets and Buster* can find out before Mr Goon can?

*Buster is a dog, but doesn't count towards the total of the Five Find-Outers, unlike Timmy, who is not only one of the Five but Famous, to boot.  Blyton was a thin-lipped dog segregationist.

Ryan and BD do not care.  Ryan and BD are carefree, like larks, immediately before an outbreak of deadly lark ebola.  This is a real disease.  When did you last see a lark?  Let's take a moment to reflect.

Shiny is called Zeta.  She is shiny, like a balloon blown so full of helium that the skin squeaks.  She is not a small girl, but well-proportioned and athletic.  She has a job so identifiable that neither Enid nor I can allude to it.  People everywhere may have seen her on on television and would like to apply for this job.  They have no chance.  Zeta would kill them all.  Zeta is from a land far away.  Zeta has weapons skills.  Zeta is staying in the job.  Don't even ask.

Quite Famous is called Gloria.  She is beautiful, in a double-take kind of way, and easily identifiable, especially from the days Ryan and BD were younger and full of spunk.  This is an OK word to use if you are writing like Enid.  All Enid's young characters are packed to the gills with abundant spunk.  It's an admirable quality.  At least in Enid's eyes, where I imagine it may sting a little.  Gloria is quite tall, with giant, spunk-free eyes and hair of many colours, like Joseph's coat, except without Phillip Schofield's sweat inside it.  There is a vulnerability about her; she is alternately funny and melancholy, sexy and shy.   She holds BD's hand while he tells them of his empty new life full of heartbreak and sorrow, and this makes BD happy.  He has not been happy for many weeks.

Even Hipster Goblin Grottos have to close sometimes, and this one is no exception.  Six hours after entering, our table is encouraged, gently but firmly, to leave.  They are the last customers.  Ryan must go home, to a severe scolding from his wife.  She is a good, gentle, and long-suffering woman.  Ryan scampers away like a naughty puppy.  He will make her laugh and they will reconcile and go to bed, where she will fall asleep before any secret grown up adventures happen.  This is because they are married.

Ryan is sad too.

Zeta lives only a few paces away.  She is hugged and kissed, and numbers are exchanged.  She takes out her key, and trips shinily through her front door.  BD has already agreed to escort Gloria home.  They buy wine and chocolate on the way there, at Gloria's request.  BD has a feeling in the pit of his tummy.  It is not the feeling you are thinking he is feeling.  The walk is short, and takes them to a giant Gothic building with an entrance hall like a deserted church.  BD is invited in, and accepts.

Gloria's home is very small, cosy and cluttered.  They go to the kitchen.  Gloria sits on the bed.  I told you it was small.  BD sits on the chair at the end of the bed.  BD likes Gloria.  In his youth he liked her very much, vigorously and repeatedly, but he is not going to confess that. They connect with each other; they know people mutually, and share many interests; like basket-weaving and pottery; except not those.  Gloria likes BD too.  He can tell, because she asks him to her sleepover party, even though he hasn't packed any pyjamas.  He needed to be asked.  Boys are so dim.

But that feeling is not going away. It is a special feeling deep in his swirly insides. The feeling that stability and Gloria are not currently friends.  That cuddling would be good.  And bad.  Very, very, bad, like the day that Operation Yewtree came for Uncle Quentin.  That Gloria needs meds and support much more than wine and penis.  Penis is a grown up word.  Ask your parents or guardians.

BD is a grown up.  Sometimes.  What would Uncle Quentin do?   No, that's no help.  There is something so innocent and childlike about Gloria that his instinct is to look out for her. To help her.  To be her friend.  And to rally support for her from all her splendid chums.  Even Bobble-Hat Dobby.  And then, possibly with Enid's favourite combination of midnight feasts and spanking with hairbrushes, to rut with her like frenzied foxes on a full moon, vigorously and repeatedly.  Obvs.  Except... just when things are not quite so... obviously wrong.  Not tonight.

Also, all that Hipster Goblin Juice is going to need to be processed, one way or another.

Warm words and warmer hugs precede a cold trudge back to BD's empty, empty apartment.  His world is spinning.  Literally.  So much to process.  And he doesn't know which box the toilet paper is in.  But BD has a purpose.  He has a focus. He can rescue a damsel in distress.  And by helping someone else, he doesn't have to help himself.

BD is very fresh to this stuff.

He wakes to a text from Zeta...


Popular posts from this blog

My Love Life, Part 3. Contains Disappointment.

My Love Life. Part 3 Part 1  and  Part 2  are right here. You really should read them first. They're better than this one. It was almost another two years until I had sex again.  But I fell for nearly everyone in the meantime. After a clutch of 'O' levels (which were like GCSEs but  much  harder, fact fans), I changed schools once again for Sixth Form.  For the very first time in the seventeen years of my life, it was my own choice, unlike my first nine schools.  It meant a move from the small town to the big city, from a white middle-class comprehensive to a mixed demographic community school surrounded by burnt out stolen cars and populated by burned out, sullen, teachers.  'Fame' hadn't long finished on TV and I was genuinely hoping someone would teach me to breakdance, or at least spin on my head. Nobody did. I didn't know a soul there.  But on induction day I met a couple of girls who took me under their collective wing.  In the years to follo

Words...Don't come easy to me. But numbers do. Or do I mean number two?

Sunday evening. Blog posts written:  None .  Inspiration stuck fast, like Augustus Gloop in the chocolate pipe,* with barely 400 words written about what happened after that first night in London.  Can't even tell if it's a good story or not.   * This is not a euphemism Cigarettes smoked: 1 .  And I gave up last year.  I hate myself just a little bit more, which I've been working hard at not doing. Beers drunk:  2 .  Not even enjoyed those.  They're colder than the still memorable message from The One; telling me she'd met somebody else; and every bit as welcome. Steps taken today: 19,004 .  Good, but ruined by the beer.  And the cigarette. Pairs of trainer socks discarded after retreating to the arch of my foot within 50 paces: 2 Pairs of trainer socks discarded in similar circumstances over the last couple of weeks:  5 Pairs of trainer socks remaining in sock drawer: 0 Pairs of normal socks rolled down to the ankle in the hope that I wouldn't lo

This wasn't what I intended to write, but it came out unexpectedly

I was driving down from my villa this morning in search of breakfast at the nearest beach village when I realised I'd have to turn back for another poo. This, in itself, won't come as momentous news to anybody who experiences morning bowel movements.  Which, all being well, is most people, but I'd already had three between getting up, showering and leaving the property. For the record, I have diverticular disease.  This delightful piece of oversharing i s brought to you by the formation of small bulges in the wall of the colon, which has nothing to do with punctuation and everything to do with the passage of food and its by-products through the body.  It's also hereditary, which explains why both my brother and my mother have it too; although not the fact that I was diagnosed years before either of them, despite being the youngest of us.  Here comes the science bit: Who knew  I'd be younger than my mother? What it means, in real life, is that I have to be care

Multiple orgasms. Unexpected hairs.

One of the very last times I slept with someone, back when sex between consenting single people was still allowed, I woke the following morning with a couple of urges that needed to be fulfilled. Grasping between and behind my legs I eventually encountered something long, thin, and disconcertingly unfamiliar. Groping around delicately, I pinched the end of a what turned out to be a hair between my fingertips and pulled inch after tickling inch of it from my puckered balloon knot. Similar to a string of anal beads, except without the knobbly bits, perhaps fortunately. It wasn't entirely an unpleasant sensation, but I'm not convinced I'd subscribe to the YouTube channel. There was more to come. Well, there wasn't, because those  urges had been wonderfully mutual upon waking, but there were, unbeknownst to me, further treats in my lunchbox. It's quite difficult to describe the sensation of pulling what feels like a two foot long hair out from inside one

Is it too early to talk about cunnilingus?

It probably is, because look, we barely know each other.  I've only been blogging for a few days. But, if we do somehow end up naked together, there's a chance it could happen, sooner rather than later. Because, er, I like you.  And you like me.  That's how we got here.  And I'm turned on by you, and I want you to be turned on by me.  And the state of awkwardness peculiar only to those who have removed their undergarments in the horn-infested presence of another for the first time is mutual, so why don't I* take a lead here? * Unless you've really got a frisk on and have already set the pace, so to speak.  I'm easy like that.  If we're already en le frottage , then let's be comfortable with each other.  I'll roll with it.  What goes around comes around, etc. Michael Douglas probably wouldn't approve.   But then I worry if I wear a cotton v-neck, in case people think I'm copying his style.  Which of course I may be, subliminally. 

Headshots. Dating under false pretences.

The only thing worse than a profile with no picture, apart from  possibly anal herpes or doing up a zip fly a tad too quickly and enthusiastically before being fully tucked away, is a dating site profile with just headshots.  Beautiful, well lit, artfully posed headshots, showing off lustrous hair, luscious lips, and eyes like limpid pools of liquid diamonds.  Rather like an iceberg, a headshot only profile tends to have a little more going on below the surface. Or in this case, a lot more below the neck. I’ve learned this the hard way, and broken my own rule on a number of occasions, none of which has led to anything but disappointment. I love a rounded, curvy figure. There’s something very alluring about the softness of warm flesh, the wobble of a bingo wing. I’m no Adonis myself, and it’s completely natural that women (and men) in their mid years might have an extra few pounds here and there, a sprinkling of cellulite, a slight downgrade in the degree of perky pertness that underpi

Honesty, kindness, and unexpected boobies

I really, really want to be kind.  And honest. I've not always been great at it, and in my twenties ended more than one relationship horribly, in a classic remake of "If I Behave Badly Enough They'll Chuck Me" - a movie that nobody's yet bothered to make first time around.  Except me, in live non-filmed documentary form.  Because I was a bit shit at saying, "Sorry, but I don't like you as much as I used to."  Actually, worse than a bit shit. I'm genuinely sorry about that.  Especially to the lovely girl that ended up marrying one of my other good friends.  I went to their wedding.  It's OK.  Honestly.  We're all mates.  Still.  Even after my flailing arms launched a full glass of red wine over her white dress last summer. Phew. Honesty and kindness hadn't entirely worked with Angie, who'd been my first serious newly-single rebound relationship. I adored her.  She'd been the champion grenade-thrower at her Senior School. 

My Love Life. Part One. A Tragedy in Many Parts. A Part in Many Tragedies.

I've been a bit blocked recently in terms of updating my own dating blog.  Mainly because: I'm not currently dating I've written all the tales that follow my typical story arc* I can't write about having my heart shattered, because it isn't funny** * If you haven't read my midlife dating blog before, it's fundamentally full of the various histories of dates I've been on that turned out to be massive disasters, one way or another.  But I try to make them mildly amusing, once I'm over the trauma **Which is basically point one.  But the rule of three applies.  Plus, I've spent ages writing & deleting all my heartache, bitterness & angst. Time has passed, I'm doing my best to let things go. Anyway, there's no angst room here. This was meant to be a guest post. Then Alice  kindly asked if I'd like to write a guest post on her blog.  And I accepted, because, unbeknownst to her, she'd inadvertently caught me at the sw

Trusting a fart, and nine other things I'll never do again

I was up far too late the other night, because what better time to go full-on self destruct than during a global pandemic when you've got to be on an 08:00 Microsoft Teams call in little more than 4 hours? Standing on my balcony, enjoying the silence of Lockdown London and wishing I had a Camberwell Carrot with which to mitigate the respiratory menace, the sudden appearance of blue lights on the street below made me drop my metaphorical spliff in momentary panic. They hadn't come for me, it transpired.  Not yet, anyway.  Turned out it was an ambulance gliding, almost silently, into a space on the road several floors below in the deserted ghetto.  It pulled to a halt, and after a pause a paramedic descended from the passenger side, stood motionless for a minute in the road, and then released a thunderclap fart of such enormous proportions that it set off car alarms a mile away in Maida Vale. For a second I was stunned.  Should I clap for the NHS?  Would all my neighbo

After love

Saw a past love walk towards me Down my street today Same coat Same gait Same hips But at closer range It wasn't her And the snappy opener I had in my head Faded to nothing more than I liked you I'm sorry we couldn't manage To be friends.