74. A doffer you can’t refuse…

Tuesday, wrote Mister Kipling, was really fucking boring.
I’d been up since five.
At work for six.
Started doing some work at seven fifty five.
Now it was ten.
I’d had four cups of tea, one bacon sandwich, a walk around the factory, about two hundred yawns and one dump.
In the toilet I read the paper.
It was The Sun.
Not my choice.
It was on the cistern when I went in there.
There was a bloody thumb print on page five. How?
Someone had drawn a moustache on Sam Fox and coloured in her nipples. Why?
I washed my hands very, very thoroughly.
Now it was five past ten.
I wished something interesting would happen, like Soulless Boss having a heart attack or that account executive with the big knockers letting me look down her top again.
No such luck.
Instead, the phone started ringing.
“Lucifer! It’s for you.”
I never got calls.
They frowned on personal calls at work.
Soulless Boss was frowning.
I took the call.
“Aye up, you cunt, Lucifer!!”
Oh no.
It was Denny.
Denny’s one of my mates from where I live. Great bloke, bit odd, does some strange things.
“Who was that stuffy cunt who answered the phone?” He guffawed deafeningly.
Loud enough for Soulless Boss to hear.
He scowled at me.
I ignored him.
“No-one, Denny. Listen, what do you want? I’m a bit busy, and…”
“Hahahaha! You? Busy? Don’t make me fucking laugh! The only thing you’re busy doing is wanking in the bogs!”
Soulless Boss growled.
“Ha. Ha. Yeah, look, what do you want, Denny?”
“I want you, outside work, Friday lunchtime. I’ll pick you up.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
“The doffers!”
“Oh God…”

A doffer is like a stripper, only more bored and knackered looking.
Doffers do the pub circuit, dropping their shabby knickers in tatty boozers and using stinking Ladies toilets as changing rooms.
Sometimes they accidentally drag their fleabitten feather boas through puddles of piss from the leaky bogs.
If you feel something splash your face in the middle of her creaky gyrations, you know what it is.
Quite often the doffer is a prostitute as well.
Half an hour after she’s shaken her spotty arse on stage she’s down a dark alley, sucking off a taxi driver.
It’s bad enough going to these places after a skinful of ale, but on a Friday lunchtime they can be downright depressing.
The most notorious was the Belle Vue.
It lurked on the edge of Bradford’s red light district.
This is where Denny wanted to go.

He phoned again on the Wednesday.
Soulless Boss was starting to lose his rag.
“You’re coming with me, aren’t you Lucifer? Say you’re coming.”
“Look, I’ll be there, Denny, alright? Just stop phoning me at work.”
“Why? Is that stuffy cunt giving you shit again? OI! STUFFY CUNT! STOP GIV..”
I hung up.
Soulless Boss had turned purple.
I scuttled back to my desk.

Denny phoned again on Thursday.
Soulless Boss had an argument with him.
Then hung up.
“Yes, Soulless boss?”
That arsehole has called for you again. Tell him if he rings again, you’re getting the sack.”
“I can’t tell him that.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“You’ve hung up on him.”
“Oh, fuck off, Lucifer.”

D for Denny.
If I’m honest, my heart really wasn’t in it.
It was a nice sunny day outside.
Not the sort of day you wanted to spend in a stinking pub drinking watered beer, inspecting a doffer’s stretch marks.
Twelve o’clock arrived.
So did Denny.
He parked his crappy Saxo outside the studio and leaned on the horn until I rushed out.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“All aboard the doffer express! You ready, Lucifer?”
“Yeah, suppose so.”
“Oh, cheer up, you miserable cunt! We’re on our way to paradise!”
He burned rubber out of the car park, Bradford bound…

“Make sure you lock your car, Denny.”
“Ok, ok. Let’s go!”
We walked into the pub.
Sunlight oozed through the cracks in the heavy, dusty curtains, drawn to stop people in the street seeing the girl on the rickety stage.
The music was distorted by the cheap speakers, music that was meant to be sexy, but sounded more like the soundtrack to a slasher movie.
We squinted in the gloom, in the thick smoke.
Single men perused newspapers, ready to feign surprise when a naked girl tottered onto the stage.
Oh! What’s happening? I didn’t realise it was THAT kind of pub! Well, as I’m here…
I went to the bar.
It was my round.
With Denny, it was never his round first.
What you having Denny?”
A pint and one of those pork pies.”
“What? A pork pie?”
“Yeah! They’re fucking awesome!”
“No they’re not. They’re covered in fly shit!”
“Fuck off and get me a pie, Lucifer.”
“Your funeral…”
As I was getting served a voice blasted over the speakers.
“And now, gentlemen, please put your hands together and give a warm Belle Vue welcome to….. Tricksie!”
Sporadic applause.
Half-arsed wolf whistles.
Work boots stamped by blokes holding pints.
The rustle of hurriedly folded newspapers.
The toilet door opened and a girl hurried out.
Her feather boa looked soggy.
I tried to indicate for Denny to get a table further from the stage, but he didn’t notice.
Oh well.
I carried the drinks to the table.
“Here’s your pie, here’s your pint.”
“Fucking awesome! Come to daddy!”
He took a quick swig of beer and sunk his teeth into the pie.
His eyes closed in ecstasy.
The girl on the stage wasn’t too bad, to be honest.
Mid twenties, blonde, big tits.
As I’d paid my fifty pence entrance fee, I decided to get my monies worth.
Within ten seconds of mounting the stage she was naked.
Her clobber seemed to just fly off.
She’d dropped the boa, thank God.
I put down the newspaper I’d pilfered from the next table to deflect any piss that came our way.
Denny had his back to the stage, his gob full of pork pie.
The girl on the stage noticed he had his back to her.
She slithered across to us, leant down, and blew seductively in Denny’s ear.
He turned around and saw her.
“Fuck off, love.”
He spoke with a mouthful of pie, so greasy crumbs sprayed her face and stuck in her hair.
She fell backwards with a look of horror, before quickly regaining her composure.
She decided to shake her tits at the punters on the other side of the stage.
I was baffled.
“Why did you say that to her, you mad twat? You’ve been nagging me to come here for three days, and now we’re here you’re telling the girl to fuck off!”
“What, her? I’m not fussed about seeing them slags. I’m only here for the pies. They’re fucking magic. Why don’t you try one?”
“What? Why don’t you fuck off…”

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