3) The Spanish lady

Sit down and let me tell you a sad, funny, and - almost - romantic story.  It’s called “The Spanish Lady”.

I met her in the Vodafone shop in Oxford’s Cornmarket.  Vodafone, in their infinite customer-service wisdom, had suspended my phone because I had used it too much (mostly listening to recorded messages from Personal Columns on premium line numbers) and I needed it switched back on now – I can’t operate without my phone/e-mail/little grey box.

So I was cross, and crotchety and full of confrontational indignation when I walked into the showroom.  And could I get served, no.  I had to wait, and wait, while the woman in front of me whittered on and on about her phone, which she had obviously lost for the tenth time that year.

She was attractive, certainly.  Blonde and well dressed.  Wasn’t sure about the lap dog she was carrying which kept eyeing me suspiciously.  But in any case, it’s too early In the morning, I’m here to get cross, it’s neither the time nor the place.

But, as we waited for the shop assistant to sort something out, she apologised charmingly, with a light Latin accent, for keeping me waiting.  And she had a lovely smile.  I asked where was good for lunch in Oxford these days and she said she always went to the brasserie in Jericho.

Then somehow the subject got onto Spain and I mentioned I was going to 'Viva Espanya' at Olympia the following weekend.  Her eyes lit up when I described it.  I don’t think she was full Spanish but she had enough to want to go.  I said it was on for three days but that I was going on the Friday. 

Then her phone was fixed and she was gone.

Only she wasn’t.  I go to Olympia with Christine and there she is, watching the flamenco singers: beautiful, friendly, and alone.  Almost as if she was looking for me.  And I’m with someone else.  Not my fault, we’d never arranged or even suggested meeting.  But still, in the circumstances, irritating.

Anyway, while in Oxford I’d revisited my old college for the first time in 28 years.  I’d been back to Oxford since, of course, with friends and family, but never into my college – that was part of the past and I’d left and moved on.

But now I felt I could revisit my past.  I’d been back into Hall and swung onto the bench where I’d had breakfast every morning.  I’d been back on the staircase where I’d lived for two of the three years.  And I’d spoken to my English tutor and had lunch 28 years after I last saw him.

Then I saw the notice:  “Valentines Day dinner in the college chapel”.  Perfect; a romantic dinner in my old College, how good is that? I bought two tickets.  This was going to work out well.  I had plenty of time, weeks in fact, to find someone to take. Who'd say no to that offer?

Of course it wasn’t that easy.  It was out of town.  It meant an overnight stay.  It was a bit heavy once you thought about it.  Nice, but heavy. Everyone thought it would be a great idea, for somebody else.

So I was careful who I asked.  I invited Jenna and she said ‘happily’ (thanks Jenna) she already had plans for that evening.  I invited Alex, who lived near Oxford, and she said ‘sadly’ (thank you Alex) she was out of the country.  And that was all.

So the day before I had no guest.  And Heidi invited me to dinner with some of her friends, each from a different European country, which would have been perfect.  But I’d bought tickets, and I don’t give up easily.

I got to Oxford around 12.00 and had some lunch.  Seven and a half hours to go.  This was do-able - but how?

Then I thought of The Spanish Lady.  She was here, she seemed single, she seemed to like me.  All I had to do was find her, but how?

Then I had an idea, as I do.

Delegate, I'll get somebody else to find her.

I asked the manager of Porters if he could find me the number of the local radio station and he knew it off the top of his head – a good sign.

I called the producers of the day time programme and got the name of the  DJ.  Dan. Hmm. They said email him.  And I got a Shiraz, a cappuccino and a glass of water and started to jab, on my now fully operative phone.

An email to ‘Dan’.

I wrote that I was in my forties, single, and had two tickets for a Valentine’s Day dinner at my old college that evening.

I wrote that I’d met a lovely lady in Oxford and wanted to invite her.  I described her, and her dog, and said she liked eating in a brasserie in Jericho.  I even gave them the number of Porters so they could check me out with the manager.

And I sat back.  They’d love it.

Capital would have run with it if it were them.  A romantic woman hunt on St Valentines Day?  How could they resist?

They resisted.  They didn’t call back. Not a word.  Not even thanks, but no thanks.

And I thought, I shouldn’t have put my age.  Not in their demographic.  To a 20 something DJ a 40 something guy trying to get a date might seem sad, not romantic, odd not interesting.

But, as I said before, I don’t give up easily. 

If they wouldn’t find her for me I’d do it myself.  It was only 3.00 on a Saturday afternoon.  I had four and a half hours to go.  3.00, she’d probably be at a late lunch with friends at her brasserie in Jericho.  A long shot, but worth a punt.  Anyway, how many brasseries can there be in Jericho?

Seven.

Or, depending on the tightness of your definition, eight.  I went to each, looked in each, and described her to the staff of each.  A beautiful, blonde, foreign accented regular with a lap dog.  Surely someone must recognise her, know her, give me something to go on. 

Something to go on, that's all I ever need.

They didn’t.  They couldn’t.  It was 5.00.  Too late now anyway.  She’d have plans.  I tore up the tickets, the moment had passed. 

And she had gone.

25) Sunshine

or, Here Comes the Sun,( Do be do bee) or Bring me Sunshine or Who Fucking Cares, I got Laid, at last…

Sit down and let me tell you a story, it’s a love story of a sort.

As they all are, really.

It’s called Sunshine. What a name, what a girl.

She was a SB, of course, from SD

All the best girls are

And she wanted a REAL MAN

Like all the best girls do

And it was love at first sound.

As it has to be

You’ve all felt the warmth of a ray of sunshine. I heard it before I saw it, lucky me. And I’ve got it on my phone. Lucky, lucky me. They’ll be the first recorded messages to chart.

Message 1

“Hello darling, this is Sunshine….. My number is….”

Now that’s not a bad way to start your day.

As Dan once said, in a slightly different context

So I replied.

As you would.

Well, you would wouldn’t you?

If you were 50

And, frankly, feeling a LITTLE FRUSTRATED

And the sound of Sunshine filled the room.

And she asked what I wanted to do,

I was the Sugar Daddy after all

And for once, FOR ONCE, I said the perfect thing

I said:: ‘Plan your perfect day.’

Now before I had Sunshine I had sons. And when they were young, and there was a holiday, I’d give them a Danday or a Domday. And there’s nothing much better in the world for a 6/7/8 year old than to be able to plan a whole day with dad.

It would seem there’s not much better for a 20 something babe than to be asked to do the same for a Sugar Daddy.

Same thing really.

Message 2.

“Hi Darleen. I’ve provisionally booked a fantastic programme at the Dorchester. They start at 9.30. We have a delicious treatment at 12.30., They’ve asked for your credit card details, that’s OK, I can book it….”

 Which is nice.

But that’s on Wednesday. Next week.

And when you haven’t had Sunshine for a while you want it, now.

So I called her. And she paid me the respect of returning me call.

Message 3

“Oh, hello darling. I just thought I’d pay you the respect of returning your call. I’m so sorry I, um, didn’t receive it. But I was out and it was loud. So, thank you for calling and I hope you had a wonderful evening. In fact, actually, I know you had (LOL). Anyway, take care my love, and I will speak to you at your earliest opportunity. Take care honey, bye”

And I called her and she was at a concert, Pink Floyd in the Park;

Message 4

(Music) “Oh, hi darling. I thought I missed your call earlier today and thought I’d call you back. Feel free to call anytime, I’m at a concert as you may gather. (LOL) but, um, lots of love. Hope you have a great day, I know you will… Bye.”

And I called her and we spoke. And I asked what she was doing Sunday (tomorrow) and she said ‘chilling’ and I said, ‘cool’.

And so we went to Brighton, how cool is that?

We meet at Victoria, by platform 1, and she was looking lovely.

And so two people, who had never met, went on their first date, to Brighton.

Do I love Internet dating?

Damn right I do

And the train was packed, but I was determined to get us a seat. And she was a bit scared by just how determined I was, as a lot of people are, but I got us a seat. So it was worth it.

And on the train she read some of my stuff, and she loved it.

And she charmed everybody, to make up for me.

And it was love at first sight as well.

For me, anyway

So we get to Brighton, eventually, and we go to the Hotel Du Vin. And we drank Rosé while she went through my shots and she not only loved nearly all of them but talked with passion about grain, composition and imagery. And I could have sat with her on the deck with my shots all afternoon but she’s a sun-worshipper so I took her to the beach

Which was nice.

And Sunshine wanted to go to the nudist beach but I’m not quite sure what the erection etiquette is, so I suggested ‘not just at the moment’ and she grinned.

Now I find it hard to sit still, let alone sit in the sun doing nothing. So I let sun-bathing Sunshine be on the beach and got her an ice-cream

Which she licked and loved

And said I was a gentleman

Which I am

And I asked her when she needed to be back in London and she thought and said ‘lunchtime tomorrow’. So I say ‘we’ll stay here' and Sunshine says ‘cool’.

And I must say I thought of some of you. Some of you, if you’re still out there, who thought I was ‘mad’ to do internet dating, or a ‘perv’ to try to go out with younger women. And thought I’d made up Mandy or Kate, or deserved what I got with America.

And I read an interesting article in the Guardian this morning. The argument, a good one, was that women’s lib has won. And 20 something women are bright, beautiful, sexy and confident.

Which they are.

But, in the process, most younger men have been emasculated.

`

I didn't say that, guys, the Guardian did.

So they, the bright, beautiful, sexy and confident 20 something girls  have no-one who deserves to go out with them among their own age group of men.

So they have no-one to go out with (and here I paraphrase) except each other (hence the bi thing) and 50 year old men, who know how to handle them.

Because we grew up in the good old, bad old days.

Which is interesting

And good for me.

Sunshine is actually 30, but you’d never guess it. She looks 25, if that. And she’s absolutely gorgeous. And when I said ‘let’s spend the night together’ she’d just said ‘cool’.

And, thank you for asking, the subject of money just didn’t come up. So there. Just how cool is that?

So I went shopping and left her sun-bathing, after buying her some prawns. And I came back with a cold drink for her. Because I’m nice like that. And I went for a swim straight out into the channel, just like my dad, in the beautiful clear waters of Brighton.

And then she did the same.

Because not only is Sunshine gorgeous, she’s athletic and multi-talented, and vivacious and confident and charming.

You’ll gather I’m a little in love

Again.

Something of a recurring theme, and what better one to have, it’s been a long time after all.

So we go back and I have to read ‘jo-to-go’. And I leave her, good move, to ‘refresh’ herself and have a soak or a shower or probably both. And she comes down wearing the FBI Cannes t-shirt I’ve given her. And she’s edibly attractive.

To die for.

So we got up and went for an early supper outside of ‘Havanna’ which Matthew had shown me. And I play her her own recorded messages and she melts with laughter. And I tell her about ‘jo-to-go’ and she says she’ll read it and will prepare an audition piece.

And I play her ‘Call me, Peter’ and ‘Nine More Yards’ and she wants to sing it and dance it and be with him.

And I have rarely, if ever, seen more life, energy and positivity in one person.

One would say we clicked.

And she said it was fate. And of course it was. And we both knew it.

We walked around, looking at shop windows, and people, and laughing.

Lovely.

She told me she isn’t into public displays of emotion, holding hands, arm in arm, that sort of thing. So we strode together, equals, as the sun cooled, a little.

So I said, ‘how about private display of affection?’

And she said:

 ‘Lets go to the room’.

She wanted control. So I let her have it.

I lay on the bed, on my face, while she massages by back with the massage oils I’d thoughtfully packed.

And it was strong and firm and gorgeous.

She massaged my legs, from the ankles to the buttocks.

Then she rolled me over and I kept my eyes closed and she massaged my chest and my legs and then she……

Well, you can imagine.

And it was strong and firm and gorgeous. And then she……

Well you can imagine.

And I did raise myself on my elbows and open my eyes to watch the sun going down on me.

Which was nice.

And I genuinely thought, ‘things are going quite well here’.

And then, having given me the best massage of my life, and after giving me the best blow job of my life, and just before giving me the best fucking fuck of my entire fucking life, she said it.

Those three little words that mean everything to me.

Because I’m a romantic.

But I also know what’s what.

She leaned back, licked her lips, and with eyes widening slightly with enjoyment and anticipation, she said the words that may well come to serve as the epitaph for peterhero, eventually.

She leaned back, young, beautiful and sexy and said, with, true appreciation.

“Awesome cock, babe”.

Which appears to run in the family.

And later, when I turned on my phone, I got a brill message from Rach:

Hi, it’s me. Um _I’m presuming _lack of, er_ pick-up _is worth it _um _I

Will _speak to you tomorrow and _we’ll take it from there. Bye.

Great PA Rach

Great girl Sunshine.

They’ve met.

Over lunch at Zillis

With Jo_to_go

And the Two Naked Swedish Girls

Which was quite a lot to handle

But I managed it

And when I showed Sunshine this story she said it was 'awesome', which was nice, and 'go with it', which I have, but she’d found a boy, which was nice, and that it was…..

The end.

But it was a happy ending,

Don't you think?

Well I did.

©Peterhero 2006

End Volume 1

2) Christine

Sit down and let me tell you a kind of funny, kind of sad story; it’s called Christine.

I'd met Christine through the Personal Columns.  She was in her thirties, black, from Trinidad & Tobago, bold and beautiful.  Funny, you can tell when you're talking to a beautiful girl on the phone. A fundamental confidence. They know, whatever else, you're not going to be disappointed. I’d talked to her before, during and after the Mandy debacle.  She was sympathetic but, I suspected, not too displeased.  Christine had been an athlete, a Trinidadian sprinter who looked like Denise Lewis, and, I was to realise, she didn’t like coming second.

I had to pick the location.

I knew it had to be just right.

I’d found out she was learning Spanish, so I suggested 'Viva Espana' at Olympia preceded by a lunchtime Pizza Express.  Nice, and safe.

I was late, again – something to do with not having any cash and the first seven ATM’s I went to (with the cab waiting) being out of cash or out of order – but I've done that story, I was above ground, I could call, and Christine was running late too. No problem.

We started lunch rather tensely.  She was beautiful, tall and graceful and proud, but she was from Dalston and I am from South West London, and it takes more then one bridge to cross that gulf.

But I’d bought her flowers (double bluff – they were a surprise) and she loved them.  And by the end of lunch we were both laughing a lot and flirting a lot.  And touching now and then. This was going to go well.

Now you’ve got to go to these Olympia gigs.  They’re run by people selling property in the region but ignore that.  Simply regard it as the best value entertainment in London.  The tickets cost just £15 each (£10 with a Times reader offer - never dodge a bargain) - yet when we walked in the first thing we saw was a live show by the Andalucian horses.  And hardly anyone was watching so we stood at ringside and could smell and feel the power of the horses as they swept past.  Awesome.  Christine loved it. Not bad for £10.

I left Christine watching a Madrid fashion show while I went for a cigarette.  On the way back I heard it – Spanish guitar music. Flamenco!  I dragged Christine towards it and we watched the Flamenco players and singers from the front row while property salesmen chattered indifferently in the background. Prats.

Then we walked around and, unbelievably, there were five beautiful female Flamenco dancers performing on their own.  They’d just got bored waiting for their slot, turned on some music and started to dance for themselves.  And because it wasn’t an ‘event’ nobody was watching.  Nobody.

So I pulled up a barstool for Christine and we watched as if they were performing just for us.  And soon they were.

I could see the Spanish girls were entranced by Christine, black and beautiful, and Christine was enthralled by their elegance and flirtatiousness.  So when I politely asked one of the dancers if she would ‘teach’ my friend, she leapt at the chance.  So Christine, from Trinidad, via Dalston, was dancing with five Spanish girls from Jerez, via Olympia.  It was beautiful.

This was going so well I chanced my arm.  I could see Christine liked my cheekiness so I went one step further.  I asked if she would pretend to be my wife so I could blag myself an escorted, free, three day inspection tour in Spain (Christine was not to come) out of a property company.

She did, and she was a natural scammer.  She loved it so much that at one point I left for a cigarette just so she could fly solo.  And she did.  Perfectly.

Then the show was closing and the guitars started again.  We went over and there was an awkward moment.  The Spanish Lady was there.  Alone.  Blonde and beautiful.  And there, alone.

Christine was not pleased. I don't think she'd have been pleased if my mother had turned up. I couldn’t ignore the Spanish Lady so I stood awkwardly, in the large silence between the two of them.  Then, apologising to the Spanish Lady (which hurt - but what could I do?) , I left, with Christine.

That awkward moment apart, I thought it had gone very well for a first date.  We liked each other, made each other laugh, looked fantastic striding arm in arm through the hall (four long legs in unison), and had been a good couple – making things happen for each other.  We came from different worlds but that simply meant we could introduce each other to worlds neither could otherwise enter.

We had a nice drink back in Pizza Express and she made sure she had her flowers. Then we kissed and she went home.

We spoke several times during the next week.  Funny, conspirational chats.  Like boy and girl friend.

We`had lunch in Zillis and everyone loved her.

I’d told her my gym had agreed that, using one of my guest passes, they’d give her a check out and design an exercise programme she could work with to help her injured leg (which was why she’d given up running – and which clearly upset her) without the need for a gym.

And she’d told me she wanted me to meet her friend who was coming down to stay with her from somewhere up North.  Then she started to worry that I’d like her friend more then her (her friend was a Miss Trinidad or something) and dropped the subject.  That should have struck a warning bell.  It didn’t.

And I found out about the Flamenco Festival at the Opera House and which bars in Soho were the best for Spanish music.

I never saw her again. 

She phoned on a Sunday and said she was looking for ‘commitment’ and she said she didn’t think I was ready for that.

Girls, I must say, do have a habit of deciding what I am or am not ready for and telling me, without asking first, but we’ll let that pass.  This time.

I said I’m probably not ready to commit yet (to what precisely what I wasn’t sure) but couldn’t we still be friends.  Maybe through me she’d meet someone who was more what she wanted.  And maybe vice versa.  But, whatever, it would be fun.

You did enjoy yourself didn’t you?  You do enjoy talking to me, being with me?

The conversation ended.  I called several more times.  She never answered.  The moment was over, and Christine had gone.

peter hero 2006

1) Mandy

Sit down and let me tell you the funniest, saddest story you ever heard – it’s called 'Mandy'.

I met Mandy through the Personal Columns. Lovely things the P.C.’s.  You read them on a Sunday morning, pick one (or get a waitress to pick one out at lunchtime – I always like a second opinion) then call in the afternoon.

First you hear her recorded message.  Now a girl, uninterrupted, on a phone, is a joy to listen to.  Personal, intimate, honest and uninhibited.  She sounded young, fun and sassy.  And looking for a confident, older man. Which I am.

So I record my message.  Much harder for me.  I hate monologues and, after hearing my own words rattle around the room for a while, I resort to: “So if you like the sound of my voice give me a call.” Because it’s always the sound of the voice that counts, not what's said.

She did. She called me. And she was young, very young.  And I’m older, the right side of 50 but not by much, and I’m talking to a 20 something and she finds me ‘quite exciting’ to talk to.

So we arrange to meet.  Not just to meet – we plan the whole afternoon.  We'll meet on neutral ground, Pont de la Tour, by London Bridge.  Which is half way for both.  She's from South London, I'm from the West. So London Bridge suits both. And if she likes ‘the cut of my jib’ down to Chiswick, by the river, for lunch.  Then, I explained, however well it was going, I had to watch United play because girls are girls but football is sacred.  And her father and brother are big Arsenal fans so she laughs but understands.  This is going well.

I leave in good time, allowing 2 hours for a 1 hour trip – max.  I stop off before I catch the bus and buy some flowers from Ellie at the open-air florist.  “What should I buy for a first, blind date?", I ask, “Tulips - not too heavy”, she says. I buy the tulips. This is going to go well.

Well, I get to Hammersmith and the tube gates are shut.  Shut and nobody knows why.  “Get a replacement bus”, they say.  No problem, plenty of time.  Go to the despatchers.  “Which bus do I get for the South Bank?”, “Where?!” He’s no idea. The South Bank is not a bus stop.

It’s chaos.  I find a bus with ‘City Centre’ on the front, get on and am told it’s going to Fulwell.  Where?!?!  No problem, I’ll walk to Olympia and get a cab.  And I can check out a place to meet Christine next week before taking her to "Viva Espana".

Get to Olympia, find a Pizza Express to meet Christine (that’s safe) and call her to tell her. And I see a pub called "Flower in Hand" while I've got a handful of tulips. Good sign.

So then I’m waiting for a cab at that big junction over the railway bridge.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Running from corner to corner as the lights change.  There’s plenty of time but this is getting ridiculous.

A cab finally appears. Thank Christ.

 “London Bridge”, I say, relaxing with my tulips in the back.  No problem, this is going to work out fine.

I relax and phone a friend.  We discuss the odds on England winning the World Cup, at length. Only when I finish do I realise we’ve only gone 500 yards.  It’s gridlock.  Oh no, Chelsea are at home, West London is closed!

I panic, “Earls Court is round the corner isn’t it?” I ask, with just a hint of desperation,  “Yes mate, just round the corner”.  I jump out, heading for the tube. And realise immediately I've left the tulips behind, in the cab, in my haste.  I turn but he’s turned, gratefully, out of the traffic, and is gone, northwards, with my tulips on the back seat.  This will be someone's lucky day but, I'm beginning to suspect, not mine.

And Earls Court is not round the corner, it’s half a mile away on the other side of the Great West Road.  Fuck.  Still, after a yomp, I get there. Now all I need is the District Line and all will, still, be well.

1^st train: Edgware Road. Useless.

2^nd train: High St Ken. Useless.

3^rd train: Terminates here. Useless, is this a joke?!

At last – District Line to Upminster.  This is going to be all right.  Close, but fine in the end.

‘Due to problems with the lights at Embankment, all District Line trains are suffering severe delays.’

We crawl towards London.  Stalling in tunnels and shuffling into stations.  London Bridge is starting to look a long way away.  Pont de la Tour even further.

And then: “Due to problems beyond our control this train is terminating at South Kensington”.  You cannot be fucking serious.

I alight, as they quaintly still say, and phone Mandy.  No answer.  ‘Call again later’ – no voicemail, I hate that.  This is not looking good.

And to realise the full awful enormity of this scenario you should know one more thing. 

When I talk to a girl on the phone for the first time I always ask “Who do you look like? Not ‘What do you look like’ – which gets you height, dress size and, occasionally, vital statistics that mean something to other girls but not a whole damn lot to boys. But say “Who?” and they always tell the truth.  Girls are incapable of exaggerating their own looks; they spend far too long in honest, self-critical, appraisal.  So if they say “Nobody” or “I look like myself, really”, then, lovely as their personalities may prove to be, they ain’t no lookers.

I’d asked Mandy and she said, straight off, “A young Bridget Bardot”.

I’m a 40 something year old bloke on a date with a 20 something year old girl who looks like a young Bridget Bardot (only the sexiest woman in the history of the planet) and she finds me ‘exciting’ on the phone, and I’m running late.  I’m never late.  Well known for it. Pathologically punctual. But now, of all times, I am running, or rather crawling, late.

Stick or twist.  Tube it, or get out and get a cab from South Ken.  Now, I’ve spent hours trying to catch a cab at South Ken, no way. I'll trust in God, Ken Livingstone and the London Underground. We'll get there.

I phone Christine for a second opinion and she agrees.  I mention the lost flowers and that’s a mistake, she says she’ll expect a surprise then, not 'just' flowers, when I see her next week.

The train comes.  We can still do this.  But again we crawl to Embankment.  I jump out.  Fuck it, cab it.  Out to Embankment.  I wait, I wait.  The sun’s in my eyes so I can’t see the cab lights so, like a dumb tourist, I hail everything that’s black and moves – going either way.

A cab.  The Embankment.  London Bridge.  Then down into the Town Planning nightmare that is Bermondsey now they've built up the river.

I get out, run through the passage, through the doors of Pont de la Tour and … And I’m half an hour late.

And she’s gone.