Wine, women…

EunuchOpposite me, reposed on a bentwood chair, is “Eunuch”. And he’s eyeing up my bowl of pitted olives. ‘I’ll give you a little tip,’ he says. ‘What you do is put this butter packet between your hands and then…’ He breaks off, cupidity gripping him as an olive-skinned girl strolls past the window, heading to the beach.


‘You were saying, Eunuch?’ I prompt, as I force another glass of Tempranillo down the hatch. He wheels round, brow knitted. ‘We really ought to dispense with this nickname,’ he bleats. ‘Couldn’t you come up with something else?’ What, like Posh Jeremy? Or The Dominator?… No, Eunuch is a humdinger of a moniker; one can’t just chop and change on an ephemeral whim.


Pick-Up Arist?


He smiles, knowing I’m right. He clicks his neck back into place and begins tucking into a bowl of onion soup, all thoughts of the tanned cutie forgotten. What the chap needs is a little bolstering, though. ‘We could pretend your nickname is a bluff, you know, Eunuch,’ I begin. ‘For example, it could have been administered to knock you down a peg or two, perhaps after your days coaching as an international Pick Up Artist…’ He likes that story; the nickname can stay, at least for now.


Now, as I say, or rather I didn’t say, the venturesome Eunuch rolled up at my front door a couple of Dinadays ago. There he was, looking frightfully snazzy in short trousers and plimsolls, his ageing BMW immediately being used as a seagulls’ toilet. Now it’s no good asking me whether he drives a 525TD or a 535i – my view of motorcars is similar to that of girls: they simply come in colours, as far as I’m concerned.


‘Whatho Eunuch,’ I’d gushed at the Davies threshold, and embraced him in a bear hug. I’d not seen him for three-and-a-half-years. Ah, it’s been a nice break.. ‘The Old Boiler is in the kitchen faffing with the kettle, I think – do go through and say hello. And there’s a pretty girl called Dina loafing around somewhere, quite probably in the drawing room.’ I noticed the impecunious bluebottle hadn’t even brought any wine..


Wine, Women and…


‘Ah, this is the life,’ he’d said, making himself at home. ‘It’s about time I came down for a weekend,’ Now the last time I checked, a weekend was not arriving on Sunday lunchtime and clogging up one’s mansion until Wednesday afternoon. Still..

‘Ooh, wine,’ he ejaculated suddenly, noticing an open bottle. ‘I say, pour me a large one, would you.’ Bloody cheek..


We sat cosily in the garden, corseted by attractive women and dead Busy Lizzies, Eunuch happily tipping a glassful of the pink stuff down his neck in one fell swoop. Well, more like a foul swoop. ‘Any more booze?’ he asked, toying with taking off his shirt. I trotted obediently down to the cellar, grabbing my sunglasses in case he did in fact go topless. The second and third glasses slipped down equally as easily, and after an hour he excused himself for a moment.


‘Your friend’s been gone a long time,’ said Dina, lolling around on the grass. ‘Do you think he’s all right?’ I tutted, a little soporific from wine and sunshine, confident that my pal of thirtysomething could look after himself. ‘Probably just fancied playing with his knob,’ I assured her. Well, after about an hour.. Either he was vigorously engrossed in something unspeakable or… Well, off we set to investigate.

…An Inebriated Eunuch


Aha! There he was, giggling to himself on the bathroom carpet. ‘Whoopsy, I should have had some lunch,’ he said, unable to sit up properly. Good old Eunuch.


Now, I’m not running a dating agency here or anything, but the dashing, playful Eunuch is still – gobsmackingly – on the market. Snap him up, ladies, while you can – he’s got a heart of gold, a sexy voice and a guitar. Ooh, and a shit BMW. You’ll find him on Facebook under Jeremy Turner… (as an ice-breaker, you could always ask him about the butter trick).

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