My wife rushes into the room; a cheeky grin spreads across her face. I’ve seen that look before; someone’s died.
“Have you heard? Have you? You’ll never guess in a million years,” she pants breathlessly and plonks hands on hips.
Over the years my wife and I have learned to share out the household chores that play to our strengths; I do the bins, and my wife breaks the news of celebrity deaths. This isn’t her only job, she also buries family pets. She’s a one-stop-shop for all your funereal needs. I fully expect that when I die she’ll do the eulogy, catering and digging.
My wife gets her fondness of announcing celebrity deaths from her mother. I got five missed calls from my mother-in-law when Jackson died, in fact I think that’s how Tito found out.
I do what I always do in this situation, I stare back at my wife and mime sifting through a mental list of celebrities that I think are knocking on death’s door, I call it, The Dead Pool, but she always interrupts me before I can say, Freddie Starr.
She dumps herself next to me on the couch and says, “I’ve just heard…” I am urging her to mouth the words, Freddie Starr, “… that there’s a Swinger’s club in Pudsey on a Wednesday afternoon.”
“Won’t that clash with the Farmer’s Market?” I reply sarcastically, and she gives me a withering look, the kind of look I think husbands see before their wives go on an afternoon shopping trip to Pudsey.
I’ve got to the age now where I can barely be arsed to go to the cinema in the afternoon, never mind shag strangers in Pudsey. For a start, the parking’s terrible and I wouldn’t know what to wear.
I give my wife a quizzical look, flip open the ipad and type: Is Freddie Starr dead? I get a quick response, he is alive and well, so I put Freddy back in the Pool. My wife frantically scans around the room for other people to gossip about swinging to, but the kids don’t look too interested, so she targets me again.
“You know Gary’s mum from year 5?”
“Apparently, she’s been swinging since year 2.”
“Isn’t she married?”
“Most of the time,” she replies optimistically.
“How many days of the week are you married?” I ask.
The phone rings before I can get an answer. It’s my mother-in-law trying to get through on our celebrity death line. We all pretend to look busy, which I’m rubbish at, so I pick up the phone.
“Who has died? Tell me, tell me,” pesters my wife, tugging my sleeve as I listen to her mother on the phone.
“No-one. She’s just called to ask if you want to go to the Farmer’s Market in Pudsey on Wednesday afternoon.”
“You’re kidding me. That’s next door to the Swinger’s club.”
“Yes, I’m joking, but I’m afraid we need to take Cilla Black out of the Pool.”
Since I posted this I’ve had allot of people messaging me for more information about the Swinger’s club, here’s what I know:
The club is split into three pleasure zones: a Group Room, a Couple’s Room and a Voyeur Room, and yes, the orgy room does have free wifi. The dress code is, office casual, and no, they don’t allow selfie sticks.
More details as I get them.