ERNIE - Electronic Random Number Indicator Equipment — is the acronym for the machine that selects the British Premium Bond wining numbers every month.
"A short court date" refers the period of time between someone being charged with a serious crime in the UK and them appearing in the Crown Court. If it's shorter than the average, then it is referred to as a Short Court Date.
You would never believe how much trouble a little red dress could cause. No, that's not right; the red dress itself didn't cause the problem. It was the sort of catalyst, that everything revolved around and left me cooling my heels doing thirty months at her majesties pleasure for GBH - Grievous Bodily Harm for those who don't know British legal shorthand — for putting a rather mediocre but some say ruggedly handsome — well according to the press — footballer into the intensive care unit.
I suppose I'll have to explain how I came to be languishing here to you, but I'm not really sure if I can, things got a bit hazy for a while there toward the end; I'd sure put away a few that night; I was feeling pretty emotional.
Let's go back to the beginning. I suppose it really started when Jeannie — my lovely and once faithful wife — and I took a week's break in Paris. I had no idea that it was the Paris fashion week and I doubt that Jeannie did either; she wasn't really into all that "haute couture" stuff or whatever they call it.
Anyway, we took the trip because after years of thinking that he'd forgotten that I existed — or that my premium bond numbers were even in the system — Ernie took me by surprise and picked one of them out and although it wasn't the biggest prize by today's standards it was big enough. A million quid ain't to be sneezed at, any day of the week. It paid off our massive crippling mortgage, yeah well we had overstretched ourselves a little on the old Georgian country house we'd fallen in love with, and we'd had to increase the mortgage several times to pay for its renovation. Christ the place had dry rot everywhere. But having started we'd had little choice than to bite the bullet and find the cash from somewhere.
Anyway, after clearing the mortgage we still had plenty left in the bank to play with. After discussing world cruises and the like, Jeannie had decided that her greatest wish was to visit the city of love first, Paris. Not my first choice, but I figured "Hey maybe we could do the cruise thing the next year?" If we had enough cash left, that is.
Yeah well money in the bank or not, I - or rather we - still had our careers to get back to in the long term, when our feet returned to earth. 250 grand left in the bank — after we'd cleared our debts -- sounds like a lot of money, but we realised it doesn't go far in the twenty-first century. But we also figured that, as it had not been expected or planned for, we wouldn't really miss it when it was gone.
I suppose I'd better explain Jeannie's and my thinking, even if it is a little embarrassing for me. Now Jeannie and I had a problem where children were concerned. I'm afraid that I almost — but not quite - fire blanks. I'll put it this way, the specialist told me that it would be a cold day in hell before one of my swimmers made it to the far end of the pool.
"Okay," we said, "then what about in vitro fertilisation?"
That was a no-goer as well because for some reason Jeannie was not a good candidate for the procedure; some technical problem with her eggs. The doc didn't elaborate but he thought the process would only work if we used donated eggs and he even suggested the used of someone else's sperm as well.
Jeannie and I, after a lot of soul searching, didn't think that we wanted to raise anyone else's child as our own, even if it did grow inside her womb. After a while, we realised that there was one advantage to our situation, which we both came to enjoy; we could bonk to our hearts' content without any danger of a baby coming along to interrupt our careers.
Maybe our careers - and that bleeding great house - kind of took over from children in our minds. Whatever, after a while children weren't ever discussed anymore; sex and partying became our main out of work pastime. Oh and before anyone gets that idea into their heads, no neither of us was into the swinging thing. I don't think the thought ever entered our heads, we were much too much into each other for anything like that; well that's what I always thought.
Anyway let's cut to the chase. The Hotel where we were staying in Paris was out of this world, and much to our surprise it was also being used by one of the smaller fashion houses for their big Paris Fashion Week show. You know, all those sexy models sashaying up and down the catwalk in eye-catching — and very overpriced — get-ups.
Now Jeannie and I had hit that hotel like a couple of bloody millionaire film stars. You know if we were going to do Paris then we were going to do it in a big way. We'd spent a few grand in the high street buying look-alike designer dresses for Jeannie and imitation Armani suits for myself. Come on, we weren't that stupid with our cash; well I didn't think we were, until that little red dress came into the picture, but I'll get to that in a minute.
In Paris we were throwing cash around like it was going out of style. You get the idea; no taxis for us, we had a limousine hired for the week, and we had one of the most expensive suites in the hotel to play in.
I believe it was on the third day and Jeannie and I had just climbed out of the Jacuzzi where we'd played for a while after eating breakfast in our room. There was a knock on the door and we actually thought that it was the waiter with our third bottle of Champagne of the morning, but it turned out to be the hotel manager.
He explained that this big fashion show was going on in the ballroom later that day and he'd noticed that we'd inadvertently been left off the invitation list. Jesus, I have no idea who he thought Jeannie and I were, but we played it for all it was worth. Anyway he apologised and told us the oversight had been corrected.
Christ, were we shocked when the head of the fashion house apologetically met us as we entered the ballroom and showed us to front row seats. The sort of seats that were usually reserved for film stars, very rich buyers, or the more influential members of the fashion press.
Now you might have gathered that Jeannie and I had been hitting the Champers a little on the heavy side. Christ, I doubt either of us had been completely sober since we'd arrived in Paris; but hey, this was a one-time thing and were we having a good time. Look, we had sod all to worry about; it wasn't like either of us had to drive or anything.
Anyway after yet more champers was doled out - to those of us in the front row at least — the fashion show started. Now for those of you who have never sat through one of these do's, I'd better explain how it goes. There are several types of outfits that are displayed at the show. Some - which you could call reasonably priced, if you had bloody deep pockets - designed for actual everyday wear. Some very highly priced - and the buyer is guaranteed that only one of them will ever be made - that are really intended for wearing by the rich and famous at film premieres and that kind of thing. And there are some outfits that are designed to shock the audience and to draw the attention of the press to the designer's collection.
Come on, you've all seen pictures of Kate Moss, Naomi Campbell and the like, strutting their stuff and waving their tits about on the catwalk, draped in very small - or see-through - pieces of clothe masquerading as dresses that only a complete slut would actually wear in public. Those titillating dresses are only really on show to cause a stir and get everybody talking about the designer's collection. Well that's the general intention.
Now as I said, Jeannie and I had had a few and I'll admit we were giggling to ourselves about some of the more outrageous outfits the models were dressed in. But then a model walked out wearing that little red number and it instantly drew both Jeannie's and my attention.
How do I describe it? I'm not sure that I adequately can, but I'll try. Well it was red, very red in a silk like material; hey, it probably is silk, I'm not really into that kind of thing. Anyway I'll start at the bottom and work up. The hemline was on the slant, just above the knee on the right leg and almost as high as the models hip on the left. Yeah you got it, if it had been cut that high straight across, the model's privates would have been on display. The upper part of the dress consisted of two lengths of material that went up over the shoulders. The effect was, an armhole that on the left side almost came down to the hem. These strips or bands were gathered in at the shoulder producing a sort-of plunging neckline at the front that went down so far that you could see the models navel, and at the rear, that her arse-crack was almost on view.
I think both Jeannie and I wondered how the model's breasts didn't slip out the side as she sashayed — or rather bounced the buggers, come on, you've seen how they do that - up and down along that catwalk. We were to discover later that the dress came with a roll of special sticky tape to keep those strips of material covering her nipples; there was no way a bra could have been worn with the outfit.
At the same time we discovered that what went for a thong came with it as well. It was especially made so that it didn't show when the dress was worn, and very uncomfortable to wear according to Jeannie. If you could say that the dress was actually worn, it sort-of hung there on the model showing off just about everything that possibly could be shown in public.
Okay I've described that bleeding dress and I've told you that it caught both Jeannie's and my attention. Actually I immediately had visions of Jeannie parading around our hotel suit in the damned thing. I'll admit to you now, that picturing Jeannie in any other piece of female attire had never turned me on as quickly as picturing her in that dress did.
"Do you fancy her in that dress?" Jeannie whispered in my ear.
"Why do you ask?" I replied, slightly embarrassed that my wife had spotted my reaction to the dress. But not as embarrassed as I was about to be.
"Well I don't like to have to tell you Jim but my little friend is doing his utmost to come out and play." She replied with a giggle.
I looked down and noticed that not only had I developed an erection, and it was tenting the front of the loose slacks that I was wearing.
"Oh shit." I said as Jeannie deftly placed the wrap she'd had around her shoulders in my lap, covering my embarrassment.
"I wouldn't have said she's that sexy, her tits are a little small for your liking." Jeannie whispered in my ear.
"It wasn't exactly her that I was picturing in that dress, I could see your tits trying to hide in it."
Jeannie kissed me on the cheek. "That's why I love you darling!"
"Pardon?" I replied, not understanding what she was saying.
"Well, you see a sexy young thing in a revealing dress and you picture me wearing it in your mind. A model like that, would be enough to get most men hard."
"Her tits are far too small for my liking Jeannie; you said that yourself."
"Mine aren't all that much bigger."
"Big enough for me my love and I'm damned sure that you would have trouble keeping them inside that thing."
The model wearing that little red number had long gone before Jeannie and I finished discussing it; other models were sashaying up and down with their nipples and privates barely covered. We watched the rest of the show in silence, but I couldn't seem to get the vision I'd created of Jeannie wearing that red dress out of my mind.
"What are you smiling about?" Jeannie asked me over dinner that evening. I must have been quiet for a while I suppose.
"To be honest babe, I was picturing you, in the little red dress."
"Get your mind under control young man, I could never go out wearing a dress like that."
"I wasn't thinking of you going out in the thing Jeannie. I was picturing you sashaying around our suite and even around the house back home. I'm buggered if I'd want any other guy ogling you dressed like that!"
"It would be exciting just to try on something like that. Shall we go to the shop and see if I can."
"I don't think they have shops Jeannie. These people work out of design houses or something."
"Don't be silly Jim, they are shops, but not the sort you find on the average high street back home." She said laughing at me.
Well that was it; the following morning we went to the studio or design house — or whatever they call it — and Jeannie did try that little red dress on. It needed some alteration because of Jeannie's somewhat larger breasts and her difference in height to the model it had been made for, but they informed us that the alterations could be made in an hour or so.
They also told us the price, and that took the wind right out of my sail, I can tell you. Suffice to say that there wasn't going to be much change from eight grand (British), but we were assured that no other dresses would be made to the same design.
Now I can only put it down to the fact that both Jeannie and I were a little less sober than we should have been, but I did slap my credit card on the table before we left the place.
Mind, in my defence I'll say that the sight of my wife in that red dress when she tried it on had done almost as much to my libido as the very first sight I had of her naked had done, quite a few years before.
The dress was altered and delivered later that day, and that evening was when Jeannie discovered how uncomfortable the thong or special - and very brief - panty part of the outfit was. It was of no worry, because at the time neither Jeannie nor I had any intention of her wearing the dress in public. So she just consigned that part of the outfit to the drawer.
Needles to say we very rarely left the suite for the rest of our trip to Paris. Jeannie would put the dress on and sashay around the suite a couple of times — she got very good at bouncing her tits like the models on the catwalk do - and well sometimes I took the dress off her in a hurry, and other times she was still wearing it whilst we shagged like bunny rabbits. We were very careful though, that damned dress had cost an arm and a leg.
After we got back from Paris, Jeannie had a sure-fire way of firing me up if she fancied a roll in the hay when I got home from work. No matter what kind of a day I'd had or how tired I was, all she had to do was slip that dress on and stroll around the house for a few seconds. Yeah seconds was all that it took and shagged-out or not, I was ready for whatever she wanted.
After Paris only twice did Jeannie ever wear the dress outside our own house; that I was aware of anyway (I'll explain that comment later). But I suppose having a dress like that and never wearing it in public must have got at her in the end; I know it got to me. Look, Jeannie is — or was, I haven't seen her in a while — a fine figure of a woman; a woman that any man would have been proud to have on his arm. What's more she showed of far more of that figure when she was wearing her little bikinis, than that dress let show to the public. Okay the dress was a lot more seductive and arousing than any bikini, but you know what I mean.
I know that she showed the dress to all of her girlfriends, and probably modelled it for them as well. I even suspect she let some of her friends try it on a few times, but they did that kind of thing when I wasn't around.
Well let's be sensible here, Jeannie always knew what my reaction was going to be when she wore it in my presence, so there was little point in putting it on when her friends and I were in the house together. Christ, they'd be sat downstairs on their own, whilst the headboard hammered against the wall upstairs; or I ravished her in the other room. Yeah it nearly happened once, but that's not an important part of my story.
Where was I, oh yeah, Jeannie actually getting up the nerve to go out in that red dress. Well she never did actually go out in it as such. She took it with us the following year when we went on our cruise. You know the sort of thing five days at a resort in Florida and six days on a cruise ship. Or floating Butlin's camp, not my idea of a cruise anyway! If you have never cruised the old fashioned way, before the floating cities started appearing, I doubt you'll understand what the hell I'm moaning about, with that comment.
Anyway, after a lot of humming and hawing, Jeannie decided to try wearing the dress in the hotel lounge one night. They had a small band and there was dancing going on, you know the sort of thing. However she was still shy of appearing in public in the dress, well not so much appearing, but being recognised by the other people on the same trip as us.
Consequently she'd planned ahead. As we went to get changed, Jeannie produced a couple of wigs; a long blond one for herself, and a rather iffy black one that I was required to wear. To these she had added dark sunglasses for both of us and I was to wear a rather garish suit that I hadn't seen since we'd returned from Paris.
Jeannie feeling secure that neither of us would be recognised by any of our fellow travellers, we headed for the restaurant and then the lounge. Somewhat surprisingly I managed to keep my libido under control for nigh on an hour, whilst we ate our dinner. And what's more, I was still pretty much under control when we arrived in the lounge. But then we got up to dance and it all went completely to pot. We were stuck on the dance floor for god knows how long because I had a tent the size of a marquee in the front of my pants.
Needless to say we eventually did manage to get off the dance floor with me hiding my embarrassment as best I could and then we headed directly to our room. Jeannie having my erection rubbing against her tummy for so long was almost in as bad a state as I was. We were both extremely knackered the following day.
We tried the same thing again one night on the cruise ship, with almost exactly the same result. And we both had to agree that Jeannie could only wear that damned dress when we were in private.
There was only one occasion that that little red dress didn't have that effect on me, and I'll get to that shortly
Okay, now let's fast-forward a few years, six to be precise. Jeannie had retained her figure magnificently and that red dress still fitted - or hung on -her the same way it did the day we had bought it. The dress had by that time taken on a mystique of its own though.
I suspect that Jeannie and her friends had all had a good few laughs over the years about the pair of us being stuck out on that dance floor, and the tale had got back to more than a few of their husbands. At parties and the like, there were often comments about the little red dress bandied about. And even some of Jeannie's mates when they were pretending to make a pass at me — come on you know how friends joke about — anyway they'd say they'd have to borrow Jeannie's red dress to get me into bed.
I know that at least one or two of the girls asked Jeannie if they could borrow the dress to see if it had the same effect on their own husbands as it did on me. Not that I believe she ever did lend it out, I'm sure I would have heard about it through the grapevine eventually. You know how the guys talk?
Yeah well, that was about the state of play when that bleeding overpaid arsehole of a footballer moved into our neighbourhood. He was a Frenchman and for some reason he was described as being handsome by the press. I have no idea why some woman find rich footballers handsome, when personally I think they look like something the cat dragged in, but that's life I suppose? I did discover that some of Jeannie's friends had the hots for the bugger, but I had no idea that she felt the same way about him herself. To this day she denies that she did, but I happen to know different.
The women who fancied the bugger had one problem though, and that was that the tosser had a female fan club. Jeannie's best mate Joan and a couple of the other girls even took to hanging around near his house in the hope that the bugger would pick one of them up, stupid tarts!
I knew they — er, I'm talking Jeannie's unmarried or divorced friends here, by the way - would go to the nightspots he was rumoured to frequent in town, hoping he'd spot them. But from what I heard none of the local girls got lucky; well that's what everyone thought! Silly cows didn't realise that he had film starlets and models chasing after him hoping to get their faces in the newspapers. Hey, maybe that's what the women saw in the wanker; the chance of five minutes of fame.
Having explained all that; adequately I hope. Now we come to the fateful weekend when my life turned to shit.
I'd not long had a promotion and my boss decided to take me along on a business trip, to of all places, Paris for the week. Jeannie wasn't too pleased that we wouldn't be back until the following Sunday or Monday, and she tried her hardest to get her "fill" of me in every sense of the word - before we left. Shit I was knackered when we got on the plane that Tuesday morning.
Oh I have to admit that I had no idea when we left that my boss - who was some years older than me - was the party animal I discovered him to be. When we arrived in Paris, it was soon very clear to me who was going to be doing the work that week and who was going to be doing what some guys do in Paris, or Amsterdam or anywhere else that their wives can't see or keep track of them.
"Every time I clapped eyes on the bugger, he had a different tart hanging on his arm or sharing his bed with him. Yeah, well I had to go into his suite a couple of times to check details of the contract with him, and whenever I did, there was female clothing liberally scattered around the room.
At first I figured that's why we were staying over the weekend so he'd have more time to shag the little hussies. But as it turned out he came looking for me around lunchtime on the Saturday.
"Where the fuck have you been, the train leaves in half an hour?" He said when he tracked my down in the hotel restaurant eating a very late breakfast.
"I thought we were going home tomorrow." I replied.
"Home yeah, but we're going to the party after the match tonight first. Should be a good do, plenty of tasty spare around for everyone."
"Look boss if we're going back to England, I'd rather just go straight home to my wife." I told him. I never have been that enamoured with watching football.
"Whoa no, Jimmy my boy, you can't do that. These trips always run on into the Sundays. Christ, what would happen if your wife told mine that you got home on a Saturday; I'd really be in the shit wouldn't I? No you be a good lad and come along to the match and party afterwards; you'll enjoy yourself, there's always plenty of spare about and they're generally gagging for it after they've had a few."
"Look boss it don't really sound like my scene to me. I'm happily married and I don't go looking for a bit on the side."
"Nonsense boy, you'll soon get into it. Now let's go get your bag!"
I'm going to admit that I lied and chickened out of telling Jeannie what was going on. I knew that she'd be really pissed if she knew we'd come back a day early and gone to the match. And even more pissed that we'd gone on to a party later. I had no intention of misbehaving myself, so I figured that it wouldn't be a problem. What harm could a little white lie do, if it kept the peace at home?
I sat there in that executive box watching the match and almost froze my bleeding short and curlies off. The place was supposed to be heated but it was so bleeding cold that day that they nearly didn't play because the pitch was frozen. Anyway I think I made the mistake of drinking a little too much as well. What silly bugger said that brandy warms you up?
After the match — that our home team won - the boss dragged me off to dinner and then we went on to the big party. We hadn't been in there very long when I lost the boss completely. The last I saw of him he was giving some little tart the line that he was one of the movers and shakers of the club's board and that he could introduce her to the players.
I slunk off to the bar and settled down to drink the night away. Well I thought I'd have just a couple before I went up to my room in the hotel above. I'd been in there for about an hour when something caught my eye. The place was heaving with humanity and seeing much farther than the end of your nose was hard enough, but a sort of built in radar I have picked out a flash of red through the crowd. Only it was a very familiar shade of red that I'd grown extremely accustomed to in the previous few years. It also had that same silky shimmer that Jeannie's little red dress had.
My curiosity piqued, I slid off the stool that I'd laid claim to, and I tried to make my way back into the main nightclub where the party was being held. But once I got in there, I could see nothing but that wall of half dressed gyrating humanity.
You know what I mean; women with tits are all-but hanging out and whose hipster skirts are so small that half the time their crotches, navels and backsides are on view. And the sweating guys ogling them.
Looking up for some reason, I noticed that there was a gallery running around the club, so I set off to discover how one got up there. Actually it wasn't very difficult to find the stairs, well it wouldn't have been if the place hadn't had been so damned crowded. You know I'm convinced that there were far too many people in that club; had there been a fire of something, there was no way that they'd all been able to get out.
From the gallery I surveyed the moving mass bellow. The place was all strobe lights and things, and the ambient lighting was quite low so that along with the fact that I was looking down from above, it wasn't very easy to pick anyone in particular out. You know it must have nearly half an hour before I spotted that bloody French player and the bird he was dancing with, or should I say who was plastered all over him whilst he felt her up.
And yeah I nearly jumped over the balustrade to get at them when I realised that she was wearing that damned sexy red dress, complete with blond wig and those sodding sunglasses. "Jesus Christ that's my bleeding wife he's molesting." A voice said in my head.
I ran along the gallery, down the stairs and then came to a complete halt as I ploughed into that damned wall of people. Eventually I managed to force my way through to the spot where I thought they'd been dancing; but after shoving folks this way and that for five minutes, I could see no sign of them
Frustrated I returned to the gallery and eventually found them again, somehow I'd got my bearings wrong when I'd gone down the stairs and had been looking in the wrong part of the dance floor.
I was just about to go after them a second time when they stopped dancing, kissed for a long time — well it appeared a long time to me — and then began to make their way towards the club's entrance.
At the run again I dashed along the gallery and raced down the stairs, but they were long gone before I got out of the club and into the entrance foyer. From there one door lead to the street and another into the hotels foyer.
"Anyone just left?" I asked the security guy guard on the door to the street.
"Not for about twenty minutes mate, why you lost someone?" He replied.
"You could say that" I called back as I rushed into the hotel foyer. But there was no sign of them in there either. Now I had four options, the door to the street, the bar, the restaurant or the lifts. Thinking that it was unlikely they'd have gone into the hotel foyer, to get out to the street; I reasoned, they'd have gone straight outside from the clubs foyer. The lifts could take them either up to a room, or down to the car park below.
There were several lifts but none on the ground floor when I arrived and all were either going up or down when I checked the indicators. I was also aware that this particular hotel had two more lift shafts at either end of the building, one that lead to a small foyer at the other end of the night club and the other that let out into the other end of the restaurant that took up the rest of the ground floor on the opposite side from the bar.
"Shit what now?" I thought to myself as I tried to figure out what floor the lifts were actually at.
But then I became aware that one was on its way up from the car park. "Bugger!" I said to myself as I dashed for the fire stairs the also lead down to the car park without even waiting to see if anyone got out of the lift itself.
In the car park I approached the security guy down there and he assured me that the only car that had left in the previous half hour, had contained a couple of geriatrics who were complaining about the noise from the night club. But some people had just arrived.
Rushing back up the stairs, I checked out both Bar and Restaurant, but found no one except my boss feeding alcohol down the throat of a little tart half his age. I made a mental note to tell the bastard what he could do with his job on the Monday morning.
By then I had realised that I was completely sunk. There were ten floors to that hotel and I had no idea what floor Jeannie and the French git had gone to.
Enquiries at the reception proved fruitless, they claimed that the guy didn't have a room booked that night. I had to admit that quite possibly they had gone to someone else's room.
My one advantage was that I did have a room booked and that meant I could roam around the hotel with impunity. After that, I did something that to all intents and purposes should have proved futile. I went to all ten floors in turn and walked the length of the building trying to listen in turn at each door for any sound of my wife, reaching climax. The only chance I had of finding them was when Jeannie did reach a climax,
I'll point out at this time that Jeannie's a screamer. Anyone who's seen the film Porky's and can remember the noise that Kim Cattrall was supposed to have made, when the assistant coach laid her, will have some idea what I mean. Let me just add, that once heard, it is a sound never forgotten.
I have no idea how long it took me but I worked my way along every floor of the building until I reached the penthouse suite level and I had heard nothing, other than one couple having a real ding-dong about something on the sixth floor. Then I retraced my steps and started making my way back down again listening at every door again.
Honestly I was just beginning to come to the conclusion that it was a futile task, when coming out of the stairwell on the seventh floor at the night club end of the building I caught sight of a flash of red through the little windows in the fire doors that divided the passageways at regular intervals.
Taking a better look through window, I saw that I could just make out Jeannie's back and her blond wig as she snogged the bugger there in the corridor. I figured that they must have just come out of a nearby room. As she took her arms from his neck, the shoulder strap of the dress fell away (that was the trouble with that tape, it only worked once, if you understand me) and she had to replace it before she set off towards the lift shafts in the centre of the building. For some inexplicable reason the French guy started walking toward my end of the building.
I think I got the idea into my head that they were intending to return to the club from different directions so that possibly no one would realise they'd sneaked off together. Although I couldn't fathom why they felt they needed to do that, having blatantly left the club together in the first place.
The French guy was still several fire doors away when I decided that I was going to tear the bugger's balls off. Well, I believe that had always been my plan, it's possible that I had just not realised it at the time.
Suddenly, before I was really expecting it, he was coming through the fire door at one end of a section of corridor, as I came through the door at the other. For an instant I had second thoughts, he was a big guy and probably much fitter than I was.
But then my temper got the better of me, when I noticed that he was swinging that little thong thing that had come with that little red dress around his finger.
I'm not really sure that I can explain what happened then. I can remember stopping him and asking if he made a habit of shagging other men's wives. At first he was somewhat taken aback at my challenge, but he recovered quite quickly. Well, then all hell broke loose and I kind-a lost track of things. I definitely landed some bloody punches on him. But he landed some real hard ones on me; as I said, I kind lost track of the order the blows landed in. Then quite suddenly I realised that he was lying on the floor motionless and I was kicking the shit out of the bugger. I was aware that there was blood running down my face and my jaw hurt like hell; but to my utter amazement, I'd apparently bested the bugger.
Picking up the thong that he must have dropped when the altercation started, and I made my way to my room; full of surprise that no one had shown up to investigate the ruckus we'd made.
After cleaning myself up a bit, I just climbed into bed and went off to sleep. I had intended going home and having it out with Jeannie, but after the fight I was too damned knackered. To be honest with you I thought I got clean away with it. But I'd forgotten all about security cameras!
God knows what time it was when I awoke to find my bed surrounded by several rather large policemen and it was pretty obvious why they were there. Surprisingly gently they hauled me out of bed, and told me to get dressed, then handcuffed me.
The police didn't take me directly to the nick, but to hospital casualty department first; apparently I hadn't done as well in the fight as I had first thought I'd done. Several hours, numerous x-rays and fifteen stitches later, I was booked and charged with causing grievous bodily harm to the French Git. Then they put into a cell to contemplate my fate. Somewhat surprisingly, the police didn't ask me why I'd had a go at the French git; at the time I assumed that he'd already told them about him having bedded my wife.
When I was questioned the next morning, I immediately plead guilty; I couldn't see much point in doing otherwise. But I adamantly refused to answer any other questions the police asked; I was cautioned that it would be wiser to explain the reason for my actions. But I thought that I knew better. Actually I was already thinking about the divorce court; I had little or physical evidence of my wife's betrayal, I couldn't really see the point of letting on what little I did know, and allowing her legal people time to think up plausible excuses.
On the Sunday, I found myself before a special sitting of the magistrates'. Regretfully, - well maybe I didn't regret it really - I'd done such a good job on the French bugger that the magistrates remanded me in custody.
It was late in the afternoon that Jeannie turned up at the court and was allowed to see me in the cells, before I was shipped off to prison to await my trial.
"What the hell happened Jimmy, why did you do it? You know you nearly killed the man?" Jeannie angrily demanded, the moment she sat in the chair opposite me.
"Let me ask you a question first, my love." I replied "Tell me where is that little thong thing that goes with your red dress."
Jeannie's eyes opened very wide and she took a few seconds to think before she answered. "In the draw at home. Where do you think it is? Why are you asking anyway?"
"Because I can assure you that it isn't. You want to know where it is? Well I'll tell you it's in the property cupboard back at the nick with the rest of my gear; I took out of the French arsehole's hand last night!" I replied.
Okay not the exact truth, but near enough for my purposes.
"Oh my god no. You didn't think that I was wearing it last night, did you?"
"Well no Jeannie I don't, or how the hell would it have come into my possession in the first place. But who else would have started the evening wearing it? It is your dress and a very expensive one as well, Jeannie."
"Oh god no Jimmy, I lied, I knew the thong wasn't in the draw at home. I lent it to Elaine yesterday she was convinced that she had a shot at..." Jeannie's voice faded away to nothing, but then she composed herself. "She begged me to let her borrow it last night, she promised she'd have it back before you returned."
"I don't believe you, Jeannie!"
"Because you've never leant that dress to anyone before."
"I have on occasions, it's just that I never told you."
"Besides Elaine is married. Joan, now maybe I'd have believed that; but Elaine isn't even a close friend."
"She is a close friend, we went to school together. Look Jimmy, why would I lie about whom I leant the dress to? If I was making it up, I probably would have said Joan, she a closer friend than Elaine and not only isn't she married, you know yourself she has the hot's for..."
"Don't say that bastard's name to me Jeannie!" I butted in.
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"Nope, and I doubt that I ever will again. Now run along, go visit your lover in the hospital like a nice little tart and leave me in peace."
"Go away Jeannie before I loose my temper again like I did last night!" I was shouting by then and that brought the guards in, who rapidly removed Jeannie for her own safety.
Several times Jean tried to visit me whilst I was on remand in prison, but I refused to see her. Even my solicitor tried to persuade me to see her but I refused out of hand.
"You're a bleeding fool." Another prisoner said to me one day when he heard me telling the warden to send her away. "You need visitors to keep you sane in this place when you're banged up in here for a few years."
"I don't need cheating bitches!" I replied.
It quite shook me that I got a very short court date. I can only assume that it was because I was intending to plead guilty. However, when the day came and my brief gave my statement in mitigation it was immediately challenged by the prosecution.
Of course the statement that was read out in court, said that I'd all-but caught the French bugger in flagrante delicto with my wife and that he was carrying her thong in his hand to prove it.
However the prosecution counsel clamed that no such rendezvous had taken place between my wife and the French guy. The prosecution then marched Elaine Peters in to the court and she told the Beak that it was she who the French bugger had had been, well playing patter cake with.
To be honest I was really beginning to doubt my conviction that it had been my wife that I had seen with the French git, until I took a long look in her direction, Jeannie's that is. I'd avoided looking at Jeannie in court, but I knew that she had been sitting in the public gallery with Joan.
It was a warm summer day by then and Jeannie and Joan had taken their coats off. To my utter astonishment I saw that Jeannie had a distinct bulge in her dress, just where you'd expect one to be, if she was pregnant.
I'm not sure what happened then. I know that I lost the plot again and started shouting at Jeannie that she was a cheating slut. I do believe I might have tried to get out of the dock to have another go at the French guy. But all I achieved was to get myself manhandled back down to the cells and the rest of the trial went ahead without me. I was brought up later into and empty courtroom where the judge told me that I was sentenced to five years. But I already knew that with any luck I'd be out again in thirty months.
Yeah, yeah, Jeannie did keep trying to come and visit me in jail and so did some of my old friends. But I refused to see her and terminated all other visits the moment her name was brought up. Actually almost everyone who came to the prison appeared to have been sent on a mission, so eventfully I refused all visits.
Look Elaine Peters or even Joan, borrowing the Red dress, yeah maybe I might eventually have come around to believing that load of twaddle. But Jeannie sitting there in court obviously with child, sorry I might be dumb sometimes, but I ain't bleeding stupid!
I've talked to my solicitor about divorce from Jeannie. But he's kinda advised me to wait until I get out, or I could end up getting raped financially in the settlement. As it stands Jeannie can't sell the house or touch the long-term investments because they are in joint names and are require both our signatures. When I do get out what I need to do is get hold of some of that French buggers DNA somehow and prove he's the father of the child Jeannie's carrying. Then I can sue the bastard for alienation of affections and dump and child support payments on him. That's the time to divorce Jeannie, when I can get our worth split down the middle and walk away with no long-term commitments.
From what my lawyers are saying Jeannie doesn't appear to want to go for a divorce herself at the moment. She's still insisting that the babies mine anyway, I can't understand don't she realise that a DNA report will prove other wise. I really didn't think Jeannie was that stupid, or does she think I am?
Anyway if I keep my nose clean, then I've only got another ... what? Maybe thirty months to spend in this shit-hole. Boy, then, is the shit going to hit the fan!
Life goes on