Chapter XIX

On Sunday, June fourteenth 1970, Albert Windcheater and Tommy Trite marvelled at the advance of technology that allowed live television pictures to be beamed into the living room they were sat in.
The old gents pleaded with young Wilberforce to join them for the evening televisual feast, but the physically and emotionally tortured boy would have none of it.
“We’ve had it now that Banksie’s gone down with that bug.”
Albert was even more worried than when Greavsie was elbowed from the final four years earlier.
The usually optimistic Tommy struggled to disagree with his friend’s diagnosis.
“It’s a right bugger mate.”
Tommy Trite opened his third bottle of stout as the clock struck five-fifty pm.
Unknown to each other, both men simultaneously flashbacked to the impossibility of the save the great man pulled off seven days earlier.
Maureen did her best to encourage Tommy and Albert by waddling up to brush against each of them in turn. It was a noble but short lived offer of optimism, as the ragged old cat walked dejectedly to her padded box in the corner of the room. It seemed that the loss of the world’s greatest goalkeeper was significant enough even to transmit to animals.

Meanwhile, Wilberforce Windcheater laid down his August 1960 publication of Trains Illustrated – lent to him by his surrogate great-uncle.
As he lay on the bed, Wilberforce swapped mental visions of the Flying Scotsman and Palatine for Pan’s People, Lulu, and Gloria Spend.
The latter was a well endowed girl who was a year above him at school. Wilberforce excitedly envisaged how her knockers would feel, should he ever get into the position of being able to cup them.
During his latest scout session the previous morning, one of his more common colleagues, Paul Prolerat, attempted to coerce the boy into experimenting with the joys of self abuse.
Have you ever rubbed your cock up? was Paul’s way of introducing Wilberforce to the thorny issue.
Wilberforce’s angry acne was joined in its pinky red hue by the unaffected area of his face in response to the enquiry.
Shyness and self-consciousness were always part of the boy’s character, but to combine that with the angst of adolescence; not to mention the taboo subject of member manipulation, shot his uncomfortableness up to a new peak.
Wilberforce listened to Paul’s blunt technical advice with a mixture of disgust, horror and fascination. He never once looked at his extrovert self-help guru during the lecture.
Wilberforce searched around his bedroom for inspiration to aid his quest. Not a single publication featured females of any description, apart from an illustration book of farmyard animals.
He opened the bedroom door, and heard his mother having a deep sounding conversation on the phone, and that gave him the green light to creep down the stairs.
On the kitchen table was the previous day’s Daily Mail. Wilberforce had done enough reconnaissance to know that particular item would not be suitable.
Next he viewed a selection of cookery books stacked up on the surface top next to the draining board. The only female on display was Fanny Craddock, which again was deemed unsuitable.
He found a holiday brochure for Butlins, which had one or two scantily clad ladies messing about on a sunny beach, and this was an improvement.
Finally, he clapped eyes on exactly the kind of thing he was after. He’d never seen it before, and was grateful that the material within was a godsend for his purpose.
Wilberforce trotted back up the stairs with a new spring in his step.

Albert and Tommy wondered how much hotter Mexico would’ve looked had they had a colour television set.
Things were going swimmingly, and when England took a two goal advantage early in the second half, they danced around like hyperactive adolescents on amphetamines.
“Well, it looks like we’ll get Italy in the semi’s – they’ve just gone two-one up.”
Tommy’s confidence looked well placed, and only extreme bad luck or gross negligence could throw a spanner in the works.
Unfortunately, the latter happened with about twenty minutes to go.
Both men were aghast when the Germans replied, and prayed that the old enemy would be too knackered by the heat to do any more damage.
“Oh Christ, someone get Banksie off his sick bed!”
Albert was showing all the composure of Corporal Jones from Dad’s Army. He was shitting his oversized white Marks and Spencer pants as the old enemy swarmed forward, no doubt powered on by the goalkeeping howler that allowed them back into the game.
“JESUS CHRIST!”
Albert’s flapping reached a new intensity when he saw the number 9 board held aloft from the touchline.
“WHAT THE HELL IS RAMSEY PLAYING AT??”
Bobby Charlton made his way off the pitch with sweat pouring off his face.
“Don’t panic, Albert.”
Tommy understood the reasoning behind the decision.
“He’s completely knackered mate – don’t forget he’s thirty-two now.”
Tommy did his best to calm his friend, but deep down he was also shitting his oversized white M&S underwear.
“I’m not worried about Bobby going off, I’m just praying they don’t get a shot on target!”
Tommy’s concerns were well founded as England somehow conspired to give the Germans revenge on a plate.
The final whistle blew, and both men couldn’t have been more shell shocked if a grenade had exploded in the kitchen.
They both sat with their heads in their hands, unable to comprehend what they just witnessed.
To compound Tommy’s misery, he looked into Maureen’s box, and discovered that she’d clocked out after eighteen years of sterling service.

Wilberforce was also experiencing strong emotions on the evening of June fourteenth, but they were inspired by his mother’s autumn/winter 1970 mail order catalogue.
It was an absolute treasure trove for a boy taking his first tentative steps into the world of masturbation, although the boy was also agonized by some of the scare stories he heard from other boys.
Everything from developing hairy palms, losing his sight, or simply running the risk of having his rod amputated as a result of his sinful behaviour played on his jumbled mind.
The more negative thoughts were put to one side as he settled on a curvaceous woman with a beehive hairstyle modelling a red and white polka dot bikini.

Catherine had now been on the phone for about an hour in deep conversation with her former neighbour.
It was eighteen months since Leonard Loveland walked out on his wife and dogs, and Amelia was still understandably distressed about her husband running off with her neighbour’s young daughter.
Grace had made Leonard’s life a misery, although he had to acknowledge that he wasn’t entirely blameless regarding his circumstances.
When Grace’s threat of inviting Leonard and Amelia round for dinner with her parents and herself did indeed materialize, Mr Loveland felt about as comfortable as he would’ve done playing hopscotch with knowledge that one of the squares housed a land mine.
Miss Windcheater’s torturing of the love rat from next door included tickling his nuts with her foot beneath the dinner table, getting him to provide more financial freebies on top of the original blackmail of the hundred pound cheque, and ‘accidentally’ pouring red wine over his expensive suit.
It was a pretty seismic shift in the balance of power between the two. Grace’s audacity and domination of Leonard eventually caused him to fall hopelessly in love with her.
Leonard was pained to the extent that coming clean to his wife was seen as the easiest option. Amelia wasn’t best pleased to discover her husband’s philandering side, and felt stupid for ignoring her own suspicions. Her therapy included throwing most of his personal possessions into the garden, setting fire to his most expensive suit, and threatening to tip off the police about his mini cannabis factory in the greenhouse.
Amelia was fully aware that the crisis also left its trauma with Catherine, and this bonded their friendship further. Mrs Loveland also fully understood that Catherine felt obliged to keep up diplomatic relations with her daughter and Leonard.
“I’ve got to be honest with you Amelia, I would be just as happy as you if Grace and Leonard separated.”
Amelia was delighted to hear these words of comradeship. Although she was given a pretty hefty financial settlement from her ex husband, she would still like to see him get more grief.
Catherine steered the conversation on to lighter matters, and they decided to arranged a Saturday morning shopping excursion.
Both women felt better after the hour long telephone chat, and Catherine decided to prolong the feel good factor by having a look at the latest fashions.
She searched high and low for her missing catalogue, and eventually decided that the only place it could be was in Wilberforce’s bedroom.