F87k me... she fell asleep on the Beano

F&;*k me ...She Fell Asleep On The Beano

It started with a belly button ring, which was a miracle to start with
a miracle fit for a

group of poor French kids in a field that they should call the Miracle
of Bernadette of The

Beano - You'll find out why later. I mean finding that bellybutton
can't have been easy,

she hadn't seen her feet since the the Queens Silver Jubilee, so her
belly button was back

there in the memory with the spangles and adverts for Brentford nylons.
I say started

with, with a heart heavier that the eyeliner and mascara she now spends
shoveling on. It'd

be easier if she bought two tarantulas and trained them to get up every
morning snack

lightly on a live cricket then off to work up across her fizzog before
nestling around each

eye. After the belly button ring came the nasal stud, it looks like a
posh blackhead, the

sort Council Spice would gob off about in one of the Sunday magazines
in an article

crammed between the Elvis plate and the Kraftmatic beds that allow you
to sleep like a

fat astronaut. It makes her snore the nasal stud; the thing about Wendy
is she's a creature

of habit. Most of them disgusting and a couple of them deserving a
reality TV show of

their own. Every night at eleven she has a piece of cod. I know it's
weird but she does,

steamed in a little milk and she slides it down her neck in one, like a
retired performing

seal gone bad. And now she's taken to snoring because of the stud in
her hooter, and

when she does her mouth opens and her jaw drops open like a pink
trawler door with a

force nine codded gale gusting out ever other breath. Still could be
worse, but I can't

think how, just yet. I'm glad she's out of her Tai Chi phase, it was
quite distressing for

me to see her in her pyjamas, never mind all the early commuters
getting an eyeful as she

stood on the front lawn pretending to hold that big imaginary golden
orb, slowly rotating

it around in a make believe orbit. Black silk pyjamas will turn most
sow's ears into

something half decent, but not Wendy, oh no she just looked like a bin
bag with a head. I

think if she hadn't got bored with it the council would have put a
restraining order on her,

I hid the first three letters from the council, but I've kept the
letter from the woman bus

passenger whose nausea was heightened by Wendy and her 'magnificent
under arm sweat

circles' after her nausea level being heightened she describes how two
days later it

reached critical mass and how she vomited her part digested Weetabix
onto her lap at the

sight of what she described as 'a map of Africa snaking from the area
above the crack

of Wendy's arise.' An arse which she unhelpfully described as being so
large that it

should have it's own M.P.. Which is cruel and untrue, although I have
to admit

suggesting one morning as she tried to put on a belt that a boomerang
might be useful.

The Tai Chi has been replaced with car mechanics, that's right
mechanics; I can no

longer access the kitchen table for the parts of the Vectra she has
piled up on it. Sitting

elbow to elbow with a Stromberg carburetor and a laycock clutch and
bearing assembly

isn't my idea of fun. Wendy however, down at the college where she
trundles in her

Halfords 'Sunday mechanics' overalls every Wednesday night is a bit of
a star. She

delighted the whole class of blokes (there was another girl but she
only came the once

and was frightened off when in week three she read in the prospectus
that they'd be

greasing nipples) when lay flat on her back under a Nissan that looked
it had been painted

with a woolly hat proclaimed her diagnosis with one word. Fortunately
for Wendy's

popularity that word was 'fuck' used in every form possible. "Now
Wendy, smirked Pete

the ex AA man with the teeth like bins (one every yard) what's your
diagnosis with the

Nissan?" Wendy rolled herself out from under the car and exclaimed
'Fuck, the fuckin

fuckers fucking fucked. The round of applause lasted 'til the end of
the lesson, which was

all she needed, praise for bad behavior encourages more. I won't go
into what else she's

taken to saying, you might not have eaten yet but it ain't pretty. I
hope the mechanic

phase ends soon as she's started hanging calendars that picture
well-hung young men

holding tyres all over the house. Her estimation skills have
deteriorated, as you would

expect from a mechanic. When she says she reckons the weekly shop will
cost fifty quid,

she really means two hundred and she'll have to send of for some of it
to a main dealer.

We've taken to ordering polony sausage from a main polony dealer, Wendy
insists it's a

genuine part I still prefer Asdas own mostly because it cost nine quid
less. I wished she'd

stuck with the posh blackhead and the bellybutton ring that lay hidden
in the pink ripples

of her marvelous belly. The first tattoo was O.K. a fairy waving a wand
at the top of her

bum where the crack peters out and the black hairs start. 'It should
have been holding its

nose instead of waving a wand' I thought in a sulk over the arrival
from Parma, enough

ham to carpet the house. Once she'd had some 'ink done' as she called
it, they started to

appear everywhere a butterfly on her arm, a smiley face on her ankle.
Most of them went

unnoticed because they were covered, but that all changed one horrible
afternoon. She

came into the bedroom turned side on and put her thumb up.

She'd had a Celtic design tattooed to both sides of her neck circling
up onto her cheeks.

She looked like she'd fallen asleep on the Beano?.

"What? Sorry Vicar I drifted off'

"Do you take Wendy to be your lawful wedded Wife?"

I do I do I do - she's gorgeous.

The End