Wednesday, 29 October 2008


Her name was Chlamydia.

No, not really. That would be stupid.

Her name was Courgette.

Courgette was physically very appealing. She was what someone of my father’s generation and intellect would have called ‘a dolly bird’. I heard my father using that expression. I was never sure if it was meant to be complimentary or not. I’m still not sure.

Mentally, Courgette was not exactly a vegetable, but to say she was all cleavage and no critical faculty would not be stretching the truth.

Still, A Levels or not, when she sat me in her chair, wrapped me in her silvery cape and stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders and her glorious breasts not quite nuzzling my neck, I found myself thinking thoughts of a sexual nature.

I am only human.

‘How do you want it then?’ she asked, her voice all provocative like the town strumpet in a northern soap opera.

I told her, and she said, ‘I’ll just give it a going over with the clippers first, then we’ll give it a quick wash.’

‘OK,’ I said. 'Lovely.'

Courgette was a talker. This pleased me immeasurably as I adore big-hearted simpletons. They are such a pleasure. Not for long obviously, but for twenty minutes or so. It’s wonderful to be reminded what a privilege it is to have been born with a brain in your head.

God, I'm a cock.

It's true though.

Courgette is 21. She has large green eyes and luscious meaty lips. She wears too much make-up and her earrings are over-large and over-dangly. She has a butterfly tattooed on her wrist, and a couple of rings of barbed wire tattooed around both ankles. She showed me.

She loves going clubbing. Her favourite place in Burnley is a place called Lava Ignite. Gaze upon the film on the front page of the website and despair.

‘Haven’t you got a funny-shaped head?’ she said.

'Yes,' I agreed. 'It is hilarious.'

Courgette was lovely. Thick as a barrel of pig's tendons but sweet as sixpence with a winning smile and a nervous giggle that wasn’t even slightly annoying.

Halfway through my haircut, Courgette led me over to the wash basin and leant me back. The feel of the hot water was nice, but the feel of Courgette’s hands on my head was really lovely.

I don’t think she could possibly have been aware of how much pleasure I was taking from her fingers as they massaged soap into my scalp and moved across my head, over my ears and down onto my neck. Thankfully, my groans were mostly drowned out by Chorley FM.

Back in the chair, when my sexual thoughts became quite feisty and my groin began to twitch and stir, I remembered something.

My parents used to read The Sun. Worse still, they actually had it delivered to their front door every day. (Once my mother took a biro to one of the topless women on page 3, angrily inking a zealous brassiere, so zealous in fact that the nib of her pen went all the way through to John Major’s lipless grin on page 7. I suspect my mother was certifiably insane.)

However, the story I remembered this afternoon was a story from The Sun itself which concerned a man who’d been killed in a freak hairdressing accident. I don’t think I ever believed the story, but what the hell. It went like this. A man was having his hair cut by a young lady. Toward the end of the operation, the man seemed to take a moment to adjust himself around the genital area. The young lady couldn’t actually see what he was doing of course, because his entire body was covered by the protective cape she had secured around his neck. Only his head peeked out of the top. As she began to dry his hair however, the action continued beneath the protective cape and his hands began to move in an irregular fashion just above his genital area, and although the young lady couldn’t actually see what he was doing, she could see quite clearly the look in his eyes. And it enraged her. So much so that she lost her temper and struck the man hard across the temple with her hair dryer.

Whereupon he died.

This is one of those stories that make you realise how tenuous our grip on life is; how from one moment to the next, we hang by a thread, and perilously. It reminds you how, at any moment, and for the slightest tiniest, most ridiculous cause, your life can come squealing to a premature end. You could be standing on a train platform and with a modicum of force, a passing loon could take a chemical turn and push you into the path on an oncoming train; you could be in your back garden, lying back in the sun with your dearest loved one rubbing lotion into your thighs… you open your legs a touch and feel the moment turn, when a wasp flies in through the open window of a large white van on a road near your house. The van is in motion, the driver freaks out, his hands fly up to his face, his foot shoots out and jams onto the accelerator. The first thing you know, a van screams through the hedge at the bottom of your garden, bounces once on your lawn and that’s it. It’s done. The moment is ruined. Both you and your dearest loved one are no more.

Or you could be about to serve the winner in a Wimbledon final when a passing eagle drops a rock on your head. Or a spear of frozen urine from an overhead toilet facility pins you to the turf. You writhe for a moment, then die.

Or of course, you could be clubbed to death by an uptight hairdresser.

You could argue of course that the chap in this last scenario had it coming, or that at the very least he played some small part in provoking the reaction that caused the event of his death. And it’s true. When the single blow from the hair dryer sent him falling, sprawling to the salon floor, and his protective cape fell away from his dead body, the extent of his crime became clear.

He hadn’t been pleasuring himself at all. He didn’t even have an erection. What he'd actually been doing was rolling a cigarette.

If, that is, there was a single word of truth in the story.

Back in a Burnley barber's shop however, I had an erection. And when I had to adjust myself because my foreskin had grabbed hold of a pubic hair and was pulling at it rather painfully, I apologised. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a woody.’

Courgette gasped and blushed and looked adorable.

When it was all done and I gave her a mammoth tip, she blushed again and said I should try Lava Ignite on Halloween.

I said I would but I fear I lied. I’ll be back in London by then. Keith’s dad is fine. Just a bit depressed. Sad, rather. Horribly sad. I think the family might need some time on their own. I might leave Keith here and come back down on the train tomorrow.

Or, I might go and get my hair cut again and ask Courgette out on a date.

Amazing lips.

I keep imagining her eating a watermelon.

God, I could love that woman.

CWOTD :: Is it possible to be happy with someone who loves Harry Potter and genuinely thinks that Mrs Blair's first name is Cherry, like the pie? Or in other words, is it necessarily a bad thing to shack up with a mental inferior?

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Anonymous said...

a recent gentleman friend was sweet, funny, smart in his way - but had limited depth. he apparently got tired of my emotional inaccesibility and wandered off - conveniently around the time i was becoming bored with the complete lack of intrique, complexity and "surprise"... sometimes it works out well like that.... get more hair cut and see if she's looking for a party!

Anonymous said...

Ooo... I rather like that post. Udderly lovverly. [snort]

Being a well-endowed lass myself, and nearly the cause of a traffic accident once when I leaned over to adjust my boot zips, I feel for her... and you. It's all very cute, really.

Poor little monkey brain wins over that fancy cortex so often (not that I'm complaining, mind).

It's fab to read a happy Beast post. :D

True Lateral said...

I cannot believe I watched that video. On the other hand I am genuinely delighted that the Lava Ignite page title says "Burnely".

Non, Je ne regrette rien said...

depends on how good the sex is, I suppose. sounds like she is aptly named. glad to know I'm not the only one with wild imaginations...currently I'm affixed on the ring finger of a man I've met. He had some sort of accident where it was cut off and reattached and it is about an 3/4" longer than the other fingers and quite often I find my mind wandering in reference to that finger and the depths it ... oh but, I digress.

charming tale, Bête...

Misssy M said...

She could be your Eliza Doolittle. Still, that kind of thing usually ends up badly with the woman overtaking the man, realising she wants more than to be someone's pet project and leaving him. Best not.

Oh and I heard that story but the variation was that the man was polishing his glasses under the gown.

Swineshead said...

When did you turn the corner from 'amusing' to 'sinister'?

You can always turn back...

Fat Roland said...

Yeesh, that club gave me the horrors. I'd rather be killed by a hairdresser's equipment.

Wait: that sounds rude...

Anonymous said...

It would never work. You're already insulting her for being stupid now so imagine how you'll be 6 years down the line.

The happiest couples I know are those who are on par in intelligence, same level of education etc.

La Bête said...

Thanks for your advice, Daisy. You know, I think I will. (I won't really.)

Hey, Saff. I'm glad you thought it was a happy post. Some people thought it was sinister, you know. I think it was probably somewhere in between.

TL, ha! I hadn’t noticed that. Excellent. You know, I think a lot of people in Burnley only vote for the BNP because it’s the only political party they can spell.

Sparra, that is a strange little digression. I find the idea of a reattached, extra-long finger probing anyone slightly alarming (if that’s what you were hinting at – apologies if not). What if it comes off again when its at full forage? That’s an embarrassing trip to A&E.

Misssy, polishing glasses would make more sense, movement-wise. I guess it’s something of an urban myth then. Bloody Sun.

Swineshead, sinister? I say, steady on.


Yes, it was pretty scary, FR. I don’t understand why everyone was so shouty. I think maybe I’m getting old.

Thank you, Tombstone. That’s what I thought.

Swineshead said...

Most folk internally censor their inner pervert, misogynist, wanker, arsehole.

Saying a girl you're fantasising about is close to being 'a vegetable' doesn't say much for a man.

Did you write this 'in character'?

Eloise said...

How did it come about that everyone who doesn't like Harry Potter (or lots of them anyway) decided that everyone who loves it is somehow deficient underneath and incapable of appreciating proper literature? Other than petty snobbery? I shall refrain from further ranting and just say fuck that shit. Also, it would be awesome if her name was Cherry, like the pie.

I agree with tombstone, to a degree. If you are calling someone your inferior and comparing them to vegetables and STDs, then yeah, it's not going to work. But mostly because you're totally lacking in respect for the poor lass. Maybe it's as a fellow woman, maybe just as a person, but I'm pretty appalled by the way you talk about her. It ain't love when you think of someone as a walking, talking blowup doll.

Not that I am perfect myself, and I could quite reasonably be accused of appalling levels of snobbery. On a personal level, I think it's important to be equals in a relationship, and I love it when someone can keep up with me (and challenge me, though I have love-hate feelings about that). But I think as I get older I am losing some of my snobbery and arrogance and realising two things:

1) There are a lot of things besides raw intelligence that are important and wonderful, such as generosity of spirit, the ability to listen, genuine interest in other people and the world around you, and so on. I used to be the cleverest kid in school and it hasn't got me very far.

2) There are so many kinds of intelligence, and skill, and knowledge, as to render comparisons facile. I am (or was) good at passing exams and getting degrees. And long words and making other people feel small in arguments. I'm not so good at knowing the habits of birds, seeing how to fix mechanical things, understanding difficult emotional situations from all their angles, driving a car, delegating and sharing work, or being graceful and likeable... and I respect all of those things.

Maybe I'm wrong, but I see myself in you... in terms of feeling always hideous and unloveable and a social outcast, so clinging to intellectual superiority as defining who I was. You have to let go of all of these things. You can love and be loved and do all of the things that normal people do that you thought were barred to you (and believe me I had, and to a degree still have, the most massive complexes about the most simple things), but you also have to kill off the secret certainty that you are better than everyone else.

But maybe I'm wrong... apologies if I'm projecting. Glad Keith's Dad is OK x

Roszs Bif said...

Yeah, I'm pretty much with swineshead and eloise here - your post seems to say (in the most pleasant prose, of couese) - "Yeah, so this there was this really thick bird, quite a bit younger than me, that I have zero respect for and I fantasised about having sex with her while she going about her working day and I got an erection, so I thought I'd tell her, with nary a thought as to whether that was completely inappropriate."

Anonymous said...

Wow, eloise, you sound so much like me! I was a brainiac in school, and it didn't make me very likeable. I've learned to love and appreciate all sorts of folks, mostly because they have heart.


Andy said...

If you want to keep those errant pubes from being snagged by your helmet, give them a trim. You don't have to shave them off completely. Feels much more comfortable, trust me. And keeping things neat in the toilet area will make it that much easier for Courgette (or anyone else) to pleasure you. No one likes to pick pubes out of their teeth......

Shimacat said...

In reply to your questions:

1: no.
2: you might think of someone as mentally inferior, actually writing that - do you realise how horrible that makes you sound?

I used to like your compassion.

Lauren said...

my mind might be in the gutter lately, but it really would get me going to if someone politely said "excuse me, I've got a woody". I think I'd have to close shop and deal with them properly right then and there.

Satanic sluts said...

I think Blogspot should sack Bete de Jour for these juvenile and disgraceful comments. Infact the number of complaints are soaring and expected to reach around 18,000 by the end of the evening. Infact I think Gordon Brown has also voiced his disdain on the matter

Your sincerely
(Wink, wink...damn my fragile eyelashes =))

Non, Je ne regrette rien said...

Bête- ha, guess Eloise told you. and sorry to alarm, but yes that is the probing to which I referred AND the digit is now firmly attached...and well, given some of your written bad could my little run of imagination really be?

I'm not sure what the A&E is but I guess it is the hospital or related...and even if your wild conjecture transpired, I'm certain they've seen worse!

(ps-don't feel bad, in the end I always loathe dullards too. drat.)

Egbert said...

The Guardian had a front page story yesterday that twice mentioned "Cherry Blair" so your new hairdresser friend could hardly be entirely blamed for calling her by the same moniker.

I also must agree with Eloise's post about Harry Potter. Popularity doesn't always equal lowest common denominator. A friend of mine adores the tales of the trials of young Harry P. She also has a PhD in Biochemistry from Cambridge University. Does enjoying HP mean that she is therefore secretly a halfwit? Egad!

Holly Hall said...

As for the hair dresser

fucking go for it Bete

She sounds just lovely


Mrs. Hall

Selena said...

@Eloise: I'll admit that I like Harry Potter. Also, I think what you wrote was absolutely wonderful.

Bete, the post was well written- as per usual- and I liked it. Unfortunatelt I'm not so sure I'm liking this new you. New Bete made me cringe. So, I guess your attempt to create an evil twin, if that's what you're going for, is going well.

Hey, at least the posts will be interesting; if not all that easy to palate.


Angela-la-la said...

Blimey don't your commentors take themselves seriously! How dare you be ugly and clever and intellectually adorable but then go and to admit to getting a bit turned on by someone you know would bore your mind as much as you would like to bore her body? Are you Russell Ross?!

lena said...

after some deliberation i'm going to join in with the whole chorus of disdain.

what you did was actually sexual harrasement - you made a rude and inappropriate remark of a sexual nature to someone more vulnerable than you, someone providing a service to you and probably not in a position to spit you in the eye and tell you to fuck off as she should have for fear of losing her job.

i've been following this blog for a while but this is the first time i'm truly disgusted and disappointed :(

Anonymous said...

Ah, Bete, good to see that you've got your Mojo back. It's not your Mojo of old, perhaps, but at least this is better than all that recent Tarzan/James Bond nonsense, and your killer 'Enjoy' sign-off.

Yikes a-lordy, that made me shiver (and not in a good way).

Green Wellington

Swineshead said...

Blimey don't your commentors take themselves seriously!

I saw an old, mentally-impaired man walking around with a tent pole in his trackie bottoms once, thrusting his little cotton pyramid at women at a bus stop. This isn't altogether different.

Avitable said...

Wow. I thought a blogger was supposed to be able to share his/her thoughts freely on their own blog.

1. She's a hairdresser. I'm sorry, but that makes her an idiot.

2. She's hot. Awesome.

Harboring a fantasy of shagging the hot moron hairdresser is just a passing thought. The rest of you need to remove the large stick out of your tight fucking asses.

Anonymous said...

The comments have been interesting.

Are people actually forgetting that we all contain within us dramatic variations in moods/ideologies, many often conflicting?

I know plenty of people who are utterly lovely and so kind, yet they still succumb to sheer obnoxious idiocy at times. I also know some complete bastards who have moments of sublime beauty. We are not all one thing or the other.

If you are, you're either a robot or you're killing yourself through trying to live a lie.

Enough with the knee-jerk reactions, folks.

Anastasia said...

Ah, why can't some people just enjoy a piece of writing without going all PC about it.
Me, I've found my answer about a question that's been plaguing me about the Impulse body deodorant TV commercials and where they went to. It seems that they were probably considered to be sexual harassment as well.
The sexual harassment definition has expanded to ludicrous proportion. I learned that when I was working in a telco. You can, by accident, receive one of those spam porn emails, and if some office grunt happens to walk by catching a glimpse of the offending 'content', then you're up for sexual harassment, because they've been 'sexually offended'. That's the world we live in.

Bete I've noticed you've added an apology on your recent post. You're much nicer/polite than I am on my blog.