Titselina Bumsqueak, Fat Sharon and I used to haunt The Empire in Leicester Square on Friday nights. It was a sacred tradition, a no boyfriends invited, girls night out.
It was the 80’s, Pina Coladas, enough make up to paint a bridge, shoulder pads and heels so high you needed oxygen to walk in them! You didn’t need to be a weather girl to know – it really WAS raining men!
Leicester Square was only a couple of miles from where I lived so everyone stayed over at mine. Unless it was
absolutely pissing down raining hard we would walk home after grabbing something to eat from the all night chippy! That place should have an award really for the hundreds of thousands of hangovers averted by its yummy greasy food!
Pie and chips was always the name of the game with minced beef and onion being the favorite. Occasionally we’d get exotic with chicken and mushroom pies but it just wasn’t the same. There was a procedure you see. The pie had to be upside down so you could eat the soggier bottom crust first, preferably wrapped around a chip. Then you dipped all your chips in the meaty gravy before finally eating the lid.
The English are a unique race really. Not only do we say “Please” and “Sorry” continuously, there’s an etiquette for everything – including off-yer-face chip ravishing! Many a well deserved hangover was averted by our snacking and then two paracetamol (acetominophen) and a bottle of lucozade. That magic cure was brought to you via a lesson from a medical student. Thankfully not one of the ones involved in this cringeworthy (mingeworthy??) tale
But I digress (that means I’m getting hungry and homesick lol)
Anyway, it was a lovely night so we walked home via the Mall and St James Park. We were all walking along – okay staggering like drunken chickens – when I realised We Weren’t Alone! Some Thing Was Out There!
I’d have said I heard the X files music but this was probably the best part of ten years before the sodding X files!
There were footsteps behind us and at 3am on a Saturday morning, it wasn’t the milkman. I said very quietly to the other two, stop and take your shoes off and assume “the position”.
The “Position” involves holding your shoe in such a way that the heel turns into a weapon. We might have been tipsy but we weren’t stupid (okay not THAT stupid)
Flippin’ RUINED my tights! If you remember the 80’s you’ll remember the very glam lacy tights. Bloody expensive too at £10 a pair. I was not a happy Britchy on account of that alone.
The footsteps were speeding up and getting closer and it was an act of will to keep going at the same pace. I was running on pure Adrenalin and I swear I could hear the ‘Jaws’ looping music in my head.
It was almost a relief when the hand tapped me in the shoulder. I swung around, shoe in hand with my heel out and with a wimpy ‘Yarghhhh’ that Braveheart would NOT be proud of I raked my shoe right down my would be assailants face.
Only – it wasn’t an assailant. Not exactly. It was a Metropolitan Policeman and he was PISSED.
I thought I was about to be arrested and chucked in HMP Holloway for the rest of my natural. There he was, 925ft tall radioing for back up because 5’1” me was a dangerous mental head case. That’s actually what he called me. Along with a few other choice words which were a little bit of a vulgar biology lesson to be honest. The girls weren’t helping. Calling a Copper a fucking idiot when blood is running down his face isn’t considered constructive criticism.
Anyway. His Inspector, Chief Inspector, Lord of the Dance – whatever he was – turned up in a car. No lights, no sirens.. somehow that felt even more ominous.
PC Tattletale couldn’t wait to start dropping me in it but the Inspector took one look at me in my stockinged feet and held up a hand to shut PC Tattletale up. He asked me what happened so I told him.
He turned to the PC and asked, “Did you identify yourself before tapping her on the shoulder?” and to be fair, he admitted he hadn’t.
Inspector Hero issued directions in vocabulary I thought you’d get arrested for, stating where the PC could go and EXACTLY how to get there.
Turns out they’d chased an armed suspect into the park and my victim was trying to warn us without alerting the baddie that there were Coppers swarming all over. My Copper did apologise to me and because I’m a gracious Britch I also apologised -sorta.
We got a ride home in a police car and guess what?! I DIDN’T WEAR MY SEATBELT!! I broke the law sitting in a Police Car – badass or what?!
Is there a song called “Shanking with Stilettos”? Because if not, there should be!