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1          Sven Goran Sven Goran

He comes from the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun where the hot springs blow, but on most Saturday nights, Sven Goran Sven Goran can be found  smoking a hookah pipe at whichever Arabic café happens to be the liveliest on Edgeware Road, in West London.

On this particular Saturday night, 27 year old Sven Goran Sven Goran is sitting at a small table overlooking the Marble Arch, puffing on some fine cherry tobacco and taking with his Muslim friend Jamal Ali. Jamal is attempting to draw Sven Goran Sven Goran into a discussion of the uprising in Turkey but Sven Goran Sven Goran is having none of it.

Sven Goran Sven Goran is dreaming of his harem. He politely nods, but hears not a word of Jamal’s assertion that the Turkish revolutionaries cannot be put in the same ideological camp as the rabble rousers who executed the Arab Spring, three years earlier  Of the countless exotic beauties in his dreamed of harem, there is not a single blond-haired, blue-eyed, buxom babe from his native Sweden. Rather, Sven Goran Sven Goran’s massive tent is filled with olive-skinned, green-eyed, curvaceous creatures who can shake it like Shakira.

Jamal is used to being ignored by his Nordic friend when they are sitting on a corner watching all the girls, watching all the girls, watching all the girls go by, but that does not mean that he likes it. “Hey!” Jamal bellows. But Sven Goran Sven Goran has been rendered completely oblivious and slack-jawed.

A girl… no, a… damn! Sven Goran Sven Goran has no word in his vocabulary to properly describe the girl who is approaching his table. Goddess is insufficient and somehow incorrect. Sven Goran Sve Goran has encountered Goddesses before – several of them, in fact – but none of them have aroused his libido so instantly and so totally.

The girl is still twenty metres away from him and already Sven Goran Sven Goran is harder than Chinese algebra. But is mind is so filled with lavish and lurid libidinous longings that the Swede is not even vaguely aware of the fact that his Nordic missile is screaming and threatening to launch and attack of its own accord.

Sven Goran Sven Goran has been placed under the spell of a Sexwitch. His sexwitch, to be precise.

For every man on the planet there is a sexwitch; a female endowed with a hypnotizing, drool-inducing physical presence, and a salacious psychic energy specifically designed to make him mad with lust.

A man will do anything, absolutely anything, to have his sexwitch. More often than not, a man will never have his sexwitch. He may, in time, move on from his obsession, but not before repeatedly making an utter fool of himself in his quest to mount his personal Miss Everest.

But Sven Goran Sven Goran knows nothing about sexwitches. The Swede knows not that 18 year old Shayla Meir is… dangerous. Sven Goran Sven Goran is oblivious to the fact that the girl’s presence has awakened several dozen former incarnations of himself, all of whom have been possessed, and nearly destroyed by sexwitches. Every one of them was left hideously disfigured in their obsessive pursuits of their enchanters, and now they scramble, like a platoon of drunken Quasimodos, to reach the bell towers in their collective subconscious.

Frightened and horrified, mentally discombobulated, unable to concentrate, the creatures crash into each other like Keystone Cops on crack trying to ring the alarm bell. The slapstick carries on for several minutes inside Sven Goran Sven Goran’s mind until they finally manage to get their hands on the bell ropes.

Composing themselves. Sven Goran Sven Goran’s former selves begin to tug on the bell ropes in harmony. These guys have been-there-done-that before. Every time, they have failed. This time, they are determined to raise a rapturous raucous that cannot be ignored by the endangered and oh-so-ignorant mortal without.

It takes less than a minute for the harmonious hunchbacks to find their rhythm, but when they do they create a sound worthy of Mozart. Angels fly by strumming harps and demons howl in accompaniment. But poor, doomed Sven Goran Sven Goran does not hear a note as he gets up from his table and follows Shayla Meir down the street, without so much as a word to his Frisbee-eyed friend, Jamal Ali.

Shayla is followed onto the tube. The bells continue to ring. When she transfers to a north bound Northern Line at King’s Cross, Sven Goran Sven Goran has her in his sites. When the sexwitch gets off at Golders Green, Sven Goran Sven Goran’s posse of purgatorial prisoners shudder. They cease the commotion they have been making and follow Shayla with their eyes. They ponder if it’s possible, until they know it’s true – Shayla Meir is a Jew.

More alluring than a Siren, more poisonous than a black mamba, there is nothing in the known universe as perilous as a Jewish sexwitch.

Poor, poor, doomed Sven Goran Sven Goran follows 18 year old Shayla Meir out of the station, right on North End Road, across Finchley, west on Golders Green and left at Armitage.  Without even being aware of the fact, Sven Goran Sven Goran has already begun to stalk Shayla Meir.

The Swede stands on the street, staring at the home of his sexwitch, watching lights turn on and off inside for three hours. Finally, when all the lights are extinguished, Sven Goran Sven Goran makes his way back to the tube station. He gets as far as Camden Town before he realizes that he has been dispossessed of his mobile. He rushes to the first available payphone, deposits his 50p, dials his number and… nothing.

The Swede grinds his back teeth and curses under his breath, “Damned Brits! Why the hell can’t they get anything right? The Nazis should have won the damned war, at least they’d have made these damned, blundering Brits more efficient.”

Sven Goran Sven Goran makes his way to another payphone, deposits another 50p piece, dials his number and smiles when he hears Jamal Ali’s voice. Ten seconds into the conversation an automated voice comes onto the line and demands another 50p. Ten seconds! The Swede surrenders another half quid and makes arrangements to meet Jamal at

2          Sally Alabaster

My name, good and gentle reader, is Sally Alabaster, and I am a raconteur. For those of you who are not familiar with the word, it means story teller.

I have always wanted to be a raconteur, but up until recently I was an intellectual property lawyer. A very successful one.

I was born and raised in Shropshire, where mom and dad owned a largish orchard. At a young age, I acquired a taste for father’s home made ciders.

After completing my A levels, I attended school in America. Brown University, to be precise. That’s a prestigious Ivy League school, in case you were unaware of the fact.

I have a curly mop of Irish red hair, a million freckles and two webbed toes (it’s impossible to have one webbed toe, don’t you know?). I also have two too many teeth, a physical anomaly that resulted in a slight overbite. During my formative years, that slight overbite was not so slight. Other children used to traumatize me by laughing that I could eat corn through a picket fence. That was an exaggeration, but not by much.

At the age of twelve my face started to fit my mouth in a more aesthetically pleasing manner. That is to say that my head grew to a size that made my overbite less pronounced. At the same time, my buzzoom also began to enlarge. My mammalian protuberances continued to grow, and grow and grow. By the time I was 14 I required a 38 D bra. Some of the girls, envious bitches every last one of them, mocked my God-given physical attributes. The same could not be said for a single member of the opposite sex.

By the time I was 18, I had a Dolly Partonesque problem. Not that it could rightly be called a problem, mind you. Any girl who is so fortunate as to be endowed with a mind as massive as her massive mammalian protuberances quickly figures out how to use her gifts, mental and physical, to get ahead in life, and that was the case with my good self. Until recently, that is.

After returning from America, I settled in London. Although I had never been overly impressed with the capital previously, I quickly fell in love with the city after taking up residence there.

Anyone who knows a redhead will tell you that we are genetically disinclined to be underlings, and that is doubly true of me. So, I established my own law practice and used the God-given gifts that God had given me – meaning my bodacious ta-tas, in case you were confused – to attract a great deal of attention from clever individuals – mostly men, I admit – who wanted their clever ideas protected from those who are less creative, perhaps, but almost as clever, and more… more… sinister is the word I am groping for, I believe.

In addition to attracting the attention of those who were seeking to protect their intellectual properties, I also attracted the attention of more than a few males who were seeking to more fully appreciate my physical properties. The most adorable of that posse was an Argentinean footballer named Diego Madonna. I kid you not. Diego Madonna.

To say that the boy was beautiful is a grave understatement. Conceived in the fabled brothels of Buenos Aries, his mother was a former Miss Argentina. He made Christiono Ronaldo look like Wayne Rooney, in comparison. Diego was so beautiful that the oh-so-vain Ronaldo petitioned the Court of Arbitration for Sport for an international order to destroy any photos of the two side-by-side.

Alas, to say that the boy was not-so-smart is a grave understatement. He had zero intellectual property to protect.

When I attempted to explain the concept of intellectual property to him, he just laughed and laughed.

Once, while I was giving him a tour around Westminster, Diego began to shudder, his teeth chattering. Seconds after that strange development, he began to moan uncontrollably. When we came within sight of Rodin’s statue, The Thinker, Diego dug himself in and refused to get an inch closer to the thing. When I attempted to pull him closer he started to bray and buck like an angry donkey. This continued until I performed a sort of exorcism by burying his face in my breasts until he calmed down enough for us to head in the opposite direction.

Diego was all of 19 when I made his acquaintance, as he stood at my side and openly salivated while I was at the bar ordering a bottle of champagne. The boy was clearly legless. Legless, that is, if you did not count the third leg that insistently throbbed inside his comical capris as he gazed upon my countenance.

And although he spoke but six words of English –






tits –

and was monosyllabic in his native Spanish, I fell madly in love with him all the same.

Diego was a wunderkind in Argentina, scoring goals by the bucketload for River Plate. But he was not ready to start on a Premiership side. He should have spent a year or two with Celtic, Ajax, or Porto, before attempting the Premiership. Instead, he disappointed Arsenal fans.

While the, “up-the-Gunners!” crowd was disappointed by Diego, opposing fans loved him. Oh, how they mocked poor Diego. Every time he crashed to the grass after being fouled, opposing fans would burst into uproarious laughter, singing, “Like a virgin, being touched for the very first time.”

The prats would come to the grounds dressed as Miss Ciccone and serenade the boy with  disrespectful Madonna medleys. Personally, I think all the pageantry was just an excuse for those hardboys to embrace the ladyboys that were closeted deep down inside them.

Arsene Wenger was never quite sure what to do with the Diego. He seemed to have no idea how to exploit his enormous physical talents. Being a woman with needs, I had no such problem.

Diego ravaged me at least twice a day (come to think of it, that may have had something to do with the boy’s inability to make a great impression on the pitch. Hmmm. I’ll be damned. I honestly never thought of that until right now. Well, never mind. None of that matters anymore).

Diego and I became admirers of the works of the Marquis de Sade. Action speaking louder than words, and words being mostly meaningless to poor, dumb Diego, I translated the Marquis’ works physically, rather than orally. Young Diego exceled at his studies!

But then, one fateful night, we incorporated a little bit of Benjamin Franklin’s genius into our studies of the Marquis. Electricity. Nipple clamps. Handcuffs. It all went so horribly wrong.

Diego had me cuffed to the bed. He attached the nipple clamps to my heaving breasts, plugged the clamps into the socket, then plugged himself into my socket. Never had I experienced such an orgasm. It was continuous. I could not stop cumming. Could not stop cumming until a minute, or so, after the lights went out in a lightning storm, that is

Diego was thrashing me like a wild bull, so he did not understand that I was imploring him to “stop!” when I heard the first thunder clap.  Not that he would have, anyway. Another explosion of thunder, then another. And, obviously, lightning in between.

It took investigators a week to figure out exactly what happened. The lightning strike bolted through the improperly grounded wiring in my flat. The electricity surged through my electrified nipple clamps, through my Dolly Partons, down to my gadonk-a-donk-donk, and into Diego’s fabulous, foot long baloney pony.

It took no more than a second for Diego and I to perish but, let me tell you, gentle reader, a better second has never been lived by a girl! Less than a second felt like eternity. I had crashing waves of orgasmic ecstasy. I was in touch with GOD!

The tabloids had a field day with the story, which went viral. Flat-chested girls the world over laughed gleefully, as if the size of my Mae Wests were, in any way, responsible for the tragedy.

To be honest, in hindsight, it wasn’t such a tragedy. The hereafter is not such a bad place. I have opted to stick around close to the material plane in order to carefully observe this thing we call life, and those who live it. I can see inside people’s minds and hearts. And I finally have time to write, which is all the better for you, my lovelies.

I have decided to stay close to London and watch over some of the curious characters who inhabit this amazing city. I have always been curious about the expats who come to London to find their happily ever after. What trials and tribulations do they go through trying to find love in this cold megalopolis?

You have already met one of my study subjects, Sven Goran Sven Goran. Now, if I still have your attention, let me introduce you to the others I will follow. Let’s  see what they are up to on this crazy Saturday night, when our Swedish friend, Sven Goran Sven Goran, has, for the very first time, beheld his sexwitch.

3          Mary-Jack Kennedy

It is always easy to spot an American newcomer to London – they can be found on street corners searching through their A to Zs with perplexed and frustrated looks glued to their clueless faces, wondering WTF?

And that is exactly how we find Mary-Jack Kennedy, a recent arrival from Florence, Texas, on this Saturday night.

Mary-Jack, named after her parents, Mary and Jack Kennedy, once again finds herself completely flummoxed trying to navigate a city of 8 million people that has not the good sense to erect street signs on its street corners. She is staring at her A to Z and craning her neck this way and that way, trying to understand just where the hell she is.

But Mary-Jack has never had to wait long for a wannabe knight to appear with a compass, corkscrew, or whatever else they may have on their persons that they hope will solve the beauty’s apparent dilemma, and, hopefully, lead to a romantic encounter.

Mary-Jack, it must be pointed out, is not a sexwitch. She is strikingly gorgeous, but is not endowed with raw sex appeal. Rather, she is the girl next door type. The amazingly, astonishingly adorable and beautiful girl next door type. The kind of girl that makes boys, and men, weak in the knees and goofy in the head.

When she was twelve years old, Mary-Jack sat on the stairs to her family’s second floor bedrooms and listened in as her father, Jack, and his beer-drinking, football-watching buddy, Billy Bob, watched the St Louis Rams play their beloved Dallas Cowboys on Monday Night Football. Jack, Mary-Jack’s father, was telling Billy Bob, about a Monday night, long ago, when the Cowboys were playing the then Los Angles Rams.

“The ‘boys had, just, the year before, unleashed the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders on the world,” said Jack. “Within days, the girls were bigger than Charlie’s Angels. And every team in the NFL sought to capture fans, and rack up poster sales, on a par with the ‘boys, by getting sexier girls into sexier costumes and having them do their ‘Rah rah, siss boom bah,’ thing on the sidelines,” said Jack Kenny.

“As if,” laughed Billy Bob.

“No, of course the Rams could not out-do the ‘boys,” said Jack Kannedy. “But they came close.”

“Tell me,” said Billy Bob.

“There was a time-out on the field, but instead of cutting to a commercial, ABC decided to treat all of America to a cheerleader showdown. The Rams’ girls, known as the Embraceable Ewes, had been fitted with super short blue skirts, and tank tops with a golden sunburst on the chests. The California golden sun rays spread out from the middle of their chests, but where the sun should have been, there was nothing but skin. Cleavage! Boobs!”

“Tell me,” enthused Bill Bob.

“The cameras cut back and forth between the ‘boys girls and the Embraceable Ewes, as they bounced up and down, and every man watching was totally enthralled. Except Howard Cosell. Howard started blabbering statistics. As he did so, Dandy Don Meredith, Monday Night Football’s, colour commentator, was audibly chuckling. This went on for ten or fifteen seconds before Cosell demanded, ‘Dandy Don, what in tarnation is so funny?’”

“Well, good old Dandy Don burst out laughing and said, ‘Shut up, Howard, no one is listening to you!’”

Even at the young age of 12, Mary-Jack understood. Whenever she would walk past two or more males having a conversation, the boy who was speaking, the boy who had his back turned to her, would realize that his friend, or friends, had stopped listening to him.  Mary-Jack called it the ‘Shut up, Howard’ moment. She had had thousands of them since she was 12, and on this Saturday night, as she stood on the corner of Oxford and Regent, she had yet another.

One of the males who was caught in her web of incredible beauty, managed to shake himself from his trance quickly enough to stagger to his feet and offer his assistance. Mary-Jack, who secretly and desperately wanted a boyfriend, was charmed. She may have been thoroughly charmed  if she could understand a word the boy said. Alas, she could not.

As the errant knight asked how he could be of assistance, every word of which was incomprehensible to the Texan. Ppoor Mary-Jack was befuddled. The more the boy spoke, the more befuddled Mary-Jack became.

The All-American girl, who was on her way home after seeing My Fair Lady, in the West End, suddenly burst into laughter, as the song, “Why can’t the English learn to Speak?” burst into her head.

The boy was demonstrably offended at Mary-Jack’s laughter. Mary-Jack was demonstrably frightened by the boy’s reaction to her now uncontrollable laughter. Mary-Jack ran, as fast as she could, to the first Black Cab she could find, and ordered the driver to take her home, where she made yet another puzzled entry into her travel blog.

4          Apollo Bonaparte

As Mary-Jack Kennedy was climbing into her cab at the corner of Oxford and Regent, Apollo Bonaparte was entering his club, Chez Pretentious, through the back door. It will come as no surprise to you, gentle reader, that Apollo is the son of a Greek mother and French father. Unbelievably wealthy, painfully rich, Apollo had come to London a year earlier with mischief in his mind.

Having lived amongst the rich and famous his whole life, Apollo had come to disdain his peers. And almost everyone else he encountered. His mission in London was to take the piss out of everyone and everything.

His first prank was to open Chez Pretentious, the most exclusive club in the world. Chez Pretentious was so exclusive that nobody was good enough to become a member.

In order to convince potential applicants that Chez Pretentious was, indeed, a bona fide club for the ultra ultra VIP set, Apollo had leased an abandoned warehouse in Knightsbridge. He erected a modest sign on the door that read, Chez Pretentious, and installed a hundred thousand pound sound system within. And that was the extent of his renovations.

Apollo hired a team of CGI geniuses to create videos of wild goings on inside Chez Pretentious. He posted those videos on the club’s website and before he fully understood the depth and genius of his prank, those videos went viral on the world’s most exclusive social networking sites.

Applications poured in by the thousands. Every one of them was answered with a curt, “No! Fuck off! You’re not good enough.”

Apollo sat at the controls of his state of the art sound system and played DJ to his non-existent crowd. He mixed in crowd sounds to make it appear that the greatest party in all of London was underway inside the empty Chez Pretentious. Outside, a small throng gathered at the front door, which was always locked.

Apollo had started a rumour that the club was only accessible to members via a secret tunnel that ran from the Natural History Museum. The museum was inundated with queries as to the authenticity of the tunnel. The museum’s management were annoyed at the specious rumour and denied it vehemently.

Apollo laughed at the museum’s constant requests for him to publically refute the horrid, potentially libelous, allegation that his nightclub was, in any way, connected to their fine venue.

As he cranked the bass on a classic Chemical Brothers track, and watched the desperate-to-get-in crowd gathered at his door via CCTV, Apollo Bonaparte laughed maniacally.

But secretly, Apollo Bonaparte, son of multi-billionaires, longed for friends to enjoy the joke with. He longed for a girl. A magical girl who could fill his empty. A girl who could turn his frown upside down. Surely, there was such a girl on a planet of seven billion people.

Hopefully, he would never find that girl, because there was a deep, dark, ugly side to Apollo that no one knew about.

5          Purnima Chopra

Purnima Chopra was siting on a bench in Hampstead Heath, thinking of her husband and six children. I should say Purnima was dreaming about her husband and six children because she did not have a husband. Nor did she have six children.

And, at 34, Purnima knew that if she did not find a husband very quickly, chances were that her biological clock would expire before she could have six children.

Logic would dictate that Purnima should be out actively searching for her future husband, not sitting on a bench in the Heath’s notorious gay cruising area. Logic would dictate that the girl should be out on a dinner date with a dashing, intelligent, financially secure male, perhaps discussing the Ellen Gallgher exhibition at the Tate, or pondering whether or not Zadie Smith would ever write a book nearly as interesting as her first, White Teeth. Purnima’s clock was ticking, after all. Pitter, patter, better get at ‘er, girl.

Purnima was not devoid of logic. She was, in fact, filled with logic. She was a scientist. Armed with a Ph.D. from the Indian Institute of Science’s Centre for High Energy Physics, Purnima had come to London eight years earlier to work for BP. A six figure salary and a handsome benefits package were not the only carrot that dangled tantalizingly in front of Purnima’s eyes when she debated her options, in Bangalore.

In order to woo the most lauded young physicist in India, BP flew Purnima into London on three occasions. The company’s President almost chased her away when, on her first night in London Town, he bored her nearly to death over a four hour meal that did not end until well past midnight.

The second Purnima was released from her captivity she flagged a cab and ordered the driver to take her to the Ministry of Sound. As soon as she got inside the club, she started hunting.

She wanted a man, maybe more than one, in the worst way.

Less than 15 minutes after Purnima had walked into the Ministry of Sound, she was walking out the same doors with a man on her neck. Purnima bagged a man every night she was in London. BP need not have worried about laying out the red carpet for this Indian tigress, for she would have taken half the salary offered to her for the chance to escape India’s stultifying sexual climate and throw herself head-first into London’s non-stop orgy.

Over the course of the eight years prior to where and when we find Purnima, the girl had been serviced in every park in London. She placed one ad in Craigslist London’s casual encounters section and was never without a long long list of men to do with as she pleased.

When she vacationed, airport security officials were alarmed to find two dozen condoms in her vary-on luggage. In her carry-on luggage! Was she planning on inducting half the male passengers into the Mile High Club on a single, two hour flight?

Purnima’s sexual appetite was the stuff that porn industry legends are made of. If Annabel Chong were aware of Purnima’s conquests, she’d have started a fan club for her.

Half way into her eighth year in London , Purnima made a dream come true by having sex at the North Pole. With three men.

No one at BP questioned Purnima. She was, without a doubt, the company’s future as it very reluctantly pondered the business realities of a post-petroleum world. So, when she said that she must join an oil exploration camp in the Canadian Arctic, no one batted an eyelash.

The ménage a quatre was planned very carefully. Purnima explained that she had to be at the North Pole at noon, on June 21, the summer solstice. The BP exploration camp on Baffin Island was more than 2000 km away from the North Pole, so smaller camps, fortified with sufficient fuel, had to be established. Once they had been, Purnima narrowed the field of potential partners.

The easiest pick was one of the two Inuit sharpshooters who protected the camp from polar bears and wolves. Kamik was the size of a refrigerator. Six foot six inches tall and 270 lbs of pure muscle. He had a round, flat Eskimo face with grey eyes that seemed to be gateways to history. Kamik watched everything and said precious little, not with his mouth, that is. He spoke with those big grey eyes of his.

Purnima had seen Kamik gun down a lone wolf that ignored his warning shots and got closer and closer to a crew working on the tundra. The crew had no fear of the wolf, they only wished it would go away because they knew that Kamik had never missed. One merciful shot, straight to the brain, was all it ever took for the Eskimo to drop an animal. And so it was, once again, as Purnima watched in awe.

Kamik picked the dead wolf up and threw it over his shoulder. As he walked to his quad, Kamik stared long and hard at every member of the crew. Even from a distance of 500 metres, Purnima could read his eyes telling them all, “You do not belong here. I should be saving my wolf brothers from you, not the other way around.” Purnima was filled with lust for the noble, beautiful ogre.

After a month in camp, Purnima managed to get Kamik to speak by pouring a good deal of vodka down his boozehole. He told her that he had a twin brother! Fortuitously, he was a helicopter pilot. Fortuitous because Purnima was revolted by the pilot who had been assigned to this particular mission. Obviously, for Purnima’s fantasy to come true, and she was determined that it would, the helicopter pilot who flew her to the North Pole was going to have to be one of the three lucky guys. Purnima fired the revolting chopperhead no more than a minute after Kamik assured her that his twin brother was ready, willing and able to report for duty immediately.

The third and final member of the ménage a quatre was a geology student from Finland doing a summer internship. He wasn’t all that attractive but he was a ton of fun. His laughter was incessant and infectious and that was good enough for Purnima’s purposes.

On June 21, at exactly noon, the BP helicopter touched down at the North Pole. The sun was shining, the temperature was a balmy 4 degrees Celsius.

Before her two massive Eskimos and the Finnish boy-toy could ask her to finally reveal exactly what the purpose of the super secret mission was, Purnima exited the chopper asnd started to disrobe on the way to the tent.

The Finn  was puzzled, but the Eskimos smiled.

“Told you! You own me a hundred bucks,” Kamik said to his brother ,as they high-fived.

Ever since that incredible day – the closest she would ever get to landing on the moon and being ravaged by astronauts – Purnima had gone frigid. Frigid, get it? North Pole. Cold. Frigid. Oh, never mind. I’ll have to try harder to amuse you, I see.

No, Purnima was not physically frigid, she was sexually frigid.

The fire that had burned so hotly within had been extinguished. She had no idea why that was and nothing she tried, no potion, no hypnosis, no damned nothing, could spark the flame again.

Simultaneously, she had developed an overwhelming urge to settle down and have a family. Worse still, Purnima had become disgusted with her job. She hated everything about the company and every one she worked with. She secretly joined Greenpeace and, remembering Kamik’s cold grey eyes telling her “You don’t belong here,” Purnima began to develop a plan to sabotage BP’s work, particularly in the pristine Arctic.

None of which, of course, explains what the Bangalore banger was doing at the gay stroll on Hampstead Heath at midnight on a Saturday. Let me explain.

As I’ve already told you, Purnima was filled with logic. But logic tends to go a bit strange, sometimes even a little rancid, when a woman develops a desire to procreate, especially when she has lost her sex drive. She knew that most men are reluctant to even date a woman on the hunt for a man to father her children. They would be even less inclined to contemplate a life devoted to her, and a posse of children they didn’t even know, if she were to tell them of her incredible sexual history. It was that damnedest double standard yet again – guys who sleep around are studs, but girls who sleep around are sluts.

After doing the math of the problem, Purnima came to the bizarre, but not necessarily wrong conclusion that her best chance was to find a thoroughly debauched queer and convert him. Or convert him enough to father her children, at least.

Purnima, as I’ve clearly demonstrated, is a very bright girl. So, she knew that her chances of converting a drool inducing gay male were slim to none. Purnima was far from an eyesore. She was, in act, quite beautiful. Far better looking than many of the trolls she saw scurrying in and out of the bushes on the nights when she spied on them from the cover of darkness. Surely, she figured, she would be able to convert a homely homo who could not get it on with anything but other homely homos.

So, Purnima dolled herself up, sat herself down on her bench and watched and waited, hoping that at least one drunken, homely homo would, perhaps, mistake her for a transvestite and drag her into the bushes. Oddly, this perverse plan of Purnima’s was making her wet.

6          Melody Marley

Just before Robert Duval’s character in Apocalypse Now, Colonel Kilgore, speaks two of the most memorable lines in movie history – “Charlie don’t surf,” and “I love the smell of napalm in

the morning. It smells like… victory,” – Marin Sheen’s character, Captain Willard, says of him, “He was one of those guys who had that weird light around him. You knew he wasn’t going to get so much as a scratch here.”

Less astute observers of Melody Marley would be surprised to hear someone say that Willard’s line applies to her. Those less astute observers might even attempt to refute the allegation because, while Kilgore is a stone cold killer, Melody Marley is angelic, and for some people it’s too much of a stretch to believe that something can be true of two totally disparate creatures.

Dim-witted protestations to the contrary notwithstanding, Melody Marley does, indeed, have that weird light around her. Her aura is so beautiful, so powerful, that it could radiate through a lead-lined burqa. And everyone, absolutely everyone, who has ever come into her weird light wants very much for Melody Marley to get through her life without so much as a scratch. That she has managed to pass through her first 24 years on this all-too-often horrifying and debilitating mortal coil without obtaining a single psychic scar is borderline miraculous. It suggests that there is something divine about the girl.

It is not that the shadows have never engulfed Melody, for she has witnessed her share of tragedy and injustice.  It’s that the Jamaican girl seems to have the ability to swallow darkness and pass blackened rainbows.

I hasten to tell you that Melody is not related to the late, great Bob Marley. She is, however, the niece of Innes Candy, who captained the legendary Jamaican bobsleigh team at the 1988 Calgary Olympics.  Uncle Candy, as Melody calls Innes, formed an unbreakable friendship with England’s own athletic anomaly, Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards, in Calgary. When the girl arrived in London Town, Uncle Eagle, as Melody calls Edwards, got her a job bartending at an exclusive private club, to which he belongs, in St. John’s Wood.

Within days of taking up her post behind the wood, members were raving about Melody Marley’s mojitos. Not long after, rumours began to circulate about the new mixologist. She had a way, so it was said, of lightening one’s load. With a few words, a genuine smile, and a mojito or two, the Caribbean curiosity could make you forget all your worldly troubles.

Ladies and gentlemen who had not been seen for years began to show their faces at the club, intrigued by the tales being told about young Melody. Within a month, even the club’s crustiest curmudgeons were forced to agree that there was something magical about Melody Marley.

As Apollo Bonaparte was pumping up the volume at over at Chez Pretentious on this Saturday night, a thoroughly besotted gentleman in his mid-forties was propping up Melody Marley’s bar. The rest of the members had taken their leave a half hour earlier, but Lance Arthur, an émigré from down under, lingered, waving a hundred pound note at Melody, begging for one more mojito, and feebly flirting with the bartendress.

Fully cognizant that serving after hours would result in immediate termination from the club, Melody rebuffed all of Lance’s advances. Well into the stuporous stages of his night, Lance stared squarely into Melody’s chest and again pleaded for just one more mojito. Melody giggled, “Hey! King Arthur! I’m up here.”

Lance shook his heavy head, rolled his eyes upward to meet Melody’s, squinted and replied, “You stay out of this. This is between me and your two friends, here.”

Melody Marley burst into laughter as Lance looked back down at her chest and mumbled, “What about it, ladies? Can I buy you a drunk?”

The shenanigans went on for another ten minutes as Melody cashed out and cleaned her bar. Eventually, the club’s security guard convinced Lance that it was, indeed, time to move on, repeatedly stating, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Finally, Lance Arthur gave up and asked Melody to call him a cab. “Okay, you’re a cab,” Melody laughed.

Lance, too, laughed. Wildly. Uncontrollably. Hysterically. Lance laughed and laughed and laughed until he fell off his bar stool and into a drunken coma on the floor, but not before looking Marley right in the eyes and slurring, “I love you!”



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