17) Two Naked Swedish Girls (part deaux)

17. Two Naked Swedish Girls (part deaux)

So I wake up, nice and early, and phone my Mum.  As I do on a Saturday morning.

And my left foot is killing me after yomping up that bloody hill. 

Never had to do it before.  But last night, of course, as well as a no Tick and no Tock, there was no cab, no No7 bus either. Fucking French.

But I remain cheerful.

Penny had said, when she read the stories, ‘ I hope you never get laid, Peter, so these stories don’t stop’.

Bit of a mixed blessing that Penny.

And I’d phoned Rachael from the Swedish Beach Party, after the shower and she’d been rooting for me “Awa the lad!”

So I ticked her and said ‘Another bloody story!’

And she said later ‘ I think Penny’s jinxed ya.’

And I limp down to Midi del la Plage and read Nice-Metro and L’Equipe.  Fantastic paper L’Equipe.  And it’s the France game today and so ‘Avant '. And they think I’m a little French in there, like they think I’m a little Italian in Zilli’s, and a little odd most everywhere else.

And I go to the Old Porte and get the Sun (d'accord) and The Guardian and The Times.

And I tick Tock.

‘Morning gorgeous.  Call me when you wake up’

And Tock  tocks

‘Who are youJ’

But French Telecoms sends all her texts twice. So when I went to bed I got:

‘Tock – empty’

'Tock – empty’

when I woke up I get:

‘Tock - Who are youJ’

‘Tock - Who are youJ’

So I tock:

‘Peter’

‘Still Peter’

And by now I’m having breakfast at the Magestic (all the perks without the room charge) and I’ve bumped into Grant.  And I tell him about ‘2 Naked Swedish Girls’ and he can’t believe it.  And he especially can’t believe it when my phone tocks and it’s Tock, saying she’d fallen asleep again (sent ticks asking her to breakfast etc) ‘J’

And I say to Grant, ‘You’re in a story’.  And that takes some getting used to.  He can accept the laddish take of ‘2NSG’ but finds it harder to ‘get’ that Tock is tocking me now, here, with him.

And it’s the same when Louise gets angry with Randy and I say ‘phone her’ and click on her number.  And Penny asks ‘How’s America?’ and I say ‘call her’ and click on her.

It’s difficult to marry stories with reality. And now the stories are catching up with reality, or vice-verse.  And it’s even harder for me sometimes.

And now girls are reading the stories and I can see them thinking ‘ I don’t want to be a column.’  To which the only answer is ‘Then don’t be an unsuccessful date’.  I only write about unsuccessful dates.  It’s just that all my dates are unsuccessful.  So far.  I hope. 

Be a successful date, praise be to whoever, and I promise not to write about it.

Give me strength.

So anyway, Grant goes off.  And Tock falls asleep again.  And again.  Obviously had a tiring evening.  If only I had.  And I get tired of ticking and tocking and I phone her and she says she’s so sleepy.  And I say ‘Are you alone?’  And she says ‘I’m in bed with Tick'.

And I make a logical suggestion which would have moved things along considerably.  But she says, after a pause, no she’s too tired.  'Phone me in an hour.’

So I have lunch with Vicky.  On the Boardwalk. Which was lovely.  And I phone Tock in an hour and she’s on a yacht. Which is no longer surprising, nothing Tock does will surprise me any more.

So I carry on having lunch with Vicky, which is lovely.

And it’s the Swedish game and Tock says she’s sailing for the beach to watch the game.  But there’s not a lot of wind.

Suffice to say that once Germany were 2-0 up I know there was no point seeing Tock.  They’d be crying into their Schnapps and  nobody mopes and drinks as the Swedes do.

So I watched the game with David F + F, from Rome  Which was hilarious.  A like mind.

Next day was the England game.  And as a warm-up I seduce a French woman from 20 feet without saying a word. 

Told you that sudden storm had a story in it.

She’s rather lovely.  And with a bore. And we foot-tick.  And I smile, cheekily.  And she raises her glass to me, and smiles.

Then she walks past me to the toilets and I follow her and she’s waiting and says ‘You’re Angletterre’ and I say ‘Yes’ and she says ‘I’m French, unfortunately.’

Not a line you hear often.

And she says, ‘I’ll meet you at The Magestic in an hour.’

Not a line I hear often.

So I wait, as I do.  Then she appears and says, she has to take boring Swiss banker to aeroport.  I say ‘fine’.

Then she ticks later and says, maybe we’ll email.

And I tock ‘Pas demain, pas manyana. Carpe diem. Toujours.’ ‘cos I’m getting hacked off.

And she phones and says ‘I’ll see you in the bar in two minutes.’

And we meet in the bar.  And she’s lovely.  And she wants to be what I am, and I can help her.  And it’s going so fast to even think if it’s going well.

And then ‘le boyfriend’ appears in the conversation. Join the fucking boat.

And then Tock ticks. ‘We’re in the pub’.

And I say to Stephanie, pour comme elle t’appelle. Meet me at St Antoina at 8.30 tomorrow morning, before I go!  And she says, ‘Oui, d’accord!’

And I go to the pub for the England game, as you do – even in Cannes.

I get there and watch the 1^st half, but finding Tock is as hard in there as England finding the net.

So at Half Time I go outside and tick Tock.  Then two street rats swipe my phone.

U. (that’s jaw hitting floor)

Take my money, take my honour, take my name.  But don’t take my fucking phone.

U (that’s jaw still on floor)

So I go back in.  And Tock's there.  And when I tell them they know.  They’re producers.  And a frisson of terror goes through them.  Not the phone.

There was a lot of backing up the next day.

So after the game (missed Beck’s goal getting Tock a drink) we go to dinner.

And Tock is off, Tick is too far away, but Natalie is full on. 

So I give her a FBI t-shirt and she loves it, and wears it.  And the boyfriend is a long way away and I say ‘Cannes doesn’t count.’  Which has been known to work before. For other people.

But it didn’t. Pour moi. Poor me.

And as they left I said to Natalie ‘Meet me tomorrow at Bar St Antonia at 9.30 tomorrow’.  Because I’m in love with an Afrikaans – which is surprising.  And she said yes ‘cos she’s in love with me.  And you know, dear reader, I went to the bar at 8.30 and Stephanie no show, and at 9.30 Natalie no show.

You go figure.

I’m going home.

©peter hero 2006

6} RUTH

6) RUTH

Sit down and let me tell you a not very funny, in fact very sad story.  It’s called Ruth.

I met Ruth through the Personal Columns, like so many of the other girls – except that Ruth was different.  She wasn’t a girl, she was a mature woman, and she wasn’t single – she was a widow.

Ruth was the widow of a senior diplomat.  I never knew who he was, or what he did, or how he died.  She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. 

I don’t know how long they were married, whether they were happy, whether they had had children or how long ago her husband had died.  She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.

Ruth was lovely: sophisticated, urbane, dryly funny in that way very educated, very confident, English women have.

And, because she was a widow, I took it very, very slowly; very, very carefully.  I’d call her, and just chat.  Or she’d call me, and just chat.  She joked that when she phoned I was always in a bar and I explained that that was because she always phones in the early evening.

When people ask me where I work I say “Caffé Nero in the mornings, wine bars in the afternoon”.  I work wherever I can get a flat surface for my notepad and diary and a room quiet enough to work the phone.  And these stories I write in the best writing rooms in the world – The British Library or the Radcliffe Camera in Oxford.

Anyway she’d call and we’d chat.  And she’d ask me what I was up to and seemed to enjoy finding out about my peripatetic lifestyle and the girls I was meeting and what I was doing.

And she was always just about to go out to a dinner or a reception or the theatre or the ballet.

But I never even mentioned the idea of meeting, let alone taking her out.

She was a widow, putting an ad in the Personal Columns, and she had to get her head round that, and I had to take it very slowly.

So we chatted.  She knew about everything, and everybody.  If I mentioned a name in politics or the City she not only knew them but sounded as if she’d sat next to them at dinner last night, or heard the latest gossip about them in the corridors of Whitehall or Threadneedle St.

This was going well.

So I started to ask her about what she liked: and she loved the theatre, the ballet and the opera.  And I still hadn’t asked her out, and she hadn’t asked me to ask her out but I was slowing laying the ground and we both said we’d take it one step at a time.

And then I saw it:  The Royal Shakespeare Company production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Novello, which was the newly refurbished Strand Theatre.

Now I love Midsummer Nights Dream, it’s my favourite Shakespearian comedy and the last time I’d seen it performed was in Dublin, directed brilliantly by my older son.  So it meant a lot to me.  And as a first date play it’s ideal: romantic, magical, funny and charming.  Perfect, this was going to go well.

So I asked her, and she said that would be perfect.  She’d love to.

And I said there was a special offer in The Times and what dates would suit her.  And she told me.  And I asked her if she’d prefer to take the pre- or post-performance special offer of a discounted meal, and at which of the proferred restaurants. 

She said when and that she’d prefer a post-performance meal as you have the play to discuss and it’s more open ended. . .

I phoned to book the tickets and they said that, unfortunately, that restaurant was not available on that evening and would I prefer A or B instead.  And I said I’d have to get back to them because it needed to be both of our decision and that Ruth was not an easy lady to please.

And she laughed when I told her and said neither of the options sounded much fun and we could better than that on our own.

So I booked the tickets. 

This was going to go well.

And then she phoned the day before and left a message.  And I know that she phoned very, very early when she knew was able to leave a message and not speak to me.  And she said she was sorry but she didn’t feel able to come.

Now I was disappointed but I could respect that.  It must be difficult for a widow to re-enter the dating game, however gently the guy tries to handle it.

So I mailed her and said I didn’t understand but I empathised.  And I called a while later and we spoke.  And she said she was sorry but she didn’t think I was looking for a relationship.

Now I must say I found that a little hard to take. 

I said that she was going to dinners, to receptions, to the theatre and I was phoning Personal Column numbers and making long phone calls from my empty flat and trying to get her, or somebody, anybody, to go the theatre, or anything, with me.

Quite how did that make me ‘not looking for a relationship’.  I didn’t think I knew anybody looking harder for a relationship.

You can say I’m not looking for the same sort of relationship as somebody else, but please don’t say I’m not looking for a relationship!

And she said we obviously needed to talk.

But we never did.  I phoned, she didn’t answer.

She didn’t phone.

And I tried to give the tickets away but my heart wasn’t in it.  They were our tickets.

And she’d gone.

©peter hero 2006

I.m in discussions with a Chicago radio station about broadcasting peterhero

I've been invited to go over

Which is nice

I've also been invited to a disco in Portugal with 8 of my Facebook (PETER HERO) friends

Which is even nicer

I've invited Paula (she's just back from Portugal, having had to take a holiday to recover from Cannes) , Claudia (wow, Romania - 20 on Saturday) and Plain Jane (Miss Persia)

How cool is that?

Love Conquers All

peterhero x

Thanks to Molly Mae and her friend tweeting we are now over 1,000

Thanks Molly

peterhero x

Hi Apologies, the web site is under construction Will advise peterhero x

If you have a story you want to share send it to peterhero3@gmail.com

peterhero x

69) Two Well Dressed French Girls

69) Well, we are in France…

Two Well Dressed French Girls

(but only one Fanny)

or

Anything you Cannes do, I can do better

Which is Nice

Comprendez?

D’Accord…

I was back in Cannes, but not on my own this time - with Paula, only the best PA in the world (sorry, Rach)

And we’d had a busy few days, what with Waltzing Matilda (Kenya) in the Grovesnor (and did the Footman like her!) and then the Comedy Store with Matilda and her sister, and..whatever

So we came to Cannes to chill

Now I find it hard to ’chill’ at the best of times, and especially hard in Cannes

Trop Chaud

And that’s just the girls

(how come all French girls have 42” legs?)

Bainsfair once told me, on this  very terrace, that until  he came to Cannes his life had been in Black & White

Nice line, Paul

Well said

So, after we checked into The Carlton (no half measures for Paula) we went to Babylon

Just for a quiet drink

As you do

Well, it was far from ONE drink

And it was far, far, from QUIET

We sat down in the back room and I clocked two beautiful babes

One black, one brown

And the brown one clocked me

While the black one only had eyes for herself

And for Madonna on TV

Now, the old days something might have happened with the brown one

But S L O W L Y

Now it happened

SUDDENLY!

WITH BOTH OF THEM!

Thanks to Paula

Which is why she is THE BEST P.A. IN THE WORLD (Sorry, Sam)

She   just    spoke   to   them

!!!!????

And smiled that @girl smile that says ‘it’s cool’

And beckoned them over

And

They

Came

OMG!

How cool is that?

So let me explain about Babylon

Great concept

Until Midnight it is just a restaurant

Then at the stroke of 24:00

BANG

The House Music kicks in

And everyone

But EVERYONE

Starts dancing

AT THEIR TABLES

ON THEIR TABLES

And on the floor

And all over each other

Wow

Nothing like that in Chichester

Yet . . .(?)

And within MINUTES the brown one (Sophie: Brazilian French) was dancing, like a Brazilian, with eyes only for me, of course

And the black one

Fanny

Yes, really

(It took me some getting used to, too)

French Cameroonian

Fanny was dancing too

Still with eyes only for the TV screen

HER BLOODY MOBILE

And, from to time to time,

Paula’s bum

Which is quite a sight in itself

And, I thought things were going QUITE WELL, all things considered

AND, just to give you the picture, guys and gals, Fanny looks like Naomi Campbell

But hotter

(she works in a shop in Marseille, but I’ve discovered an uber-model – lucky me)

And Sophie looks like Jay-Lo

But is single

And here. And now, And how

And Paula, who looks like BB, isn’t too bad a mover herself

That’s three for the price of one, boys

Dream on…

Then things really started to hot up

Peterhero

Started

To Dance

And, when I start to dance with girls, things really start to happen

If I do say so myself

I’m quite a mover and shaker

In many ways

Let me teach you how to dance guys

You need to learn, badly

Anton talks about dancing with the feet

Len talks about dancing with the hips

I dance

With my eyes

You get eye contact

Then you lock in

Then you copy the girl’s move

So she KNOWS

You’re on her wavelength

Now you’re talking SEX

And I can do that with one hand tied behind my back (as Matilda found out)

Sitting down

So, I’m dancing with Bella Brazilian Sophie WITH ONE HAND

Sitting down

And sipping JD with the other

And Paula is sizzling with Fanny (yes we told her, she couldn’t give a fcuk (Sorry, Trevor))

And Paula is dancing with a man on stilts (what a bar!)

And a dwarf (this is CANNES)

And anything else with a pulse

And the back room is ROCKING!

So the Manager, nobody’s fool, says “Mr Peter, I have a special favour for you…” and moves us centre stage, FOH, in the Front Room

Because he knows a class act when he sees one

Or two, counting Paula

So, we are sat down

And we stopped dancing

And couldn’t talk

Because the fcuking House Music is too loud

And doing my head in

So I left it to Paula

And left…

How cool is that?

And then, of course, Paula being Paula, at 12:00 sharp the next day Fanny (who’s decided she’ll be called Natasha in the UK)

Fanny, who, INCIDENTALLY was on Temptation Island on French TV

AS A TEMPTRESS

Fanny (I still can’t get over that. A double entendre in two different languages. UK & US. But [Butt?], as I explained to Paula, until Fanny Hill was published, it was a normal Saxon name)

Fanny & Sophie (what an arse) were at the front door of The Carlton, worried they had missed us

And very well dressed (Zara with attitude)

And very well up for it

Sophie, by the way, is a nurse. Fanny works in a shop. These things happen…

So

We fly to St Tropez by helicopter

As you do

And had lunch

And I bought them some beachwear

Harsh not to

And Paula Had A Fit

When she saw Fanny in Dark Blue & White

Because she’d missed the outfit

And the guys at the next table had a fit

Of laughter

That I could be in control of Paula

And pull two French Babes

Without lifting a finger

And Rolls Royce gave us a Ghost

And drove us to Nikki Beach

Which was LOUD

So we got a cab back to Cannes

And, in the car, Paula told les girls what I can do to a girl

Involving “boobies” and “orgasms”

Citing Matilda

As Paula had seen with unbelieving eyes

And Fanny seemed interested

VERY interested

And Sophie seemed to want to know if I was still interested in her, as well

And Fanny wanted me to show that I was

So I did

Willingly

Because I was

UNBELIEVABLY

And we talked about a threesome

And Fanny said “Peter, I LOVE YOU”

And typed on her mobile

“One bag, 1500”

Which seemed reasonable

And I massaged their feet

And calves

And thighs

And kissed their cheeks

And they kissed mine

And Fanny’s eyes flared

And Sophie smiled THAT smile

And things seemed, I must say, to be going FAIRLY WELL

Even the driver said I was like James Bond

Which was nice of him

So, it was all arranged

After another night at Babylon – me treated like a VIP now – with Fanny & Sophie fighting off the competition from other girls according to Paula, who understands these things (what do I know?), we meet at 11.00 the next morning

And they came in

Looking fcuking unbelievably hot

Sophie is in skin tight white

Fanny in red

Smoking! (as Jim Carey would say)

And the Concierge is in fits

(I love Concierges)

That a middle aged Brit has pulled this off

Effortlessly

Just by being polite

And confident

And understanding girls

So, we stroll down the Croisette

And they were happy

And we dropped into Louis Vitton

And they were VERY happy

And told me just how VERY happy they were

With kisses

And looks

That spoke volumes

And we sauntered back down the Croissant

And I…

Well. You should have seen the view

You had to be there

But you can imagine

I was very, very happy

And about to get happier still…

(Paula was having a facial and massage so she was happy as well)

And then I said “We go to my room”

And they said “Pourquoi?”

And I said “To make love”

And they said “Mais, non, Peter”

And I said

“Nous parlons”

And they…

Well I don’t quite know what they said

They SAID they’d give the bags back

Go figure

I let them go

So they left

Even better dressed than they were before

I’ll let Paula sort it out

JE NE COMPRENDS PAS

That’s what she’s paid for

And why she’s the best P.A. in the whole frigging world

And not a bad fcuk either

 © peterhero 2012