This was news to me. J-La’s not much of a writer. Understatement. She confuses easy enough, but spectacularly so if:
a) You try and tell her that you can’t open letters to the Queen with ‘Hey, giiiirl!’ or
b) When the automated PPI phonecalls happen and J-La gets all mad cos the recorded voice on the other end ain’t listening to her and ends up beating her hands on the kitchen tops, bellowing, ‘Don’t talk over me! Rude! Wha’s your name, yo? I don’t need no PPI! I got nuff cleaning products! Lee-mee-‘lone!’
It would be like WELL hard to read. Quite literally. J-La got that fat, balloon writing hairdressers use. I get the feeling she’d be writing with her tongue pokin’ out the corner of her lush mouth, concentrating like crazy, one giant letter at a time. Whole pages of text would be peppered with li’l drawings of elephants and love hearts. Secondly, she’d be talking all ‘merican in parts and I wouldn’t get the references. I mean, what the frig is ‘Kansas Slag Bingo’ when it’s at home??
One particular entry would have me absolutely engrossed:
Went Boddie Shop today takin back dat lip barm. Paranoyd now. Asked for Big Red flava and the lady was all aint got none. Had to settel for watermelon. That ‘minds me. Muss call Lula.
Still havent figerd out how cows sleep. They lye down or what? Real mean if they haf to stand up. Do they laff like on Laffing Cow cheese? Might becum farmer. Whonows.
Jess still being weerd. Dun get it. Not on the raggityrag cos I checked. Hm. Maybe betta put the money back I borrowed? But then shed no.
Tyrd now. Gotta do face mask ‘fore bed. And hoover crums off doovay.
Jen. Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “
There’d barely be time to finish the last bite of toastie before I’d hear the Fiat screech onto the drive. I’d tuck the diary into my bag and take a deep breath. There’d be a jiggling at the back door and then a slam. Then there’d be the sound of that silly-ass fairground music on Candy Crush and her goin’, ‘Not MORE goddamn chocolate! C’moooon, Level 143!!’ and then twenty seconds later, a joyous cry of ‘BOOM!!’ She’d then pop her phone in her puffa jacket and mooch in.
She’d be all smiles and a bit breathless and gimme a kiss on the lips before going, ‘Hey, dollface! Guess what I got?’ I’d be thinking, ‘Guilty conscience? Carpet burns on your ass? Blistering dose of the syph?’ but actually go, ‘What?’ She’d beam and point at her puffa jacket. There’d be a sticker with a walrus holding a toothbrush reading ‘Brave Girl’. I’d raise an eyebrow. She’d squeal a bit, goin’ ‘I’s bin the dentist! Aaaall clean!’ And somehow...somehow, I’d think, ‘You mental. But hothothot.’
And then she’d skip off and flop on one of the beanbags with a big exhale. Because it must be exhausting getting ridden like Seattle Slew whilst your missus is making toasties at home.
Enough. I’d feel it all rising like some kind of giant Bitch Volcano, and go, ‘So....you know Taylor Swift?’ and she’d smile and go, ‘HA! Who don’t? They don’t call her Tunnel-Chuff for nutt’n!’ and I’d say, all sinister, ‘Cos you would know.’ Her face would fall. I’d keep going. ‘You must think I’m some kind of 9 carat, silver-plated moomintroll. On stilts.’ Now she’d be frownin. I’d feel the tears. I’d be like totally being all Anne Archer in high trousers, about to rip Michael Douglas a new one. But plough on anyway. ‘Wha’ choo on about?’ she’d say, narrowing her eyes and picking at her sticker. At this, I’d delve my hand into my bag and retrieve Exhibit A: the green pants. They’d be hanging off my finger, pointing accusingly straight at her, like the flag flying over Buckingham Palace, but slaggier. Nutt’n new, I’d think. All over the world, ladies in living rooms be holding Taylor’s pants at their red-faced other halves, goin’, ‘Since when do I wear Size 8 from Asda George!’ First time in my life, I got bit of time for Harry Styles. She’d have made me a Directioner. Yack!
J-La would look totally dumbfounded, floundering all over the place. I’d be all, ‘Borrowed my money? BORROWED MY MONEY? WHAT FOR?!?’ Her mouth would drop open, but I wouldn’t be able to stop. No dignity left, innit. ‘I TELL YOU WHY! FOR SOME GRADE A MUCK WITH THAT SKINNY COUNTRY SKANK IN A CHEAP FILTH HOVEL!’ Now she’d be shaking her head. Then I’d sob and sob. ‘Jus...tell me! Tell me!’ At this point, I’d cover my red, tear-stained face with my hands. But still have the pants in ‘em. Got Taylor’s pants on my face. Wearin’ ‘em like a gas mask. This, I’d be sure, would be a scene replicated nowhere in the world, not even Cheshire.
Suddenly, my head be like Rain Man.
‘You bought me ‘em when we were in Blackpool. ‘Member?’
Uh-oh. Uh-oh. Uh-oh.
I did. I did buy her the pants!!!
Her voice would then be sounding all whiney and distant through my thudding realisation and I’d know I’d be the kind of asshole that spends their days being followed round by a guy playing a tuba. Cos she might be dumb, but I’s the joke.
‘Needed a pee pretty bad in Woodford after Zumba and couldn’t find no empty Coke Zero bottle in the Fiat, so...I peed in ‘em.’
‘I was too ‘mbarrassed to tell no-one, so I hid ‘em...’
And then we both say in unison, me through a veil of piss-pants,
‘...in the glove compartment.’
And I’d know she’d be mad. Like *way* mad. Madder than when they cancelled *Joey. (*She rang Marta Kauffman ‘n everything) But I’m so relieved that I start to laugh a bit. (Bad time to laugh, Jess. Uh-oh.) And then she starts, her lovely husky voice rising in crescendo, like that diner scene in Silver Linings Playbook. Be like one of those scenes they show at the Academy Awards, but with beanbags, and a whiff of burnt salmon.
‘This why you deleted my episodes of Saturday Kitchen off Sky?’ (Yes)
‘This why I can’t find my best, sexy-as-hell red shoes??’ (Shit. Yes.)
’THIS WHY SHEILA SENT ME FLOWERS WITH A NOTE TODAY GOING ‘GOOD LUCK IN HOLLYOAKS’???’
Between sobs, she’d then go, ‘I BORROWED THE MONEY TO TAKE US TO CHESTER ZOO AT EASTER, YO! THOUGHT WE COULD MEET NELLY THE HAPPY ELEPHANT! IDIOT!’
And then she’d stand up fast, twatting a lamp in the process and I’d watch through my fingers as she high-tailed it out the door, probably to have a real affair with Taylor Swift cos I put 2 and 2 together and made 3,514. Servesmeright.
I’d be all, ‘Gonna have to chase her through the rain like they do in the movies’, but we only got one Fiat and she’s snaffled it. Plus, it’s already making hippo noises when you hit 30.
So I’d just sit there with a pair of urine-soaked pants on my head and wonder which sofa I’d be sleeping on for the next six months.
But Jennifer Lawrence is not my girlfriend.