The Turkey Monologues (An ode to Alan Bennett)

Heidi, 63. Widowed. Three, two naturally and one through the French windows. Nathan, who I’m travelling with, he was the awkward one. Had him late in life. Husband had the snip, but the surgeon got the gas and water pipes mixed up, he was firing live cartridges, but would take three hours to pee. He’s never really found his place in life, socially ‘difficult’, gets that from his father, he was a miner, real hard worker, but his conversational skills consisted of a series of slightly out of tune grunts. It was often like spending the evening listening to the intricacies of a Mozart concerto being played on a tape recorder with ever decaying batteries.

Turkey, lovely place, very hot, too many foreigners. I mean, I like them all but, they just don’t seem to have any etiquette. You just don’t turn up for breakfast in a vest, especially when you have a figure that spans into five digits. There just doesn’t seem to be any class in the world anymore, I mean, heels at this time of the morning is just asking for back trouble later in life. I should know, I spent the whole of my twenties in six inch sling-backs and now every time I bend over it’s hit and miss if I’ll topple over head first into the cobbles or fall flat on my back staring up at the stars.

We are sat down to lunch. Lovely little restaurant, by the pool, playing sweet boss nova music over the tannoy. It’s like being lulled gently to sleep by some runner up from X factor from yesteryear. Table next to us, ‘Chelsea’, from Liverpool, nice lady, in her forties, will definitely need some work in ten years, if her cheeks drupe anymore they will get carpet burns. She has a daughter ‘Kylie’, twenty, common, obviously born around that time when everyone was either ‘Kylie’ or ‘Jason’. She has more the looks of Jason though, nothing really wrong with her, but she wouldn’t look out of place erecting scaffolding on a building site in Bolton.

Nathan is obsessed. He’s ‘that age’, all raging hormones and zits. He should train to be a fighter pilot, his eyeballs have the flexibility of a chameleon, each able to rotate and focus individually… one on each nipple. He’s grunted ‘hello’ to Kylie, his eye line is securely fixed about a foot below hers. It seems to be a match made in heaven, she’s educationally ‘restricted’, he’s just, well, ‘restricted’. I can see she takes after her mother, they are both wearing g-strings, her’s is so tight her lips are in different post codes. Not so much a Brazilian, more of a Patrick Stewart. I can tell she’s had so many people visiting that fanny it’s got it’s own gift shop.

Meanwhile ‘Chelsea’ is informing me that her daughter has obtained a ‘first’. I’m not entirely sure in what, maybe not being pregnant by sixteen. I’m getting a little embarrassed by Nathan, his drool is now creating a visible pool on the patio. He’s not really used to the female form, his normal interactions are with a ‘What’s on TV’ guide and a Kleenex. He’s making gentle inclinations that he wants to be alone with Kylie.

They walk beautifully down the path together. I would say they are whispering ‘sweet nothings’ to each other, but the raw fact is that their arses are so rotund they can’t get within three feet of each other, its like viewing a giant Venne diagram from the rear with absolutely no chance of any intersection.

Apparently Chelsea is in makeup. I think she chose a bad career path, construction is missing an addition. Ferry across the Mersey needs a welder.

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