welshjule

[welshjule]

Doyawannarootorwhat?

January 1982

 It was snowing the day my family left Cardiff for a new life in Australia.

I was eighteen, living with my mum, dad and two younger sisters and none of us knew what we were doing!

We had never even been on a plane before and the furthest we had ever traveled was  Pontins in Prestatyn.

My dad’s brother and his family had emigrated to Perth and my parents had asked my sisters and myself if we wanted to go and live there. It all sounded really exciting at the time and we had travelled to Australia House in London about a year before and passed the interview.

But now, we were having second thoughts because the three of us had steady boyfriends and we had sworn undying love and absolute faithfulness to them, like only teenagers can. So, it was a very dramatic departure, with our ‘soulmates’ shivering in the street as we drove off.

Foreigner was playing ‘Waiting for a Girl Like You ‘on the car radio and the back seat was filled with brokenhearted sobbing as the three of us tried to out-do one another in our pain and suffering.  We only got about five minutes up the road before my father turned around from the front seat and yelled:

“If you think I’m listening to this sh*t all the way to Heathrow, you can think again. If you don’t pack it in, we’re not stopping at the services.’’

We soon shut up. We loved the services.

All kids loved the motorway services. They weren’t all about petrol. There was an air of excitement, as everybody escaped from the family car and did their own thing for half an hour. The video arcades were filled with flashing lights and loud music and they were a magnet for teenagers, who lined up to play Space Invaders and drive pretending cars at 500 miles per hour.

That didn’t interest me.

I went straight into WH Smith’s and bought my two favorite magazines, ‘Jackie’ and ‘Blue Jeans’ and sat down to a breakfast of sausage, beans and chips. I was soon lost in the ‘problem pages’ and an article on smokey eye make-up tips.

Then, we were back on the road.

In 1982, flying on a jumbo jet was a really big deal. It was glamorous and exciting and people dressed up for the adventure.

It all appealed to my inner diva and I was channeling Debbie Harry, who was my idea of cool.  

So a few hours later, with my ash highlights, Adam Ant pirate shirt and a sexy Jackie Collins novel in my handbag, I nabbed a window seat on the massive plane. Pressing the button on my seat, I ordered a Bloody Mary, put on my complimentary airline socks and lit up a fag.

There was absolutely no sense of safety in the air back then; The smoking seats were at the rear of the plane but the smoke just wafted over everybody in a thick smog. The cabin crew dished out as much free alcohol as a passenger could drink, everybody had a pocket full of lighters and combined with my mother’s duty-free Opium perfume the entire place was a powder keg.

I f*cking loved the Eighties!

But most worrying was that I was invited up to the to meet the pervert pilot three times in the first two hours. Mum and Dad were completely oblivious to this man wanting me all up in his cockpit but this geezer had no chance.

He’s in charge of gravity for God’s Sake!

Why would I interrupt the deviant responsible for keeping hundreds of people 30,000 feet up in the sky? As far as I was concerned, he didn’t need any distractions. You’ve got one job. Concentrate!

Anyway, the glamour soon wore off.

The feature film was ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ but I couldn’t tell you anything about it. With one screen up at the front of the plane, Harrison Ford was the size of a Lego block and the earplugs kept jumping out of my ears. Soon there were kids screaming, spines contorting and full-on fights over the precious arm-rests.

There were no straight-through flights then and for some reason, our journey seemed to involve changing planes at every Middle Eastern airport on our way to Australia, and thirty- eight years ago those places were intimidating. Security guards and police patrolled everywhere carrying guns and scaring the crap out of all the travelers with their blank glares.

Trying to find any kind of airport staff who could speak English was like hunting for a unicorn!

Hot, tired passengers walked around in a confused, sleep-deprived daze and we were all lugging huge suitcases (with no wheels), winter coats, overnight bags and duty-free booze. Everybody was on edge and scared they would miss their connecting flight which was a real possibility.

Walking into my first public toilet in these here parts was a real culture shock I could have done without because there were no toilets in the toilet!

I opened one door after another until it dawned on me that the hole in the floor was for squatting over. The place smelled like a sewer from the dark ages and my aching bladder dried up like a prawn cracker as I held my nose and made for the exit.

‘’You’ve got to go Ju,” my Mum warned, “We’re going to be here for hours, just hold your breath.”

“Mother, I am eighteen not ten,’’ I replied, ‘if I tried to squat on that putrid, wet floor and fell in that shit, I’d grab a gun off one of those guards and blow my brains out!”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” she sighed, spotting a little old lady sitting behind a wooden table counting change.

“Do you think she works here?” my Mum whispered,

“Oh my God, of course she works here, who would willingly sit in this cesspit. “

I was young and rude and had no regard for a woman who was forced to do this disgusting job day after day.

“Mum, I can’t stay here another second. I’m literally going to catch some shit-borne plague virus.’’

I ran for the exit and as the door closed behind me, I heard Mum asking for some toilet paper. I didn’t rate her chances because in those days toilet paper was a bit of a novelty and travelers caught short were pretty much up shit creek!!

Eventually, after missing a connecting flight and spending the night in Abu Dhabi, we arrived in Perth, Western Australia and were picked up at the airport by my dad’s brother and his family.

It was the middle of summer and as we walked outside to the carpark, the heat hit us like a punch and we stopped dead. We couldn’t catch our breath and I could feel my nostril hair burning!

‘’Bloody hell Tommy, how do people live and work in this?’’ asked my sweating father who was struggling with a suitcase the size of a small car. ‘It’s like being cooked.’

My aunty and uncle laughed and told us that it was about forty-two degrees. But apparently, we would get used to it.

Living with our relatives, the heat was no hardship. Their gorgeous house had air-conditioning and was as cold as a meat freezer.

Everything had a new, exciting, holiday feel and we played ‘It’s a Knockout’ for hours with our cousins in the swimming pool while our uncle barbecued steaks the size of hubcaps.

Perth is a beautiful city and in 1982 it had a very laid-back vibe. There was a strong American influence and we loved going to milk bars and drinking milkshakes from giant metal beakers. Sales assistants smiled and told us to ‘have a nice day’ and there were palm trees growing on the side of the road.

The first time I went to a drive-in movie I felt just like Sandy from the film ‘Grease.’ Waitresses on roller skates wore cute uniforms and carried trays of French fries and hamburgers. There were groups of teenagers everywhere, smoking cigarettes and sharing sneaky bottles of Jim Beam.

The movie playing was American Gigalo, but nobody was interested in Richard Gere.

Instead of cars, most boys and girls were making out in ‘shaggin’ wagons.’

These were small panel vans that were basically a bedroom on wheels. They first became popular with surfers because there was plenty of room for a group of mates with their surfboards to travel to the best beaches.

Now, horny boys all over Australia worked their butts off for one of these prized ‘sin bins’ and would pimp them out with shag pile carpet, surround sound speakers and strobe lighting. Add a mattress, a bong and an esky full of beer and it was a guaranteed shag pad.

The rule was ’If it’s rocking don’t come knocking,’ so kids waited their turn to make great memories or more often, drunken mistakes.

I thought it was a brilliant idea. A million times better than trying to mate in a sedan in the middle of winter.

Almost all the boys had a mullet haircut, which was short on the top and long at the back (think Billy Ray Cyrus) and the girls had curly, spiral but mostly frizzy home perms. The Aussie boys described their mullets as ‘business at the front and party at the back’ and they could definitely party!

The novelty of home pizza deliveries, bronzed lifeguards and breath-taking beaches made life blissful.

Had we landed in paradise?

Was this place absolutely perfect?                                                                                

Not quite, as I was about to find out.                                                                                                                

The first time my sister and I went into the city on a Friday night it was like being transported to Las Vegas. We were with a young aussie bloke called Brian who worked with our auntie and he was really excited to show us his town.

Brian was more Australian than Dame Edna and we didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He said things like ‘crook’ and ‘mongrel’ and ‘fair dinkum’ and sounded like a seventy-year-old sheep shearer.

“Youse two are good looking Sheila’s, so if you want to crack on, go for your life” he told us.

Walking along Hay Street, the warm, balmy breeze gave the place a tropical feel and the lights from the restaurants and clubs added to the excitement. The air smelled like Chinese food, petrol and every teenager’s sexy dream.

Boys were hanging out of souped up Chevy’s and Toyota Camry’s, doing laps and calling out to all the girls while Jimmy Barnes and ACDC blasted out of their speakers.

Everybody seemed to be young, loud and ready to party and photographers were everywhere, taking pictures of the revelers for the weekend newspapers.

Beautiful bronzed girls walked around in bikinis, heading for nightclub ‘beach parties’ or Miss West Coast beauty competitions.

Pinocchio’s was the most popular place to spend a Friday or Saturday night and it blew our minds. The place was enormous with a huge dancefloor on the ground floor and two bars. Upstairs were more places to drink and dance and the place was packed.

It was all so exciting, The Police were singing ‘Don’t Stand So Close to Me’, and we were looking good.

There were dozens of blokes at the bar and we could see some of them checking us out and grinning at one another. Brian found some people he knew from work so my sister and I went and sat down in a velvet booth. Sipping our Cinzano and lemonades we looked at the dancefloor.

It was wall to wall girls, dancing around their handbags (yes, even here) and absolutely no boys whatsoever. Eventually, with Whitney Huston singing her heart out we hit the dancefloor.

Now, I was used to being wooed by Welsh boys and God love them, they had to have some bottle. If they liked a girl, nine times out of ten she was with a group of friends and the poor bloke would have to risk being ridiculed or rejected by all of them.

But many a boy took a chance and would ask for a dance or if he could buy a girl a drink, because if he asked enough girls, eventually, he might get lucky!

We danced for hours to Joan Jett, Men at Work, Adam and the Ants and Kim Wilde and I felt so happy because I loved Australia and I had just discovered B52 shots which I had been knocking back! Everybody seemed to be laughing and there was the exciting feeling of perhaps meeting someone new.

The disco lights were flashing blue and pink, the music was deafening and we were all choking on the smoke machine. It was bloody brilliant.

But, not one boy came near us

Brian was now sitting down so we went and joined him in the booth.

I had some questions,

‘’Brian, what’s going on?’’

‘’Why are all the boys standing together and ignoring the girls?’’

“Why hasn’t anyone asked us to dance?”

‘’How are people supposed to meet from opposite sides of the room?’’

‘’Is this a gay bar?’’

To be honest, I was a vain little mare.

It was all about me and I was just in a bad mood because nobody had chatted me up all night.

Brian looked at me in complete shock for a few seconds and then burst out laughing,

“Jeeze, who are you and what planet are you from?’’ he choked, ’Nobody cracks on ‘til the end of the night. Give the boys a chance, they’re drinking their grog.”

From what I could see, most of the boys at the bar were absolutely hammered and one dickhead near us had ripped off his shirt and was puffing out a skinny chest. They were all showing off, trying to out-drink one another and shouting at the top of their voices.

At about 1am the DJ started playing ‘Shut Up ya Face’ and that was our cue to leave and go next door for pizza, but before we could stand up, four young guys came over to our table.

‘’G’day ladies, how ya going?” asked the obvious ringleader with a horrible orange mullet.  He sat down next to me, grinning like a maniac and then turned to face Brian.

“Listen mate, I don’t wanna cut your grass or nothin’, so which Sheila’s yours?” he asked.

Brian shook his head, ‘’No worries there mate. They’ve just got here from England and I’m showing them the sites.”

The boy’s eyes lit up and he tried to put his arm around me,

‘’Me and the lads have been watching youse two all night. Right pair or ragers eh?’’

His mates fell about laughing

‘’Robo mate, you’re a fu##ing legend’’ shouted the boy with no shirt.

I doubted that

Robbo stank of beer and sausage rolls and his hair was dripping wet.

‘’Oh my God, stop sweating on me’’ I screamed, moving sideways along the seat.

‘’Hey, don’t spit the dummy” he grinned ‘’ I just wanna get to know ya.’’

“Well don’t come any nearer,’’ I said putting my arm out, ‘’you’re in my personal space.’’

‘’Oh she’s a pommie, ’’ shouted a tubby boy who was standing next to Robbo and seemed to be dressed as a bank manager.

“She’s well up for it. Give her the hard word.’’

Cheeky Bas##rd. I understood that alright!

Glaring up at him, I said,

“For a start off, we are Welsh not English and what are you wearing? I can’t believe the bouncers let you in here. You should be banned for life for having such hideous fashion sense. And by the way, I’m not up for anything, thank you very much.’’

But Robbo wasn’t giving in just yet and he suddenly lurched towards me, and said, ‘’Doyawannarootorwhat?

All I heard was root and what

“What is a rooterwhat?’’ I asked

Robbo threw himself back in the seat and grabbed his crotch and it seemed like everyone in the club was laughing at me.

I was over it.

“Brian, what is he talking about?  What does it mean?’’

The poor boy was starting to look uncomfortable.

“Well, a root means a sh#g, you know, getting laid.’’ he said

It was too much for me and I had to stand up.

Looking down at Robo, I couldn’t believe it.

“So, let me get this straight. You came over here to ask me to have sex with you.”.

“Bloody Oath I did. Nothing wrong with a bit of hide the sausage.” he laughed

“You must be bloody joking. You haven’t had the guts to buy me a drink or ask me to dance but you expect me to go home with you?’’

“Well not home exactly, me oldies wouldn’t like it’’, he said, ‘’but the car is parked in the multi-story on Barrack Street. We could go for it in there’’

‘’Wow, how romantic’’ I said

“Oh, so my lady wants romance, does she?’ A little dancing and some champers? said the bank manager. ‘’Didn’t realize we had Princess Diana in here tonight boys.”

“You’ve got that right,’’ I told him, ‘’I am a lady so you can kiss my arse.’’

“That’s what I’m talking about” shouted Robbo and I noticed he had vomit down the front of his shirt.

‘’We don’t want a formal introduction, just a root.’’

‘’Well I’m not interested’’ I told him, grabbing my handbag off the table.

We walked through the club and as we reached the exit, Robo’s bank manager shouted,

“Hey, Mary Poppins, no hard feelings eh! How do ya fancy a 68 and a half?

I couldn’t resist it

“What’s that?’’ I shouted back

‘’You give me a bl#w job and I’ll owe you one.”

I had to laugh.

That was the night I found out that most Australian blokes are very funny but if you want flowers, compliments and courtship, you’ll be waiting a while!

After all, there is no such thing as perfection.

[welshjule]

You got me begging you for mercy

To my Friends, Family and all Readers,

Welcome to my first blog. Every week I will be posting a story ‘loosely based’ on my life in Australia since 1982. My aim is to provide a little escapism in a sometimes-hard world and to hopefully make you laugh. The content will be mature themed as I am in no way attempting to be a role-model!

Happy reading my Darlings

Let me know what you think.

Ju xx

Perth, Australia.

January 1995

It was a Sunday night and I had just put my daughter Alice to bed. The house was red hot, the windows were wide open and there wasn’t a breeze; it was like living inside a sweaty sock. Summer in Perth can be brutal and it is a dry, burning heat that scorches the hair on your arms and rips the skin off your feet if you try and walk barefoot outside. The temperature had hit forty degrees that day and I only had two stand-up fans, so a load of our family and friends had been swimming at the local pool.

We got home and Alice, who was about five years old, spent about two hours in a cold bath – in her bathers, underwater, face-down and pretending to be dead! My job was to run in and rescue her every so often but I kept forgetting. I gave the nickname ‘Insane Alice’ to my daughter when she was very young because she was my wild, brave, curious nutcase, who always had something to say and most of it was somewhat demented. Over the years, we dropped the Insane bit and it was just Alice, but to tell the truth, she’s still a bit touched.

My Father called her ’his Alice’ for thirty years.

So, my exhausted daughter was now asleep with a wet towel on top of her and a fan blowing hot air around her room.

Walking into the kitchen, I stuck my head under the cold tap until my hair and face were soaking wet. Grabbing an ice-cold beer from the fridge, I wandered out to the garden and laid back on an old lounger. Tracey Chapman was singing about a fast car as I lit a fag and skulled my beer.

The house was like a furnace and there was no reprieve outside. From November to March, you went to bed sweating and you got up the same way. We lived in a low-income area and nobody had air-conditioning; you just had to deal with the heat.

At that time, single mothers didn’t get to choose the houses with alarm systems and swimming pools. We could only afford tired, old rentals with dripping taps and broken flyscreens and to make matters worse, I was cleaning two ‘beach-front’ mansions a day while Alice was at school.

 #These were palaces, with huge swimming pools, wine cellars and balconies overlooking the blue ocean and I earned a pittance. I had to shut my mouth like Ruby from ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ when the ‘lady of the house’ complained about smears on the bathroom mirror or dust on the roof because I needed the money.

Looking around now, my poor garden looked so sad; that unrelenting ball of fire had burnt the beautiful flowers I had planted and singed the lawn so badly that it was now just dry, straw.

I was feeling a bit weird and conflicted because everyone around me seemed to think that I should be trying to find a man to ‘look after me and be a father to Alice.’ Don’t get me wrong, it was said with kindness, but I was bored of the whole thing.

Thirty years ago, there was a real stigma attached to being a single mother. If your marriage failed but the dad was still on the scene with the kids, that was ok. If there was no father in sight, it played with people’s heads.

I chose to leave Alice’s father when she was a baby and bring up my daughter alone and I loved it.

I didn’t have a man and I didn’t really want one.

But some people just weren’t comfortable with it. Was I a lesbian? Did I hate men? Was I flirting with their man? They wanted to set me up with their husband’s mate from Bunnings and it was all, ‘We’ve got to find you a nice fella’ and ‘you can’t be too fussy.’ What a cheek! I was thirty years old with no visible hump on my back. Who were they thinking of wheeling in? Alf F##king Stewart?’’

There was a lot of pressure

And It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried.

I’d been to Bachelor and Spinster Balls, joined ‘Parents Without Partners’ (very creepy) and even went to ’Japanese conversation ‘night classes because everyone told me ‘There are loads of divorced men learning languages now Ju. There will be blokes everywhere.’          The only man I ever spoke to was wearing a grey cardigan and had just retired from the civil service.

God knows I tried

And I was about to try again

In 1995, there was no tinder or instant messaging because there were no mobile phones or computers (well not in our house anyway). People had to leave their residence and go hunting in pubs and clubs on a Saturday night for their own Brad Pitt or Pamela Anderson and it was utterly soul destroying.

But I had the Wanneroo Times and I was on a mission.

This local community newspaper had started printing adverts in their classifieds for single people wanting to meet a partner. It was basically, ‘man seeking woman’ or ‘woman seeking man’. Then, everybody told massive lies about themselves; ‘very attractive, happy go lucky, no baggage, loves a good red wine and walking on the beach at sunset.’ It was ridiculous but that didn’t stop me filling in the form.

My advert said,

If you are a sports fanatic and watch it on tv all weekend – read on

If you are bitter about your wife taking everything from you in the divorce, we’ve already met - read on

If you like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain, warm winter fires, bubble baths and collecting driftwood. Stop reading Sir, for you are a dead set serial killer.

I didn’t say much about me, just,

’blonde, thirty, likes to write.’

And I posted it off.

It took a week to receive any responses.

I’d been watching ‘Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves’ and wondering how I could get in touch with Kevin Costner to tell him I was waiting for him here; in the hottest, most isolated corner of the world!

But I was feeling quite hopeful and ready for some romance in my life. I spent most of the week singing ‘You know it’s true, everything I do, I do it for you.’

On a Monday morning, the postman dropped an official looking, brown envelope into my post box and I had seven letters!!

Buzzing with excitement, I made a cup of coffee, lit a fag and opened the first one.

He had a wife but they didn’t sleep together. He desperately needed passion in his life, maybe two afternoons a week! Yeh right, dream on!

Three more were married and just wanted a bit on the side.

My fifth would-be suitor boasted of a body tattooed from his neck to his toes and a willingness to provide colour photos. I just couldn’t stomach it!

And the sixth little gem was a smooth-talking illiterate who claimed to be a ‘mad rooter’ but added that, ’If I was a ‘Fat Sheila,’ then not to bother eh!’

I could feel a black depression impending; Was I supposed to settle for this group of no-hopers?

But there was one letter remaining and that was written by a man named Fred.

Fred was English and had been in Perth for a couple of years. He worked in some office and liked Guinness. That was good enough for me!

We spoke on the phone a couple of times and met for a quick coffee. He was a nice bloke and didn’t seem to be deranged. He asked me to go to the movies to see ’Braveheart’ and I said ‘’lovely.’’

So, its Friday night and I am sorted. Alice is staying at my parents’ house and I have a date!

The Commitments are slaying Mustang Sally and I am drinking a vodka and tonic. My hair is a work of art! It has been washed, blow- dried, straightened, back-combed and gelled, plus I’ve used half a can of hairspray, so this hairdo is not shifting.

On goes the make-up, a pair of jeans that are much too small and a black shirt. Sounds simple doesn’t it?

But it is still 32 degrees at 6.30pm and the sweat is dripping down my back. I am sitting on an ice pack with my feet in a bowl of cold water and the pedestal fan is coughing, stale air at me like an old family dog. The jeans are slowly roasting my legs, the underneath of my hair is soaking wet and the makeup is dripping off my face.

But I don’t care, because I’m looking good, the house smells of ’Red Door’ perfume and I’ve had a few puffs of a lovely old joint I found on top of the kitchen cupboard.

I am ready for action!

Fred turned up at about seven and he looked very smart with jeans and a blue shirt. He was quite a portly fellow, very suntanned and with a completely bald head. I don’t know if he’d ever had any hair and I didn’t really care.

I was flying!

We were a bit early for the movies so we went for a drink first. The pub was practically empty but the night was young, so I told Fred that it was my shout. He asked the ‘gothic and heavily pierced’ barmaid, if she could make him a flat, white coffee and she looked at him with complete disgust. I ordered a double vodka and we sat down for a chat. I really wanted to find Fred attractive but he wasn’t giving me much.

He had a very strong Yorkshire accent and was into cycling and re-cycling. He started telling me about sustainable compost heaps and I just glazed over.

But, as I sat looking at him, the room started spinning and Fred began to morph into Dierdre Barlow from Coronation Street and a brown, boiled egg.

That old puff was strong!

’’I’m that choofed you chose me lass,’’ he said ‘’and I’m having a grand time, but I’m not one for the drink.’’

’Jesus Christ! When am I going to cop a break?’ I thought, ‘I’m a thirty-year-old woman wearing skin tight jeans and high heels. My legs are shaved, my elbows moisturised and I HAVE THE HOUSE TO MYSELF!! Who gives a shit about recycling?

I didn’t want to talk about Fred’s ‘loovely bunch of lasses at work’ or ’the benefits of riding a bicycle.’

My life consisted of chicken nuggets, nit shampoo and a daughter who was obsessed with a demonic dessert called Strawberry Shortcake. This nauseating strawberry cake had three best friends called Apple Dumpling, Raspberry Tart and Cherry Cuddler. They sounded like a bunch of sex workers and their pimp was a freak called ‘The Prickly and Peculiar Pieman from Porcupine Creek. Alice had it on an old video and played it constantly. She had been speaking in an American accent for about three weeks and I was over it!    

 I wanted to act like a teenager. To get absolutely wasted, fall-down drunk and extremely immature. I wished Fred would suggest a drinking game so that we could get really loud and find everything hysterical. I needed him to make me laugh because that is sexy. I wanted to completely skip the bloody movie altogether!

Nah, take that back.

Fred was, in fact, an egg that spoke with a Yorkshire accent and he was boring me to death.

So, we walked to the cinema and bought our own tickets, (very civilised), then I was straight into the Candy Bar. Buying a very expensive choc- top ice-cream and some popcorn, I asked Fred what he was having and he said,

’’Nah, I’ll not have owt, I’m watching me weight.’’

That really irritated me because I’d been considering a box of Maltesers too and now I couldn’t have them because I would look like a pig.

We found two seats in the middle row. The place was packed out because it was the first night the film was showing.

‘’So, Fred, what’s this Braveheart about then? It’s not going to be all blood and gore is it?’’ I asked.

“I don’t know Julie, I haven’t seen it,’’ he said, but it translated to, ’’Ah doon’t know jooleh, I’ve not seen film.’’

Now, don’t forget, I was deep in the grip of Sherwood Forrest and I thought Braveheart would be similar; some battles, dodgy accents, a love story, some fantastic one-liners ‘a la’ Alan Rickman.

I thought wrong.

The beginning of the film showed the beauty of Scotland with some hauntingly lovely music and a softly-spoken narrator. By the time I had eaten my choc-top, there were bodies of men, women and children hanging from beams, heads chopped off and the stabbing and slashing of everyone in sight; including the poor horses.

I was in a hell of a state!

Alice always compares me to the late, great, British comedian Larry Grayson when I am out of my comfort zone and am shocked or horrified. I get flustered and loud, highly camp and completely over the top.

I have to have things explained to me very clearly.

This film was way beyond my comfort zone.

My hands were over my eyes and all you could hear from me was ‘’Oh my God, when are they going to stop killing?”  ‘’Oh, that’s gross!’’  ‘’I can’t look!’’  ‘’Why is there so much blood?’’ ‘’What’s happening Fred?”

And then an English soldier ties Braveheart’s beautiful bride to a tree.

I’m thinking, ‘’hurry up Wallace and save your woman.’’

Everyone is waiting for Mel to rescue her but he’s missing in action.

And the English Bast##d slits her throat!

Now, we still had about three more hours of this film to endure and the main character’s wife was dead. I just couldn’t believe it. She was exquisite, almost heavenly.

What was going on?

Í nudged Fred, ‘’What’s happening Fred? Is it a flashback or a dream? Is she coming back?’’

I was beside myself.

Fred was getting a little snippy at my endless questions and bad language because I couldn’t stop saying ‘’Oh F#ck’’ every time a limb was chopped off and it was constant carnage. It simply never stopped.

There was a teenage boy and his girlfriend sitting next to me and I tearfully asked the boy what he thought was going on. Did he think the lovely Marrun was coming back? Was it a flashback? He just looked horrified and two minutes later they both left.

So, now I’m crying and it’s serious. I’m absolutely gutted about useless Wallace not getting there in time and I don’t really feel like watching anymore.

Worse though, I haven’t got a tissue!

I am sobbing and my nose is running and I am doing that unattractive, hiccupy thing.

Fred’s forgotten his handkerchief and I’m hyperventilating and trying to quell my hysteria. But it’s just so sad and all you can hear in the whisper quiet audience are my racking sobs and sniffs. In the end, I had to use a KitKat wrapper and the sleeve of my top to wipe my nose. (yeh, I know, disgusting).

So now I’ve got to sit through another 150 minutes of butchery and treachery, heads in the mail, people being thrown out of windows and the mass raping of young maidens. It was relentless and I was suffering very loudly.

Fred was peeved, “Nah then, Jooleh, joost try to be a tad quieter pet. I can’t ‘ear film.’’

I was frazzled and I hadn’t even got to the torture of William Wallace.

What a joy that was!

About thirty minutes of Mel being hung, drawn and quartered very slowly with some lethal weapons (sorry, I had to).

First, he spits out the anaesthetic drug the princess slips him and then he refuses to shout ‘mercy’ to end his own torture. It was all too much and I kept shouting ‘mercy’ at the screen and crying loudly, but Mel just kept hanging on in there.

William Wallace was no pussy!

Eventually though, all the organs have been removed from his body and he has to die.

In his last few seconds alive he sees his wife, Murron, walking through the crowds, waiting for him and she is so beautiful, it’s heart breaking. Braveheart shouts ‘Freedom’ and I’m completely finished.

Before anyone could move, I was out of my seat. ’’I’ll see you in the foyer Fred,” I sobbed and ran to the toilets before the lights came on.

My body was shaking, my legs were like jelly and I was sweating. I felt like I had given birth to ten-pound triplets in an African hut, alone and without pain relief!

Then I saw my face in the mirror and stopped dead.

The old mascara I had found in the kitchen drawer was not waterproof and I had these black spider lines all down my cheeks. My eyes were smudged with dark grey eyeshadow, my nose was bright red and my face was blotchy and oily, with no trace of a base!

For some reason, my hair had also suffered and it looked like a yellow bird’s nest that had been sat on.

I hadn’t brought a handbag out with me, just a small purse, so the only things I had to rescue this complete disaster was a ten dollar note, a factor 30 lip balm and a furry tic-tac.

Everybody was coming into the lady’s toilets now and they were all looking at me. One girl came over and pretended to care but I saw straight through her. I’d heard some of her friends laughing at me during the torture scene.

I didn’t have a spare head so there wasn’t much I could do. I just washed my face, blew my nose and went out to meet Fred. I refused to look him straight in the eye though because I was hideous.

As we drove back to my place, the car was silent and I knew that Fred was sulking.

He eventually said ‘’Appen, A’Il see film again wit’ lasses from work. I missed most of it!’’

I thought, ‘’Oh do one, you Bloody tart, you are definitely not coming in for coffee.’’

We hit my driveway and I jumped out of the car like an Olympian.

Fred said something that sounded like ‘’See thee soon then Lass’’ and I said ‘’lovely.’’

Slamming the front door, I felt shell-shocked.

I jumped under a cold shower, washed off all the makeup and gunk from my hair and tied an old sarong around myself. Making a cup of tea and some toast with Nutella, I grabbed the remote and sat on the sofa.

Two minutes later, it was just me and Kevin.

I didn’t think I would ever hear from Fred again, but he rang a few nights later while I was watching ‘Home and Away‘ with Alice.

‘’Ow do Jooleh love, can ya guess where I am?’’ he asked jovially.

I froze. Oh my God.

“You’re not outside are you Fred? ’I asked,

‘’Nah’’, he chuckled, ‘’I’m lyin’ in’t cold tub, sipping hot brew and eating an apple pie. Blooody Bliss!’’

I hung up the phone and we never went out again.

Dating makes me realise why I’m not married!

If you liked this story, there’s a lot more to read because Alice and I have been writing tales ‘loosely based’ on our lives for many years, with the hope of finally finishing a book called ’A Mother like mine.’ Every Saturday, I will be publishing a blog so that you can read it over the weekend. Sometimes, Alice will write one too.

We will talk about love, losses and dating disasters, womanhood, teenage years and being a Welsh, single parent family in a rough-arse suburb of Perth in the nineties; from our two, completely different perspectives. I will even tell you how my true love literally walked through my front door and I almost took Alice to live in Texas! Our stories will be mostly funny but there will also be our recollection of some hard times. Nobody escapes them and sometimes it helps to read about other people’s battles.

 Future titles include;

‘The Good, The Bad and the Aussies’

‘A Gang of Gary’s’

‘Doyawannarootorwhat’

‘Sorry about my little fella?’

‘Six months pregnant or a Tattoo?’

[welshjule]

one day in June

[welshjule]

''You've got me begging you for mercy''