My dad loved Molly Parkin. When she’d be interviewed on a chat show we all had to be quiet. Molly was always charming, but she was always rude. Not crude, always pleasant but plain old sexual filth. Molly’s a woman that enjoys life. All of it. She’s a ‘you can do anything you want’ feminist, and knows how to cut a dash.
Whilst not exactly a ranter, she had done many poetry gigs, along with writing some steamy novels. She’s gigged with Joolz and done many shows for Michael Horowitz. Anyone who’s been banned from the BBC for swearing is fine by me.
Just come back from doing the family shopping,
queueing and choosing and counter-hopping.
Finished up buying mackerel, a succulent fish,
new potatoes, some salad – the family’s wish.
Though I sound a dull housewife, I find shopping quite nice.
Just as well since it’s bloody well part of my life!
But – funny thing – when I shop
I will occasionally stop
to recall a blue film I once saw
in a discretely lit basement, behind the dark door
of a plush club in Mayfair. Far from being a bore
(as some of those films undoubtedly are),
this one left me horny, uneasily numb.
I found, without knowing, I was sucking my thumb!
Yet no reason was clear.
The film-plot was drear.
A suburban girl with sweet dimples
(and juvenile pimples)
was engaged to a sailor, poor thing.
The camera zoomed from his snapshot, the sea, and her ring.
So in less than five seconds we understood this.
The rest of the action was sexual bliss.
She didn’t get much, the film seemed to say,
not with being faithful and her fiancé away.
Between her job at the office and visiting Mum,
getting early to bed with a book and no fun.
And the weather was hot,
unlike herself, who was not.
But – in the very next shot,
leaving work on the dot,
we saw her shopping for supper
(which later ended up her!)
Long French loaf, liver sausage
(She’d not got the message).
Thick banana, big cucumber
– but we were getting her number!
We saw the same thoughts come to her
as they were dawning on us.
She raced home and stripped off with the minimum fuss.
And before we proclaimed the idea a winner,
the kid’s frustration was solved – her dinner was in her . . .
Hauling home my full bag,
though satisfied with the shag
I enjoy every night,
I sometimes think that I might
(If my man was a sailor at sea,
and I had dimples and pimples and the girl had been me)
have pursued the same line of attack.
As it is, getting back I just simply unpack
and prepare a nice meal
(though I may furtively feel).
The family’s need
is to enjoy a good feed.
For the moment we forget about me.