Popping your Cherry at a 1980's Blake’s 7 Convention

Jenna

This is going to be the porn edition of the blog so, for those of a delicate nature, look away now. I didn’t actually lose my virginity at a Blake’s 7 convention, but that was where I met my first girlfriend. I was 16. Obviously entranced by my cowboy boots and wide-collared yellow shirt, we stayed in touch after the event. We eventually got round to doing the deed after watching Caligula at her local cinema. She wasn’t the best-looking bird and, I have to confess, during the consummation, I spent a lot of time thinking about Jenna. And occasionally Cally and Servalan. Sorry.

Floozy in the Jacuzzi
In the early years of this century – blimey sounds like words which only Richard Burton could get away with – I was living with a girl in Yorkshire. Saying the relationship wasn’t fraught would be like saying William Hague doesn’t take it up the Gary Glitter. We split up every morning and got back together every evening. We did have one golden afternoon though. (If her kids are reading. please stop now as this image will stay with you for the rest of your lives) .Guys, if you’ve never had a blowjob in a private Jacuzzi whilst drinking champagne, well you really ought to…

It’s life Jim…

Sorry Jim...

In the late 90s, with the marriage in tatters, I had to go to Scotland on a business trip and see all the Edinburgh agencies. The cheapest option for accommodation was a short-term serviced apartment, so I took my then girlfriend with me. She was a statuesque black girl and obviously well out of my league – some of you will remember her. Marcus Leigh, former creative director of BJL, actually knocked her out at one of the Cream Awards. One morning, before I had an interview with Jim Faulds, then MD of Faulds Advertising, Scotland’s biggest agency, we spent the morning lingerie shopping. Just before I was due to go over and meet Jim, she showed off her new gear and, sinking to her knees, asked: “Are you sure you need to go?” Sorry I was late Jim. And sweaty.

The Van Morrison Game
In about 1999, I was seeing a married woman. I’m not terribly proud of this, but it just happened. On one occasion when she was staying with me she boasted of her extensive knowledge of Van Morrison (I’m not making this up). We then had a semi-drunken bet that unless she could name every track on the Best of Van Morrison, she had to take it up the tradesman’s. Ironically, the one track she failed to identify was Brown Eyed Girl…

Allo, I am Fifi

I wish...

Perhaps the most bizarre relationship I ever had was with a girl in Stockport. She was the former PA to the head of a big PR group and positively barking. She was the only girl I ever knew whose only interest in sex revolved around giving blow jobs. No interest in reciprocation. You’d think I would have married her, but it was actually kind of weird. It all came to a head – pun most definitely intended – one morning when she decided to show me her party piece. This involved her dressing up in a nylon French maid outfit as her alter-ego, Fifi. “Allo my name is Fifi,” she said in a Stockport accent whilst tickling my knob with a feather duster. Perhaps predictably, I just pissed myself and we split up the same day.

Nobbin’ of Sherwood
One of my earliest girlfriends went on to be a big player in northern DM circles. She had a penchant for lingerie, which of course delighted me. She once fell down the stairs at Oxford station and flashed her stockings and suspenders to the world – which left me feeling both concerned but, admittedly, also a little bit proud. She also had a distinct interest in Robin of Sherwood, the eighties TV series starring Michael Praed. One evening she invited me round to her flat in Moss Side and opened the door in full regalia and insisted we had sex whilst watching Robin of Sherwood. On reflection, I don’t think she was thinking about me.

The bugger....

As a postscript to that, I didn’t see her for years after we split up in the mid-80s. During the Adline years, she contacted me and we arranged to have lunch. I was quite nervous about this as she’d been one of the best looking girls at the sixth form college we’d both attended. I thought: “Blimey, she’s going to still look perfect and take one look at me and think – ‘Christ, you’ve let yourself go’.” Waiting in the reception of the agency where she worked, this huge arse suddenly hove into view as, for some reason, she backed out of the corridor. Punch the air moment. And she ate my chips.

Bike-u-like
My moral compass has always been a bit shite. At one point, when I had just left university, some mutual friends told me that an ex-girlfriend was now being viewed as the college bike. Bristling with indignation – and a degree of concern – I took the train from London to Oxford. I arranged to have lunch with her to give her a serious talking to about her moral decline. I reckon there’s no-one out there who can’t see where this is going. Predictably we both got pissed and I ended up sleeping with her. In my defence, I was too drunk to do much.

I’m sitting on the station

Possibly my only mid-70’s style comedy experience was being caught in bed with a woman by her husband. He was understandably unhappy about this and I had to do the proverbial runner. Unfortunately this took place at 5am in the morning and then resulted in me sitting on the platform of an East Midlands station for several hours whilst waiting for the first train home. Hardly my finest hour. Or three.

Token, mature reflective bit
I am much better behaved these days and look back on these old days with a mixture of shame and pride. The notion of “Blimey – what a boy I was!” always emerges unbidden, however. Wouldn’t do it now – mixture of maturity, commitment and a lack of energy, with the last, arguably, the most compelling. Don’t tell the missus.