Little snippets of news for you before you get the next installment of The World According to Shardonnay.
Firstly, Fred got a job! I got it for him actually. Being fed up of him ligging around, Chloe and I performed one of the spells in the Tibetan Book of Positive Thinking. You smear butter on your forehead, sprinkle oats on your chest and earth on your feet and clap loudly whilst affirming what you want to happen. This apparently awakens your ‘lu’ and ‘sok’ and purifies your ‘wangthang’. Who knows how it does this but FACT: Fred got four job offers the next day. So if you need something badly just put it in the comments and I will give it a go for you. Fred does not believe me when I told him I got him the job. He says, ‘yeah, well, I did send an email round.’ Poor lad does not realise his wangthang is now zinging about the planet, free as a bird.
Anyway this job thing came none too soon, as money reserves were running low and there is still that matter of the unpaid 2010 tax bill. The bailiffs did come round (don’t tell Gwanny) but luckily I was out. If I’d been in I would have offered them the parrots, who, as you know, are vicious little buggers and would’ve conveniently ripped their fingers off. Anyway, no matter, Fred’s been to TaxAssist and they are sorting it out. We just mustn’t spend anything for about two years.
No news on the Miss Benyon front. She had promised me a nipple appointment in Jan, but I guess that’s not gonna happen. Maybe over Christmas someone pointed out to her that her Google presence is entirely dominated by crazed boob blog fan’s musings and she has decided to punish me by with-holding the nipple. If I do get an appointment though, Claire is going to get the day off work to come with me and get a photo for you guys.
Anyway, back to the craze of the moment: Shardonnay is here! One of me readers says she is ‘women’s lib gone badly wrong.’ Ha ha.
Chapter 3. Surfin the profits.
Me and Shelley and Debs all donated to Pat’s sperm factory every day, at least once. This meant we earnt quite a lot of money. Like three hundred quid a day! We would meet early after the morning donation, go into Baroosh for a coffee, drive to Harlow, go shopping in Matalan or TKMax or Primark, come back and try on all our new clothes, go out for cocktails around five and be back in time for another donation around seven. This way, our blokes was all satisfied and never gave no trouble.
Hmm, those were the days! Spunky times! Loved it. Don’t regret any of it for a second. Shelley once said, ‘Don’t you ever think it might all come back at us?’
I were like, ‘No. Any kids what get made can’t prove it were us.’
‘They got that DNA testin though, now?’
‘Hm,’ I said, ‘Yeah, but you have to like get the DNA of the dad, doncha? I don’t see no kids coming round asking for a sample of Matt’s hair, do you?’ I cackled me big cackle. ‘Anyway, the tosser pissed me off with keeping that bitch ex of his on his phone. He deserves a bit of hassle in his life, the bastard.’
‘But do you ever think he might find out?’
‘Nah! Anyway, don’t care if he does, the tosser. She were such a flat-chested freak, his wife. It weren’t like I never warned him! I says to him, I says, ‘Matt, if you keep her on your phone, I’m not gonna be happy.’ And blow me if I don’t find he’d been textin her and all.’
Anyway, us three girls saved up six grand over the first six months and went and booked boob jobs at the Rivers. I chose to have an E cup. Gorgeous they are. Lush. And it means it’s even easier to get Matt to cough up the goods every morning and evening. Ha ha.
Chapter 4. A Lady what Lunches.
So then Pat says to me she says, ‘I need more, Shardonnay. A lot of my clients are askin for tall blond clever kids.’
‘Well, yeah, course they are,’ I agreed. ‘But I am a lady wot lunches, me! Can I be bovvered to come back in the middle of the day to do another blinkin blow-job?’
‘Shardonnay,’ she says, all serious, ‘I’ll give you two hundred for the lunch-time one.’
‘Pat!’ I says. ‘He already thinks I’m a nympho!’
‘The posh mums are after it,’ she goes.
‘Hunh, course they are,’ I says to meself. Everyone knew Matt’s spunk made the best babies. ‘Oh, all right,’ I says.
Bit of a bind to tell you the truth. I’d prefer to be ordering me battered fish or onion rings down the Star or the Crown and they do a lovely roast in the Boar’s Head. But bless him, Matt would deliver every time. Nice and fresh, creamy custard. Bit of alright. And I got time to grab a quick lunch in the caff around two.
Thing is, Matt’s magnificent seed had started to get a bit of a reputation around town. It all began with one of Pat’s clients having twins. OMG though, gorjuss or what? They was cherubic, chubby, chuckly. Everyone adored em. It were obvious soon as I saw em that they was Matt’s. The upper lip gave it away. Matt’s lip is kinda, well, muscly, twitchy almost, but in a good way. And their hair…. so blond it were blinding. After that, everyone looked at me in a different way, like with awe. It’s like, I had the power, or something? I didn’t mind that, I’m proud of me man. And I deserve him too, I am one classy bird.
So I really started churning it out to keep up with demand. I were earning five hundred a day by this time. I got meself a new car, a soft-top jag, lovely metallic blue. I even had a personalised numberplate. SSS77. Shardonnay Simone Stern. And seven is my favourite number like David Beckham, so I got it twice. When Matt asked how I suddenly had so much money, I just said I’d had it all along sittin in a forgotten old Lloyds bank account.
Then things got even more intense. Cos that lovely tall lady what looks like Phoebe out of Friends, she only went and had triplets, didn’t she? Lush. You’d see gaggles of women in the street staring open-mouthed at them babies. Their eyes was so blue, so blue, I can’t explain. Almost like there were a flash of purple in them. And they looked wise, like they was thinking about the universe and why we’re here and all that fancy stuff! Bless em, so that caused a bit of a flurry round the town.
Oh, it did make me laugh! Honest to God, every day I had meself a good old chuckle about all them babies and how Matt never had an effing clue. What a hoot. And whenever anyone said that word: consequences, to me, I just laughed in their face. Partly because I din’t know what the bloody word meant. But I got the idea it were to do with the future and it were NOT GOOD.
‘Look, who bloody cares?’ I would say to them. ‘YOLO,’ I would say. This means ‘You Only Live Once.’ And my life is so much better now I can buy lovely quality clothes, take Debs and Shelley out for Mojitos every day, order champagne on the internet. I got meself Netflix, I got an i-phone, I got me fancy car. God knows, I din’t want no kids meself. Too much bloody work, I said to meself. I were also thinking about a hot tub. I got the brochures, I were just ditherin between a Norwegian pine sort of look or a more sleek modern look.
And who would have thought it? You know, me? Little me, who never had nothin. Now I could have anything I wanted. And all for a teensy bit of man-milk each day, which, I hasten to add, he were giving to me voluntarily. Did he ever complain? Nah, he did not. So there you have your answer. Were I gonna feel bad? Not one bit of it. No sirree.