“This one is a bit weird though,” Erica said pointing at me. “He keeps talking about that one’s foreskin.”
“That’s why you called it a turtleneck!” Ollie shouted out. We all shot him a look.
It turned out that the two behemoths who stood between us and our getaway were the boyfriends of Alisha and Erica. The one on the right with a bald head was called Andre, while the guy on the left with the huge biceps was called Leon. Andre grabbed me and Rob by the back of the neck, while Leon did the same to Ollie and Jack.
“See that lady over there?” Andre said pointing toward a sweet old lady sitting at a table across the hall with white curly hair and bottle-top glasses. “That is Grandma Betty.”
“It is her birthday,” Leon said, taking over. “And she has been promised some entertainment tonight. Are you going to disappointment her?”
“No, sir,” I gulped.
“Good,” Andre said. “Because I don’t like seeing Grandma Betty disappointed. The last person to disappoint Grandma Betty was...” he paused. “Let’s put it this way, unable to attend her birthday celebrations tonight.”
“Now you are going to dance, and you are going to dance well, because if you don’t, you won’t be around for Grandma Betty’s 81st birthday,” Leon warned us.
We were thrust towards the dance floor. It was deathly silent. Someone coughed and the echo lingered in the eerie silence. We looked around at each other for inspiration, but it was clear we were up shit creek without a paddle. There was no way we were going to leave this party alive. The DJ put a record on and the sound of vinyl crackled into life. Then the beat from the track.
We didn’t know what to do. We stood motionless, lifeless even. It was a train wreck waiting to happen. I looked at the others. It was best if we just got this over and done with. Songs only last four or five minutes. We would only need to suffer the embarrassment and indignity for 300 seconds tops and then we could be out of here.
“I know this one,” Ollie said quite chirpily. “This is Candy by Cameo.”
“This is not a game of name that tune, you big dopey idiot,” Jack said harshly.
“No, I mean I know the dance routine to this song,” Ollie said. “It’s called the Electric Slide. Just follow me – two steps to the right.”
We watched as Ollie started to move. Two steps right; one-two, one-two. We looked at each other but really didn’t have any other plan. We stumbled into action, clumsily following Ollie’s movements.
“Two steps left,” Ollie said. I stepped on Rob’s foot, who in turn stumbled slightly into Jack. We started to get heckled from the crowd, and a few boos sounded to show their contempt at our sloppy dance routine.
“Two steps back, and hold.” We followed Ollie intensely as he led us into the next steps. One step with left foot forward, and lean forth. Suddenly we started to find our rhythm.
“One step with the right foot, and lean back,” Ollie continued to work us through the routine. “Hop and kick sideways!” We moved in unison. Even I didn’t look too bad, and we actually started to enjoy it. Slowly the heckling and booing was replaced by cheers and claps as we repeated the same routine but this time to a different corner of the room.
The cheers grew louder, before the whole room was up on their feet, clapping in rhythm to the funky beat. Ollie was like a pro, choreographing every move. Alisha and Erica joined us on the dance floor and we continued to grow in confidence with every dance step.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I said to Rob, who had the broadest grin on his face. A middle-aged woman, a fat man, and two small children made their way to the dance floor. It wasn’t long before streams of people of all ages and sizes started to pour on to the dance floor, all performing the same synchronised routine in a dozen lines. Even Grandma Betty had made it to the dance floor.
Finally, Andre and Leon made their way on to the floor and lined up alongside us to see out the final stages of the song. The four of us might not have been the best dancers on that floor, but we more than held our own.
A huge cheer went up at the end of the song with the DJ shouting over the PA system: “Give it up for the entertainment!”
“Where the hell did you learn that dance,” I said as I hugged Ollie, raptures of applause ringing in our ears.
“My mum loves all those old 80’s songs,” Ollie said. “She used to make me do that dance in front of friends and family when I was a kid.”
“I could kiss you,” Jack said. “Oh sod it, come here, you big lump.”
“I got to hand it to you boys,” Andre said, “that was pretty cool.”
“And more importantly, you entertained Grandma Betty,” Leon added, pointing towards Grandma Betty who was blowing kisses in our direction.
“What do you think?” Jack nudged me in the side and whispered into my ear. “I reckon Grandma Betty looks like a bit of a goer.”
“Shut your face you idiot,” I said, smiling through gritted teeth.
Chapter 18: Extreme Makeover
Sunday, June 13 2009 - 10.47am
Drought Clock: 163 days, 1 hour, 50 minutes
The weekend in Brighton seemed like a distant memory. I had failed in my quest to end the drought, but a girl had used me and that was a start. Plus, we had entertained Grandma Betty and that was pretty cool. And in a way I had been chatted up, even if it was in a gay bar. I had to take the positives.
Progress had been made, but as June arrived it was always in the back of my mind that I was now approaching half a year without sex. Half a bloody year! In that time, Iceland had appointed the world’s first openly lesbian head of government, Mount Redoubt explosively erupted for the first time in 20 years in Alaska, the second G20 summit involving state leaders had taken place in London, and swine flu had just been deemed a global pandemic.
But no matter the event or story, they all just served to remind me of my own predicament. I would have killed to have explosively erupted in the company of a Scandinavian lesbian, in and around the London area, even at the risk of an infectious disease.
“Está usted bien señor?” Rosalie asked as she busily dusted, snapping me out of my daydream as I stared blankly at the television screen. “I mean, you okay, Señor Hilles?”
“Er, yes. I’m fine thanks, Rosalie,” I said, putting down my half-eaten bowl of cereal on the table. But then I had a thought. Here was a woman of experience – a woman of the world. Maybe she could help me. Maybe Rosalie would be able to listen to my woes and point me in the right direction; tell me where I was going wrong and what I needed to do to get out of this rut. It was a long shot but what did I have to lose? Nothing else had worked so far.
Plus Rosalie had been coming to my flat every other weekend now for six months. That was the longest relationship I’d had with a woman since breaking up with Stacey, and she had even stayed around after the infamous duvet moment on her first day of work. It was more than I could say for any other woman in my life over the last six months.
“Rosalie?” I said nervously. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Si señor,” she answered, still dusting everything in sight.
“In your country, what does a man do when he wants to...” I searched for the right word. “...be romantic with a woman?”
“Romantic?” Rosalie wrinkled up her nose. Then her face broke into a smile and she blushed. “Oh señor, Hilles, naughty boy!” And she tapped me on the head with the duster and disappeared out of the living room.
I had no idea what Rosalie thought I was asking, but obviously I wasn’t going to get the answers I was looking for. Whatever it was, it was clear I was barking up the wrong tree. I picked up the remote control and started flicking through the channels. I was about to give up and go back to bed when something caught my eye.
Extreme Makeover UK
It was a reality TV show where ordinary men and women underwent an extensive transformation at the hands of the Extreme Team. The makeover process included everything from get
ting a new wardrobe to exercise regimes to life coaching. Did I need an extreme makeover? If I could change my ways and my look would it make a difference? I glanced up at the calendar. Six months. It had to be worth a shot. I was going to need help so I grabbed my phone and sent out an SOS.
Your pal needs you! I am in danger of going backwards and becoming a virgin again. Before that happens I am asking you to assist me in a complete makeover to create a brand new Dan. What do you say?
I clicked send and watched the little envelope symbol indicate that my message had been sent to Rob, Jack, and Ollie. Content with my new plan of attack, I picked up my cup of tea and decided to get dressed. But as I stood something out of the corner of my eye immediately grabbed my attention and stopped me dead in my tracks.
Rosalie was standing at the doorway wearing nothing but a large pair of white knickers and her bra, a slight paunch exposed around her midriff.
“Romantic, señor?” Rosalie said nodding her head excitedly, her eyes wide and duster still in hand.
Open-mouthed and completely frozen, I was lost for words. To say this was not a sight I was expecting to see would be an understatement. The smash of my mug hitting the floor broke me from the trance.
“I clean, I clean,” she squealed, rushing over in her underwear and dropping to her knees to clean the mess around my feet.
Makeover with Rob: The Look
Rosalie had put her clothes back on and managed to remove the tea stain from the carpet by the time I left the flat. What a woman. However, I had resisted her middle-aged charms, and she didn’t seem too embarrassed by the situation either. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been tempted. Had Rosalie appeared five minutes before my makeover brainwave then this story could have been over by now.
Rob had been the first to reply to my text. He had invited me to come down to his shop. He worked in a fashion boutique in Wimbledon Village called Policy. I made my way up the hill, past all the cafés and the bars where people were spilling out on to the pavements in the summer sun. I arrived at the shop and entered as Rob was just finishing with a customer.
“Danny boy,” he greeted me. “It’s time to get to work.”
Rob had started working at Policy while we were at college and enjoyed it so much he had stayed there. The job suited him down to the ground. While the rest of us would be happy with a High Street T-shirt costing 20 quid, Rob had to buy Prada or Hugo Boss costing five times that amount.
Now the assistant manager, he was often sent off to fashion capitals like Milan or Paris to pick and choose next seasons fashion stock. He would talk about trainers made of pony hair or try to preach how make-up for men would take off. At times he came across a bit gay, but always regained our respect when he would show us dirty pictures on his phone of the foreign lovelies he had met on his travels.
“Clothes make the man,” Rob said quoting Mark Twain like he had done so many times before. He stood behind me brushing the shoulders of a charcoal blazer he had given me to try on. “Girls are very detail-orientated. Before deciding whether they want to be with you, one of the things they will evaluate is your clothes.”
I looked at the price tag. “Fourteen hundred pounds?” I said, absolutely staggered.
“But this is Lanvin,” Rob said, like that was meant to mean something to me or justify the outrageous price tag. “This is a blazer for 21st century man.”
“I couldn’t care less if it was for 25th century man,” I said taking the blazer off and handing it back to him. “I’m not paying that sort of money.”
Rob hung the jacket back up and selected other items of clothing for me to try on. Every time he handed me something I would look at the price tag and then hand it back.
“Look,” Rob said, finally losing patience with me. “You came to me. You are the one who wanted my help. Now do you want my advice or not?”
“Yes,” I mumbled, staring down at the ground and swaying. I felt like a naughty schoolboy being told off.
“Good. The first thing you need to do is be willing to change. This is the first stage of your transition and you need to let go of your dress sense.” For the next half hour Rob worked his magic, mixing and matching styles to find my look. By the end of it my head was spinning.
“What do you think?” Rob said as I looked in the mirror.
“I... I think I like it.” And I really did. Rob had dressed me in a dark blue shirt unbuttoned to the chest, a light grey blazer, faded denim jeans, and white trainers. It was simple but effective.
“Take one of these as well,” Rob handed me a leather purse with a tiger pattern on the front in fake diamonds and jewels.
“It’s a purse,” I said handing it back towards him.
“It’s not a purse. These are the height of fashion; all the footballers have got one of these bad boys. It’s metrosexual.”
“Metrosexual? It’s bloody gay.”
“Trust me,” Rob said. I looked in the mirror again and against my better judgement I concluded that Rob had got it right so far so I would take his word on the purse.
“I’ve also booked you an appointment at the hairdresser across the road,” Rob said. “Ask for Kim.”
“But...” I attempted to argue my case. I liked my hair. I liked the fact I could pay nine pounds to the same barber I had been going to since I was six-years-old. I liked that we would talk football and all I had to tell him to do was a number five around the sides and a little bit off the top. I didn’t want to pay a small fortune just to have my hair washed and head massaged before I was given the exact same haircut.
“No buts,” Rob said. “You agreed to do what I told you.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “How much do I owe you?”
Rob punched a few buttons into the till. “That’ll be £778.”
“What?” I gasped, dropping my second cup of tea of the day.
Makeover with Ollie: The Body
“Why have you got your hair done like that?” Ollie asked as he bench pressed his version of what he called a warm-up rep.
“It’s my new look,” I said. “Rob said girls like guys who look after their appearance.”
Ollie sat up and screwed his face up at me. I don’t think he was too impressed, but he didn’t say anything else. Ollie had sent me a text agreeing to take me to the gym on the Wednesday evening.
I took my place on the bench as Ollie lifted the bar down into my hands. Immediately I felt my arms buckle under the weight as I pushed with all my might.
“Come on, you pussy,” Ollie encouraged me, in his own special way.
“Get this thing off me,” I pleaded, fearing my chest was about to cave in. Ollie lifted the bar and placed it back onto the bench. “I thought you said that was a warm-up?”
“No pain, no gain,” Ollie said taking weights off the bar. “Try this.”
I managed to struggle my way through ten reps, huffing and puffing as I did so. Ollie spotted me, offering slightly more positive words of encouragement this time round.
“Good work,” Ollie said as I squeezed out my final rep. We swapped places and Ollie fired off his reps with ease. I couldn’t help but think as I spotted him that maybe I should offer some words of encouragement. So I did.
“Come on, push that bad boy harder!”
“What are you doing?” Ollie said as he stood up to once again lighten the weight load for my set.
“Offering words of encouragement,” I said with a perplexed look on my face.
“Don’t ever do that again. It’s weird.”
“But I...”
“No,” Ollie cut me off. “There are certain things you just don’t say to people in the gym,” Ollie explained. “For example, you should never compliment a bloke on his six-pack unless you are talking about his choice of beer.”
“Okay, beer talk only,” I said.
“And never let me hear you utter phrases like ‘yeah baby, push it’. And under no circumstances do you say anything like ‘just one more set and we can hit th
e showers together’.”
I nodded.
For the next hour Ollie put me through my paces. There were times when I felt like I was going to pass out, but Ollie kept right on at me. It was then I realised there are two types of people who go to the gym. Insane people who have escaped from a mental asylum and seem to think going to the gym is good for you, and then you have normal people like me who know better.
Of course, you have your posers. They come in the shape of men who spend more time making love to their reflections than the weights. And girls who would turn up with a face full of make-up and spend all their time walking on the treadmill, yapping on their mobile phone. By the end of it I was ready to throw in the towel. I had never understood the attraction of spending hours on end punishing your body in the gym. But I had promised to see this makeover through, and I was determined to prove a point.
Plus I’d been conned into handing over £70 a month for the next year, and at the very least I was going to use the showers three times a week to try and justify some of that spend. I might even steal some of the towels.
“A few more sessions like that and you’ll start to get used to it,” Ollie reassured me. “Give it six months and you will start to notice a difference.”
“Six months?” I whined. “But I haven’t got six months. I need to get results now.”
Ollie shrugged. This was a major setback. I had fallen into the trap of believing I would end up looking like Arnie after just a couple of sessions. As it turned out I would have to live with what I had for a while longer yet. But the worst part of this experience was still to come. As Ollie carried me back to the changing rooms, I couldn’t have been less prepared for what was about to happen.
Anyone who has stepped foot in a male changing room at a gym will know of the horror story I am about to tell. If Stephen King was to ever run out of ideas then he could create a whole new genre with the terrifying ordeal that is the male locker room. For some unknown reason, certain men feel the need to walk around as naked as the day they were born. I am talking completely starkers. Bits of flesh waving and swaying all over the place. And the worst offenders are fat guys or old men. Why they feel the need to flash their tackle to other men is beyond me. Believe me when I say that the last thing you want is some fat, old guy bending over and flashing his saggy bum and wrinkly ball bag in your face.
The Drought (The hilarious laugh-out loud comedy about dating disasters!) Page 20