Sunday, June 18, 2006

A May Ball's up

My other half, the fragrant and fine spirited woman known as Dolores McCrumble, has just posted her version of events after last night's somewhat disappointing excursion to one of my favourite events in the social calendar. I am of course talking about the local village's language school May Ball. Why, you may first ask, is it called a May Ball when we are clearly half way through the month of June. Simply put, the centre's co-ordinator Max Hemlock is a Cambridge graduate (Pembroke '82) and in Cambridge every year around this time there are several so-called 'May' Balls that take place after student exams. Mr Hemlock, with a nod to his alma mater, brought the tradition over the border.

What happens at the Language School May Ball closely emulates the programme of its Cambridge cousins. Tickets are sold on a dining or non-dining basis. On arrival, guests are left free to roam the grounds and drop in on a number of entertainments such as a ceilidh perhaps, or a comedian, a disco, live band etc etc. The tickets are priced to be all inclusive, which gives hard working people such as myself the opportunity to let their hair down without having to search for a cash machine. It is also a formal affair, which means digging out the black tie and an opportunity to see the local ladies in their finest summer dresses. I don't mind admitting that I did take advantage of the bar, and was comfortably innebriated within a relatively short space of time, the stresses of the last few days temporarily shelved in the 'who gives a f**k' section of my cerebellum. My good wife, on the other hand, though she looked splendid in a black chiffon Karen Millen dress with embroidered flower details was not only stone cold sober the whole evening, but seemed to stuck in a melancholic rut. When I pressed her about it she simply shrugged her shoulders and told me, in somewhat sarcastic tones, to keep on 'strutting my funky stuff'. I laughed at her anachronistic description of my dancing, since I am well known to possess more than an average amount of rhythm and timing. My dancing has been praised in the nigtclubs of Kenya on more than one occasion by several ladies on the dancefloor.

Anyways, the night proceeded in a somewhat lacklustre way until the magnificent Bucks Phizz band took to the stage. They are a leading tribute band to the Eurovision song contest winners Bucks Fizz, who won the competition for the UK in 1981 with the worldwide smash hit song 'Making your mind up' and whenever they are in town I make sure I'm in the front row. Call me nostalgic but there is no other band in UK history that has bettered the efforts of Cheryl Baker and her fellow chansoneurs (exept maybe Katrina and the Waves who won in 1997 with 'Shine a light').

The lady who plays Cheryl Baker's role was not looking her best, I have to say, possibly due to the fact that she was wearing an eye patch after squirting hairspray into her iris. The other group members were comparatively well turned out, but when singing...well, let me just say that they were all slightly off-key, but as usual delivered the songs with gusto and enthusiasm. I danced away with almost gay abandon until a break in the set. It was then that I noticed Dolores standing on the side of the dancefloor looking at a discarded cigarette butt, and with a sinking heart I knew it was time to go home. Ordinarily I would try and get backstage to meet the band, but this time it just wasn't going to happen. I was also going to miss the encore of 'Making your Mind up' complete with the show-stopping removal of the girls skirts in homage to the stage show of Bucks Fizz circa 1981.

We meandered our way back to the car through the fields adjacent to the school, the sounds of the band gradually fading. It was a beautiful evening, but my wife seemed reluctant to cheer-up even when I performed a cartwheel - something she normally finds hilarious. This irked me slightly, as I had paid good money for the two tickets and even though I had tried to drink enough for the two of us, I was beginning to feel that the 'value for money' element was lacking. When I mentioned this to Dolores she took it badly, and in effect told me that next time I should go on my own. This prompted what can only be described as a full blown domestic, complete with arm waving, floods of tears (hers, not mine), accusations and counter accusations.

We must have been at it for a good ten minutes, sitting in the stationary car so as to be out of earshot of passers-by, when something quite extraordinary happened that I don't think I will ever forget, despite the fact that I was rather drunk at the time. Essentially, what happened was that as my wife was berating my (alleged) lack of virility I spied what appeared to be the near-naked form of a nicely proportioned woman sneaking past the car. Other than a black g-string she was most definitely devoid of clothes, and was making very little attempt to cover her bosom. My wife eventually noticed that my attention had been diverted, and after an initial show of surprise dimissed the woman and her predicament out of hand.

Being in a contrary frame of mind due to our recent contretemps, I decided to show my wife that I was a man of firm mind, and became immediately determined to help the poor girl. Having pulled on the handbrake, I opened the passenger side door and sort of half tumbled, half stepped from the car. I knew that my field jacket was in the boot, but couldn't find it immediately due the plethora of useful items that occupied the boot space. By the time I had pulled the jacket out from underneath a box full of test-tubes, the girl had almost disappeared into the night. To catch her up I needed to run, but my legs weren't really up to the task and the effort of running seemed to somehow accelerate the latent stages of innebriation. She must have seen and heard me coming to help, but seemed not be interested and instead began to run away.

'Lemme pud is on ye' I shouted, waving the field jacket.

'Aye, Fuck off will ye. I'm no interested ye fucking pervert. Fuck off!' shouted the girl.

'I jush help - my wife is here....' I tried.

'I don't give a fuck if your whole family wants to watch. I'm no doing anything. Now fuck off or I'll call the police'

By this time we had reached the end of the small field, and a reasonably high fence prevented her egress. I approached with the jacket extended, trying hard to avert my eyes from her well-proportioned figure. The girl in turn simply kept telling me to fuck off and not come any nearer. Fortunately, my wife then switched the headlights onto full beam to help me locate the girl. This had the secondary effect of temporarily blinding her, and thus I was now presented with the opportunity to 1) accurately locate the position of the girls bosom, 2) lunge forward in the direction of her bosom, and 3) place the jacket over her bosom.

My efforts, I am sad to report, were not well appreciated. The girl, rather than accepting the jacket gracefully and departing in silence, pushed me away, grabbed hold of the garment and tried to whip me with it whilst aiming kicks at random parts of my anatomy and calling me a 'fucking pervert'. Fortunately only a couple of her blows made contact - one to the left shin and one to my right ribcage, but they were fierce enough to knock me out of her path, and she ran off with the jacket in hand. But clearly the jacket wasn't actually up to the job, as I saw her throw it at the car as she passed.

I managed to half-walk, half-stumble back to the car, feeling somewhat dispirited that my attempts at being a good samaritan had ended in near failure. 'She took the jacket', I told my wife.

'I saw what happened Joseph' said my wife. 'I also recognised the girl. I think you might be in a bit of trouble, you rancid pervert'

And then she actually laughed!

We drove back to the institute in silence, and I went immediately to bed. On awaking, my mind went immediately back to the final, unedifying events of the previous night. The word 'pervert' now keeps appearing in my head, and I have had visions all day of having to leave the village, branded as a sex pest. That, together with my on-going conflict of interest regarding the university, suggests that the next few days are going to be deeply, deeply distressing. I only hope that my dedicated and occasionally-maudlin wife is strong enough to bear these trials with me.....


Nikki said...




you big perv.

I'm going to your lady wife's blog now. I can't wait to see what she has to say. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!

Nikki said...

Shame on you Joe. You shouldn't have made her cry. You big beastie.

I would like to recommend flowers - but no candy - she said she was feeling fat - no candy!

Flowers and a candle lite dinner for two for you and her?

Tell her that "the poor wee lass" has set you straight. (snicker)

SheBah said...

All the elements of a good night - booze, music, dancing, nudity, violence..........!!!

Charlie said...

To both Joseph and Delores (or Delores and Joseph):

I have read both accounts of the May Ball in June, and while I note some discrepancies, I shall not express an opinion.

I refuse to be the instigator of what could become yet another international incident.

All I will say is that I hope the June Ball in July goes much better.

Kim Ayres said...

In the 3rd year of my Philosophy Degree I finally realised that all truth is relative and none is absolute. Your differing accounts beaustifully illustrate that...

Charlie said...

KIM: Is "beaustifully" a philosophical term? I have not heard of it before.

Dr Joseph McCrumble said...

Nikki - I didn't mean to maker her cry. Sometimes she is jsut soooo sensitive I can't keep up. Anyhoo, to reconcilitate and make friends, we took the weekend off and went down south - watch out for our next attempt at blogging together to see what happened.

Shebah - no violence! I was just a bit, er, clumsy. Honest!

Admiral - We've sorted out our discrepancies, I hope. No ball in July as this one lost money.

Kim - True. Facts are only facts if no-one can think of an alternative explanation. Even then, you have to wonder whether that is just due to limited eidence/ability to compute.

Sam, Problem-Child-Bride said...

The Cumbernauld hills are alive with the sound of screaming.

A brilliant account of your hapless pervery, Doc McC. Off to read your good lady and then make my Solomon-like judgement as to whether you took Good Samaritaning a bosom too far.