Sweet (23 page)
GREEN GAYS SAY RECYCLE YOUR RUBBER
BEARS WITH SORE HEADS
UP TO THE ELBOW BUT PROUD
TORY LEZZERS SAY GET ON YOUR DYKES!
GAY MUSLIMS SAY STOP OCCUPYING SODOM
FASHION AGAINST FASCISM
It was turning out to be a pretty good afternoon after all, I thought, as Roxy decided her beer was better fed to me from her lips rather than from the can. Then among all the fun and games I saw a sight that filled me with all the righteous anger of a pack of Bible-bashers with PMT being confronted with a gay gang bang behind a bush when they were leading a Sunday school nature study group.
‘Oh my days it’s THEM! I LOOOVE them! I was SOOO upset when they got attacked, but see, that’s the thing about the gay community, we refuse to be victims . . .’
I looked up from where I’d been staring (her cleavage) to see what Foxy was banging on about and there, dressed like twin Elton Johns in that mad get-up he wore for his fiftieth birthday party, all ten-foot wig and white-powdered face and lace, were my two ex-fairy-godfathers, Aggy & Baggy – literally standing on pedestals which, I reflected sourly, looked more like cake stands. Across the front of their float in huge silver letters was written ‘TIME TO TAKE OUT THE TRASH’, and to the immaculate sound of Franz Ferdinand’s ‘Take Me Out’ a bunch of hyper-sexy teens strutted and swayed, all of them wearing outfits made out of black plastic bin bags.
I stood, gob open, staring at them, and then I realized that all of them were wearing or holding something I guess was meant to show their ‘white trash’ status. So one of the boys was accessorizing with an electronic ankle tag and a natty see-through holdall full of iPods and mobiles, another one was wearing a hat and hairnet that were a silver and sequinned version of the ones worn in Macky’s and Burger King – and as one of the girls turned to face me, I saw that her bin-bag outfit was meant to be a school uniform, and strapped to her front was a plug-ugly plastic baby. And in the middle stood Duane Trulocke, wearing nothing but a mock-Burberry yashmak.
You know people, when they’re banged to rights, often say stuff like ‘I don’t know what came over me’? Well, I did. Seventeen years of having people who were far from perfect peer down their stuck-up noses at me just because of my postcode. Seventeen years of putting up with snobs whose sexual habits just a few years ago would have had society dismissing them as trash attempting to feel better about themselves by treating other people like trash, of all the tragic hypocrisies. Seventeen years of being slagged off by people who secretly hated themselves and could only kiss it better by hating someone else – the ‘chavs’ would do for now. All that came over me, and I knew what it was because I had had to fight the feeling so often. And then what came up to me, as luck would have it, was a cheery bloke pushing a dirty great burger trolley loaded down with yummy chavvy treats like bright red ketchup and bright yellow mustard, full of gorgeous E-numbers. And then technicolour rain, the yellow and the red, coming down over the whole nasty, snobby extravaganza that was the ‘TIME TO TAKE OUT THE TRASH’ float, as I with a whooping war cry jumped up on to the float, exhibiting the grace of a ballerina and the intent of a young hoody about to do serious damage to private property.
So, yeah, I knew what came over me and they knew what went over them! Not blowing my own trumpet, but that float looked like a proper work of art by the time I’d emptied my squeezies over it – yeah, a Jackson Pollock! (Something else I’d learned from Kim, apart from the sexy stuff.)
Course I was on a roll by now, so I chucked the empties into the audience – which by now was how I was starting to think of the astounded crowd, which you can either call self-delusion or self-esteem, take your pick – and looked around for any more alterations and improvements I could make to the tragic kingdom of Bags and Ags. The big cheeses themselves had come down from their pedestals – how apt! – and were trying to climb down off the float, but sadly the tightness of their breeches hampered them somewhat. With an evil laugh I helped them both out with a dainty foot in the small of each broad, thick-skinned back.
The models, if that’s the word you’d use to describe such a ragbag of rent boys and fag hags, were screeching and pushing as they too attempted to alight from the mocking tableau, which until recently they had seemed so proud to be a part of. I decided that maybe it was wearing such unpleasant, badly crafted outfits that was causing them such consternation, so did my bit towards restoring their happiness by ripping at any piece of their rubbish rigs I could grab hold of. I saved a special gift for young Duane the two-faced trick-pony – a nice kick in the nuts, and one to grow on – for last; then curses, over the heads of the crowd I could see my old mates the boys in blue making a beeline for me! I took a bow, leaped off the trashed float and made a run for it.
I’m not sure what happened – I think my heel got stuck in the ground, or I tripped over something, but one minute I’m running gazelle-like through the melee, dodging the crowds and making the fat cops and the even fatter B&A look like the jokers they were. Then the next minute I’m sprawled out flat, spilling out of my bra-top and giving every guy and girl in the park a glimpse of what makes Sugar so sweet. Well, I wasn’t too bothered about my unplanned peep show, but I was bothered about the sodding great float that was heading straight my way.
It was big and gorgeous, all done up with shells and loads of shiny blue paper floating about in a way that I guess was meant to look like the sea. And then, like Venus from the waves (I watch TV!), this incredible girl stood up from where she’d been perched on a massive great starfish (white chocolate I’m guessing, probably from Choccywoccy-doodah). She was dressed like some sexed-up mermaid, a shimmering green tail very low on her hips, an emerald-type gem sparkling from the depths of her smooth white stomach. Her long red-blonde hair reached down to her shoulders but thankfully not down far enough to cover her chest, which was naked apart from two of the tiniest, shiniest pink seashells you could imagine.
The float stopped and I scrambled to my feet and looked up at the mermaid’s face.
It was Kim . . .
Time stood still, the crowd froze, and it would probably have been one of those perfect movie moments ’cept in the movies the heroine doesn’t usually say things like ‘Fuck me five ways!’! But that’s exactly what I said, and then I started to laugh and I couldn’t stop, cos I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, I couldn’t believe life could be this sweet, and I couldn’t believe my little Kizza, the shy girl I’d wanted to be bold, was standing in front of a park full of people, bold as you like, with just a few silky scales and a couple of barnacles between her and a full-frontal. And like a horny sailor trying to pull one of them sirens I’d have happily smashed my ship into a bunch of rocks, or in this case a Pride float, to get to her.
‘Oi – Lewis!’ I shouted. And my gorgeous girl looked down at me and I knew it was all going to be OK. First she looked shocked, then she tried to look like she couldn’t give a toss – but she managed to keep that up for about half a second before she broke into a massive, excited, sexy grin.
‘SUGAR! What are you doing here?!’
‘Looking for you, DYKE – where else would I find you?’
‘Get up here, slapper!’ She put her hand down to take hold of mine and just then another great hand slammed on to my shoulder with the full force of the law.
‘Maria Sweet, I am arresting you—’ Fuck, I’d forgotten all about the sodding police! Then like some underwater kung-fu girl Kizza grabbed a big fork thingy off the confused-looking Neptune dude who was standing behind her and shoved it up against the copper’s chest, pushing him backwards on to the floor.
‘Get your fucking hands off my girlfriend!’ New Scary Kizza screamed at the gobsmacked sucker as he landed on his fat arse. Then over her head I saw the crowd parting and a purple-faced Aggy and Baggy, accompanied by yet another member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary, heading straight towards us.
I grabbed my avenging angel’s hand. ‘RUN!’ I told her – and we did.
And that’s how I ended up on the last train out of Brighton with a sleeping Kizza squashed up nice and close against me. We’re gonna go and stay with some mates of hers in a faraway land called ‘Up North’. And from there – who knows? Kim still wants to go to university, probably in Manchester, and I’m still a dropout with sod all prospects – ’cept maybe now the prospect of being happy. I don’t know what I’m gonna do from here, how to get to my balcony in the sun, but when I finally make it, one thing I’m sure of is that Kim’s going to be lying on the sun bed next to mine. Well, once she’s knocked me up a jug of sangria, rolled me a spliff and rubbed me all over with bronzing oil – natch.
Like I think I might have said before, if the good life’s not handed to you on a silver platter, all you can do is hang on like hell and try not to chip your Hard Candy in the process. So I’ve grabbed my girl and my chance, I’m out of Brighton and heading for the great unknown. And I gotta say, it feels sweet.
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