Sometimes you overhear wonderful snippets of conversation in passing.
I heard a heart-warming conversation between a mother and son, who were sat behind me on the bus.
“I really want a pair,” the young lad implored his mother.
“I’m just not sure,” she replied hesitantly.
“But I would LOVE a pair of sparkly shoes,” the son insisted.
“You need to be a strong person to wear shoes like that,” the mother explained. “Some people may not understand and could laugh at you.”
“But I just really like them,” he persevered. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
Without missing a beat, mum-of-the-year replied, “Well then, let’s go get you a pair of sparkly shoes.”
A scene from a real-life Everyone’s Talking About Jamie… performed atop a double-decker.
You overhear bona banter on the gay scene.
One December, I had finished a spot of Christmas shopping in Birmingham city centre and headed to Hurst Street for a pint. As I strolled by two guys, I caught the tail end of their conversation, “… he didn’t realise that he’d bought the wrong calendar and spent three days eating dog chocolates.”
It sounded like a line Rita would say about Norris from Corrie.
On another occasion, a barman in the gay village greeted a regular customer by indicating a stack of condoms at the door and saying, “Hey mate, we’ve got your size in. You should grab a load, we don’t get XXL very often.”
It is one thing the bar staff knowing your usual tipple, I thought, but another matter them knowing your size of condom!
Unsurprisingly, the customer was unconcerned about his personals being broadcast across the bar, as it pays to advertise, and cockily responded, “Actually, they are a bit too big.”
The barman was taken aback, “Really? Even for you?!”
The customer was adamant, “Yes, I popped one on the other day and looked like a kid in his dad’s wellies.”
One evening, I was waiting for a friend in a pub near Snow Hill Station and couldn’t help listening to a ridiculous conversation between a couple of larrikins, who were several pints into their post-work drinking session.
“You know I love you like a brother,” one of the lads gushed, “don’t you?”
“Yeah mate, me too. I’d do anything for you,” the friend reciprocated.
“Soooooo…,” mused the first lad, “if I had been kidnapped and the only way to get me released was to fuck a guy… would you?”
“But you just said you would do anything for me.”
“Even if my life depended on it?”
“All you have to do to save me is fuck a guy, but you still wouldn’t do it?”
Trying a different track, the first lad asked, “How about my mom? Would you fuck my mom to save my life?”
“Oh yeah,” the friend enthused. “Your mom is fit!”
Undeterred, the lad persisted with his hypothetical hostage scenario, “You still wouldn’t fuck a guy to save my life? I have known you since primary school. You are my best mate. All you have to do, to save me from being brutally murdered… and probably tortured…, would be fuck one guy. I am really hurt that you wouldn’t do it.” He looked genuinely crestfallen.
“Ok… ok,” his potential saviour finally conceded, “if it were absolutely the only possible way of saving your life, I’d do it…., but only for you.”
First lad smugly raised his half empty pint and gave a victorious snort of mocking laughter, “Ha… you’d fuck guy!”
At my own table, I drank a silent toast to Beavis and Butthead of Brum and an expertly executed entrapment.
I experienced being listened to by a good-natured eavesdropper on one occasion, whilst telling the story a good friend’s husband told me about his first prostate examination.
It was during the period the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, was undergoing its re-build and consultations were relegated to temporary cabins. The husband had watched in mounting trepidation as the doctor donned a glove and applied lube to his finger. When the doctor inserted his digit, he let out a shrill scream and his leg shot out in an involuntary spasm, kicking a gaping hole in the plasterboard wall.
When I reached the conclusion of my tale and dropped the punchline, “At which point he ejaculated,” I noticed the guy at the next table failing to disguise his amusement, so turned and welcomed him into our conversation.
“You have got to love a straight guy who is confident enough to tell this story in mixed company,” I said. “He told us that he didn’t know if he was dreading next year’s examination… or looking forward to it!”
In the words of the late, great, Victoria Wood, “Keep your trap shut and your lugholes open, and you can pick up some very interesting conversations,” … especially if you happen to be sat in the right spot in the gaybourhood.