Jean And Sylvia On The Razzle

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“What a fuckin' day,” Jean sighed as she and her long time colleague on the make-up counter clocked out from the Walsall branch of Boots at six o' clock sharp and made their way towards the bus station. “As you know, love, my sister's worked in Tesco for years, and they don't 'ave 'alf the weirdos we 'ave in soddin' Boots.”

“My daughter's worked at the Sex shop on Stafford Street for three years, and even they don't 'ave as many nutters as we do,” Sylvia replied. “I don't know what attracts 'em, but they flock in through those automatic doors like moths to a bleedin' flame.

I can't believe the last couple of weeks – if somebody told you it 'appened to them you wouldn't believe 'em. We've been raided by Terry's Chocolate Orange nickin' pirates; we 'ad the pharmacist go loopy an' chase that terrified fat woman round the store stark bollock naked 'cos 'is assistant, 'oo 'e was on the verge of sackin' for bad time-keepin', laced 'is coffee with 'oo knows what; and today we've 'ad two nuns fightin' over a soddin' priest 'oo's been rogerin' both of 'em an' can't make 'is mind up which one 'e really wants. Mind you, that Father Fitzpatrick was a bit of a looker – I saw you givin' 'im the eye, you dirty old tart.”

“I was not, you lyin' cow! I was just bein' friendly. Anyway, I only go for dead certs nowadays, I'm too past me sell-by-date to fool around with maybes an' possibles. 'Ere, do you fancy goin' for a drink tonight? I think we could do with one after the palaver we've 'ad to put up with today.”

“Yeah, why not? Me old man's on nights, so it won't be a problem. As you know, Sylv, 'e don't like me goin' out when 'e's in the 'ouse, 'e says I'm abandonin' me wifely duties - the useless old bugger can't even make a cuppa without a list of detailed instructions. Actually 'e don't lie me goin' out at all, I don't think 'e trusts me.”

“Your Mick's a male chauvinist pig, bloody well ignore 'im. I don't 'ave that problem, luckily, 'cos I 'ad the sense to chuck my old man out bloody years ago. I'll see you by McDonalds at about quarter to eight - don't be late.”

*************************

Jean waited just a few minutes for Sylvia, but she had arrived early because she hated being late for anything. “All right, cocka!” Sylvia shouted from fifty yards away. “I can see you've got your new glad-rags on, you look a proper tart.”

“You need talk, you look like mutton dressed as lamb, you old pot-boiler.”

“Less of the old, you bitch! You're only seven years younger than me, you bleedin' coffin dodger – anybody'd think you were twenty friggin' one.”

“Where do you wanna go, then? As if I need ask.”

“The Wankin' Pig, of course, that's where it's fuckin' at. 'Ere, wanna fag?”

The two harridans strolled down the High Street arm in arm looking like Harry Enfield's wibbly-wobbly randy old ladies. They smoked ridiculously long pastel coloured cocktail cigarettes, and they were clad in the most ridiculous get-up imaginable considering their age. Jean was wearing a tiger print Primark mini-skirt and Sylvia wore a similar one in black and pink zebra print. Both wore faux-fur jackets and sequinned boob-tubes, Jean carried an enormous Hello Kitty shoulder bag and Sylvia had a fake Gucci handbag. They tottered along on six inch high heels, and their varicose vein tracked legs were camouflaged (if camouflaged is the right word) by their black fishnet stockings.

The Wanking Pig was packed to the eaves. The lighting was very muted, which of course was to Jean and Sylvia's advantage, and the music was deafening. Apart from a couple of old sots sitting in the corner the dastardly duo were the oldest people in there. “Fuck me, it's the Ugly Sisters – or is it the bride of Frankenstein an' I'm seein' double?” a young comedian said as they made their way through the throng to the bar.

“Shut the fuck up, you bed-wettin', nappy-wearin' little cunt!” Sylvia growled, and the youngster was shocked into silence. “I'm sick of 'earin' lager fuelled crap from fifteen year old peroxide blonde boy band pooftahs with nine inch waists. Look at 'is 'air, Jean - the queer little fuck looks like 'e's been dragged through an 'awthorn 'edge backwards, 'e looks like an Irish electrician, 'e looks like a gorilla that's downed twenty pints of lager an' a prawn Vindaloo 'ad a shit in 'is crownin' glory while 'e was asleep an' rubbed it in good an' proper.”

“Oy, luv - you look like Lilly Savage after a long period of crack cocaine addiction after you've been embalmed by a drunken mortician,” another wag chuckled, but Sylvia didn't catch that comment.

“What's your poison, ladies?” the barman said.

“Pernod and lemonade and whisky an' soda,” Sylvia replied. “Make 'em bleedin' doubles, we've 'ad an 'ard day.”

“Hello sweetheart,” a powerfully built, slightly tipsy looking middle-aged man in an expensive suit said from his precarious perch on a high barstool. “Allow me to get those, please. My name is Barry, by the way, Barry Cochran – I'm in imports and exports.”

“I'm Sylvia and this is Jean,” Sylvia said, downing her drink in one and sitting on one of the empty barstools next to her new admirer. 'Oo's your friend?”

“This is Jonas, Jonas Ericson, he's a European business contact I'm entertaining for the evening.”

“I don't fancy yours much, cock,” Sylvia whispered in her friend's ear, eyeing the grinning, ferret-faced man sitting beside Barry.

“Ooh, I dunno,” Jean said. “'E looks 'ungry, an' foreign, an' I've got a thing about 'ungry lookin' foreign blokes.”

“Look at that old slapper's eyelashes!” a young bruiser said over-loudly to his friend as he waited to be served. “The other one ain't exactly a pretty sight, but that one looks like a mummy without its bandages.”

“I'd shut that big mouth if I was you,” Barry said calmly.

“Or what?” the bruiser grunted.

“Or I'll shut it for you,” Barry said, standing up and revealing his full size.

“Sorry, mate,” the youngster said, wisely backing away.

“Ooh, 'oo's a big noise, then?” Sylvia said, kissing Barry on the cheek as he sat back down.

“Get these fine ladies another drink, barman,” Barry said. “Then maybe we should go somewhere a little quieter.”

*************************

Two hundred yard down the road was a pub called the Fountain, and Barry insisted on driving there in his fancy vintage Jaguar. The Fountain was a bit of a dive, but it was quiet and the new acquaintances could talk without having to shout over the music.

“Let's discuss business then, ladies,” Barry said after ordering the drinks and finding a nice, quiet corner table.

“Whaddaya mean, business?” Sylvia said. “We've been discussin' business all day, buddy, Jean and' I are on the bleedin' razzle, an' the only business we intend to discuss is the pursuit of pleasure.”

“Business and pleasure sometimes overlap if you play your cards right,” Jonas said with a vaguely Swedish accent, “and the very best professionals choose fields that they thoroughly enjoy working in.”

“Oo-er!” Jean said. “Sylv 'as worked in a few fields in 'er time, believe me.”

“Shurrup, you tart. Jean, on the other 'and, 'as lead a very sheltered life – she's lost count of the number of bus shelters an' air raid shelters she's been rogered in.” Jean gave her friend an icy glare.

“We've got a business proposal that I think you two might like,” Barry said. “I told you that I was in imports and exports, which wasn't strictly true. My colleague and I are in the adult entertainment business, girls. We concentrate mainly on the adult DVD market - we're always on the look-out for new talent, and as far as I can see you two lovelies have exactly what it takes.”

“What, you mean porno films?” Jean said, almost choking on her whisky and soda.

“I prefer to call it erotica rather than porn, but if you want to call it porn that's fine by me,” Jonas said. “We're making a wrinkly special based on a masked ball scenario in a big, fancy country house. If you wish you can keep your masks on at all times, which, now I can see you two in a brighter light, would be of enormous benefit to our viewers.....”

“You want us to star in a porno flick – me an' er?” Sylvia said, missing Jonas's pun but grabbing him by the scruff of the neck nevertheless. “That's bleedin' disgustin'! What do you think we are, you pair of fuckin' perverts? A? Think we look like dirty old slags, do ya? Think we expect gents to pay for our sexual favours? Hmm? Think we've got no morals an' not a scrap of soddin' self respect?”

“You'll be gang-banged by the most desirable hunks in the business,” Jonas gurgled. “Our studs are the best available, they have the biggest, stiffest cocks in the world – I mean massive, honestly, real fucking whoppers.”

“Really?” Jean said.

“And we'll be paying you five hundred quid a piece for a day's filming,” Barry added.

“Five 'undred quid just to 'ave the shit shagged out of us?” Sylvia grunted, dropping Jonas as if he had the plague.

“Make it a thousand,” Jonas gurgled, straightening his tie. “These two ladies have tremendous spirit.”

“You're fuckin' on, you smooth-talkin' cunts!” Sylvia said, vigorously shaking the men's hands.”

“'Ang on, speak for yourself, you dirty stop-out,” Jean said. “I ain't agreed yet, an' I ain't sure if I wanna.....”

“Are you in or what, you cheap slag?” Sylvia said. “'Cos if not I'm gonna ask Candice 'oo works in the baby department.”

“You fuckin' bet I am - I was only kiddin.”