THE PRIVATE LIFE OF WILBERFORCE WINDCHEATER

The story so far:

Teenager Wilberforce Windcheater has recently discovered the joys of working for a living. He is employed in a factory, and his job is to place plastic lids on top of tubs of freshly filled wood preserve. On an average day, he'd get through about nine hundred.
His sister, Grace - twelve years his senior, has spent the previous few years scouring the Mediterranean in attempt to find a wealthy man. She decided to leave England after an ill fated affair with her parents' next door neighbour - the swarthy magazine editing and part-time drug dealing Leonard Loveland.
The siblings parents have been married for about thirty years, although William Windcheater has recently begun a monthly ritual of visiting a gin soaked lady of the night. The head of the household is a successful and respected bank manager. He has a strange fetish whereby he requests Ria Roughgorge to play hoopla with doughnuts, the aim of which is to circle his moderately dimensioned member.

Chapter XXVIII

Wilberforce was sat down next to the conveyor belt resuming his career in lidding. He was pleased to get back to the Monday morning routine after the horror show of the previous Friday evening.
Mike Knutt was the factory joker, and he’d heard the full S.P. from Stirling Shaphting.
“I hear you overdid it on Friday young ‘un!”
Mike slapped Wilberforce on the back with jocular force.
“Welcome to the club mate – we’ve all been there!”
The fledgling drinker and soft drug consumer gave a sheepish smile, explaining that he drank too much too soon.
“You only had about a can and a half according to Shaftwank!”
Wilberforce’s faced turned redder as he explained that taking a puff on a joint was the catalyst for his troubled physical state.
“Eh? He says you were head down on a table for half an hour before you even touched the funny fag!”
The teenager felt more and more uncomfortable with the older man’s ribbing, but fortunately for him Mike let it lie, and gave him another powerful slap on the back before departing to open a new box of cellophane tubes.
Wilberforce felt incredibly embarrassed and self conscious, to the extent where his concentration span was short enough to cause his first conveyor belt mishap.
His reactions were slow, and instead of slapping the huge red emergency stop button, watched in a daze as the five litre tub that was next in line jammed in front of the cog.
A thick and potent river of brown sludge shot out from the metal tube above the conveyor, and splashed from the belt all over Wilberforce’s thick overalls.
Cries of WAHEY! and ON THE FLOOR! echoed around the factory floor.
Mike Knutt rushed back to the filling machine.
“You dozy four-eyed prick!”
Mike’s light hearted delivery was accompanied by laughter. He led Wilberforce away to find him some new overalls while the old pair was thrown down the laundry chute.
Five minutes after the spillage, Wilberforce returned to resume his work wearing a fresh pair of overalls. They were way too big for his slender five and a half foot frame, and he had to turn the trouser bottoms up a good six inches to avoid standing on them with his safety boots. Vast amounts of blue tissue paper were spread over the floor soaking up the pool of thick gunge.
Mr Beaverstick gave a good humoured mock cuff round Wilberforce’s head on his way to the coffee machine with his tray designed to hold five plastic cups.
It was time for morning break, and Wilberforce entered the cloakroom to reach for his lunchbox containing cheese sandwiches, curly wurly and apple.
He walked up the wide spiral staircase, and entered the cramped refreshment room to more light hearted mocking about his lack of prowess with alcohol consumption. He gave the room a half smile and sat himself down next to Mike Knutt.
Opposite both of them sat Jane Jetsam, who was the only female employed on the factory floor.
“You have a good weekend young Jane?”
Mike gave her a sly look which hinted at sexual debauchery.
Jane was a shy and softly spoken nineteen year old, and would redden when the topic of conversation revolved around sex, which it almost permanently did.
After a girlish blush and giggle, she informed Mike that she spent Saturday night at a cocktail bar.
“Did you have any of those fancy cocktails then?”
“No.”
“I see – just cocks then was it?”
Jane blushed further and let out a giggly shriek.
As the merriment faded away, Tony Spreadburridge entered the canteen and took refreshment from the four foot high metallic water dispenser, giving the seated workforce a superb aerial view of his outrageous hairpiece.
Wilberforce wasn’t keen to join in with the sniggering of the others, as his own hair wasn’t exactly thick and lustrous.
Go on mate, give it a yank was Mike Knutt’s whispered request to Wilberforce as he gently shouldered into him.

In contrast to William Windcheater, Leonard Loveland hit his male menopause early. Between the ages of thirty and thirty-two, he attempted to bed women in their droves, and more often than not was successful.
It was only after the spectacular implosion of his four year dalliance with his neighbours’ daughter that made him see the error of his ways. He was grateful beyond words that Amelia eventually decided to have him back, and he solemnly pledged that his manhood was now a tool that would never again be for hire.
He enjoyed living the high life, which was subsidized jointly by his official profession and fruitful yields from his greenhouse. When he began co-habiting with Grace Windcheater, Amelia reluctantly agreed to keep quiet about his drug factory, in return for a generous financial settlement.
Leonard was always a man in control of situations both emotionally and professionally, but that all went out of the window with the chain of events sparked by his ill advised eyeing up of the feisty but shapely shelf stacker.
Grace Windcheater had Mr Loveland’s heart and private parts under lock and key. He’d never met such a fiery and controlling woman, and for the first time in his life, was helplessly happy to be dominated.
Gradually, he became aware that Grace saw him as a bottomless pit of cash and presents. Even though she was armed with a university degree, sharp mind and good looks, she refused to find work.
Leonard eventually came to realise that he’d have to become the nation’s number one drug dealer to cater for his partner’s snowballingly expensive tastes, and, after receiving assurances from his wife that she was willing to have him back, told Grace to up sticks.
Grace wasn’t best pleased, but was given five hundred pounds in cash. This placated her sufficiently to not cause a fuss, and decided on jetting off to Greece to continue her pursuit of a rich man willing to give her children. Leonard never wanted kids, so that was another reason for Grace to assume she was making the right decision.

Grace Windcheater arrived back at Heathrow in June 1977. She was now thirty-one years of age, didn’t have a man, and still had no children.
She’d spent the previous three and a half years waitressing and doing bar work in Majorca.
By now, Grace was happy to make compromises regarding the man who’d take care of her and put her in the family way.
It was while serving alcohol in one of the more upmarket hotels on the island that Grace met Eddie Trench, a self made owner of a paper making business from Solihull.
Mr Trench was fifty-two, balding, five feet five inches tall, and almost as wide. He wasn’t far away from being sphere shaped, but despite his physical deficiencies, Grace could see by the way he dressed that he was loaded.
One balmy summer evening, Eddie Trench waddled up to take a seat at the bar. He was wearing a lime green luminous t shirt, over which he donned a light yellowy brown safari jacket. For his bottom half, he entertained shorts that were too tight, and which were illustrated with dolphins against a deep blue sea. He wore knee-high plain white socks, and topped off his spectacular dress with bright yellow flip-flops.
Mr Trench’s jewellery was no less spectacular. The majority of his sausage-like fingers were clamped by various adornments of outrageous ostentatiousness – the most notable of which was a huge flat square of gold, etched with the initials E.T.
To complete the look, his wire wool light ginger hair was combed over and heavily lacquered.
“Give us a double whisky please, my love.”
Mr Trench’s face and exposed parts of the rest of his body was an angry and raw pink. He spoke with a high pitched and industrially heavy west midlands accent, and on receipt of his beverage, asked Grace if she fancied one – which she did.
As the evening progressed, Mr Trench became more and more downcast about his failed marriage, explaining to Grace that his wife – who was forty-four at the time, suddenly jumped ship to live with a six foot three, twenty-four year old West Indian fitness instructor from Edgbaston.
Grace had been toying with the idea of returning home in recent days, and if she could stomach sleeping with Mr Trench, then perhaps she’d be able to steal cash from his wallet. He certainly wasn’t shy about opening it, and she had several sightings of a thick wad of pesetas almost bursting their way out of the E.T. inscribed leather.

Grace Windcheater opened her eyes, and after a second or so of trying to remember who and where she was, felt physically sick as she turned her head to see the pink blob of a head that belonged to Eddie Trench.
She was hugely grateful for the fact that he was sound asleep and snoring loudly. The duvet to the bed was laying on the floor on Mr Trench’s side, and he was on display totally naked, save for dirty yellow pants with white trim. Creeping out from underneath the trim, a shiny and orange pubic haired left testicle bade good morning to Grace.
Mr Trench had bankrolled Grace with pina colada’s for most of the previous evening, and her dizzy head, made fuzzier by the sight of Eddie’s extrovert glowing bollock caused her to walk to the ensuite bathroom as quietly as possible in order to throw up. She tried to do it as quietly as possible, and was incredibly relieved to see the portly paper magnate still snoring away contentedly when she returned a couple of minutes later.
She hurriedly fumbled through the pockets of his safari jacket and emptied the wallet. Grace got dressed silently and left the door to the room ajar. She scurried back to her own apartment nearby, picked up her belongings and passport, and made her way to Son Sant Joan airport.

Grace Windcheater stood underneath the main clock at Waterloo station and counted up her life savings. Her legitimate earnings of thirty-one pounds was almost doubled when she left the bureau de change after handing over the contents of Mr Trench’s wallet.
She made her way to the same table in the café where she sat three and a half years earlier, although this time, it was mercifully free of Clarissa Coleridge-Philpotts.
Grace walked up to the counter and purchased a mug of tea and a piece of extortionately priced battenberg cake. She was left with just thirty-six pence from her pound note.
The café was fairly busy, and Grace noticed quite a few of the people had economy sized union jacks in their possession. She also noticed numbers of individuals who wore t-shirts that depicted pictures of The Queen, Buckingham Palace, and other royalty themed illustrations.
At the table next to her, Grace viewed a young boy of about ten sat with his mother, eyeing up a commemorative mug. Grace’s perfect eyesight allowed her to make out the dates 1952-1977 below a smiling portrait of the reigning monarch.
Grace suddenly had an idea, and her feeling of mild depression about her life circumstances was replaced by a new and boundless optimism.
She cheerily finished her tea and cake, then briskly strode across the busy concourse toward the entrance to the underground station. As with her previous visit, Grace made her way to the northbound platform of the Northern Line.
As she waited for the next train to come along, she noticed a teenage boy staring at the front cover of a seven inch record he’d obviously just bought. Grace could see the sleeve illustrating a picture of The Queen, with her eyes and mouth blanked out by writing, and a safety pin through her nose. She wondered what it was all about, found it rather amusing, and struggled to suppress a giggle.
The platform was fairly busy, and Grace pushed her way toward the front of crowd as the warm air whooshed from the tunnel.