PLAYGROUND TWIST

by
Megan Hall

�Those females least embedded in the male "Culture," the least nice, those crass and simple souls who reduce fucking to fucking, who are too childish for the grown-up world of suburbs, mortgages, mops and baby shit, too selfish to raise kids and husbands, too uncivilized to give a shit for anyone's opinion of them, too arrogant to respect Daddy, the "Greats" or the deep wisdom of the Ancients, who trust only their own animal, gutter instincts, who equate Culture with chicks, whose sole diversion is prowling for emotional thrills and excitement, who are given to disgusting, nasty, upsetting "scenes," hateful, violent bitches given to slamming those who unduly irritate them in the teeth, who'd sink a shiv into a man's chest or ram an icepick up his asshole as soon as look at him, if they knew they could get away with it, in short, those who, by the standards of our "culture" are SCUM...these females are cool and relatively cerebral and skirting asexuality.�

Barnsley girl Jen; we worked together in the bond street arcade, in a department store on the second floor. Every morning we would start early for delivery, just the two of us, smoking spliffs in the basement and eating chicken pasties for breakfast from Gregg the baker�s. Most mornings they would be so hot we would burn the roof off the top of our mouths, but it didn�t matter; we were too stoned to notice.

She had white blonde hair, and was always complaining about being too fat. Jen had a pot belly, and a really pretty face, scarred by acne, covered by an inch thick layer of rimmel concealer,

�Do you think I�ve lost weight this week? I�ve only eaten a bag of salad and three cheese pizza slices since last Tuesday��

I�d always say she looked thinner than before, which would make her happy for the clothes rail traffic jam up the lift shafts.

Some days she would mention how she was thinking of getting her belly button pierced, one with a diamond through it � it would compliment her little butterfly tattoo on her ankle. A real girly girl she was, compared to my shabby indie clothes she probably made more effort every morning than anyone else on the shopfloor. That combined with her squeaky dialect made her an adorable little peach, drunk, stoned, off her face, or stone cold sober. A real pleasure to be with and hang out alongside.

I�d get bollocked almost daily for being scruffy, stinking of vodka, having chipped toenail polish, wearing trainers to work, being cocky, talking too much, disrupting the staff, causing mutiny, being a drug addict, bringing drugs into work, being mates with shoplifters, thieving, but of course � none of this ever proved, but it made working there a real chore.

Most nights after work we would find the cheapest happy hour bar on Boar Lane. Between the fat necked Ben Sherman brigade in shiny shoes wearing kuros and hair gel, the women with perma-tan orange faces and sun-in peroxide hair, a group of us would sit drinking vodka until the money ran out.

It was the end of the 90s, and Leeds, despite its new form of rampant materialism, certainly wasn�t getting anymore stylish as it broke into the new �shopping era�. It was as though every person out on a night would have spent at least 6 hours getting ready before they went out, every bar had a dress code, every crap club had queue of brawling Morley psychopaths steaming heat off their over pressed designer shirts.

Leeds had a multitude of dreadful clubs which we all frequented as out on the piss shopgirls every other night. Choice venues included TopCats (Merrion Centre), �1 a shot with some fuckwit speaking DJ playing Black Lace at full blast 15 times a night, Jumpin� Jacks � where bar staff would jump on the bar in �spice girl� mode, earmics on doing a west Yorkshire bad spandex cover version of �if you wannabe my lover!� Other notables were Planet Earth with an original 70s spinning dancefloor, Upstairs Downstairs in Armley aka UD or �VD� as it was commonly known.

Between me and Jen we managed to check them all out on drunken binges; Big Lil�s saloon bar was always good for curiosity, the Gipton gloyts who frequented the joint were White Lightening drinking characters from a Heronymous Bosch painting, with the added bonus of karaoke versions of Spandau Ballet three times an hour if you were lucky. There were plenty of �cool� places to go, but we fucked that off in search of �Leeds� Worst Club� � a mission that we almost accomplished but gave up on after spending nearly all of our pittance wage on the holy grail of Leeds� nightlife.

Most nights I would end up back in my attic room � at the top of the hippy house of horrors. It was a co-operative that I ended up staying with for a while; they tolerated my rampages and charged me �20 a week to have the house pretty much to myself. I lived with a unicycling juggling cunt who was a stilt walker, an eco-warrior; but first and foremost a yoghurt weaver.

It was a grim house, crawling with flies from recycling bins that had never been emptied, old turds floating in the toilet pans (save water!), and an inch of fluff on every carpet in the house. It was an allergic nightmare; I�d wake up every morning staring at the dust on my bedside cabinet, the previous night�s eyeliner scrubbed into the grey pillowcases. I couldn�t even afford sheets, so pulled out leopard fur throws across my bed in the hope of a little glamour in my pit of hell.

I smelled really bad; mostly of Kirov (Russian spirit. Made in Batley), sweat, skunk, vomit, cocaine abuse and unwashed clothes. If I could crawl out of bed early enough I�d have a bath, smoke a roll up, try and hand wash a few clothes, but life was bleak; red brick back to backs in Woodhouse never inspired a zest for life. To avoid being there or facing up to myself I�d go out on the lash, drenched in Issey Miyake perfume and a pair of ragged flip flops with a pink sari dress.

It was Jen�s birthday one night.

�Fancy coming out on a night on Barnsley? Never mind the worst club in Leeds�How about the worst club in my home town? Go on�..You know you want to..�

It was an irresistible offer, but I knew deep down that maybe I might not make it.

�Yeah sure Jen, I�ll come over Saturday after work.�

She arranged a meal at a burger hut in the town centre, with her, Sarah (another friend from work), and me. We would paint Barnsley red. Smoke dope all night, drinks shots, on the eternal quest. What a night. Her boyfriend Jason decided to stay out of the way, wisely perhaps (�It�s alright, go and have a night with the girls Jen.�)

True to form, at 5.30, my head is spinning from last night�s carnage, and I step out of work, onto the bus, try and get changed into an outfit, and fall fast asleep face down on the sofa. Out for the count,12 hours like a disco log, my phone rings, Jen leaves me messages. I�ve stood her up

�Meg. Where the fuck are you. Are you lost in Barnsley? I�ve rang 20 times�It�s my birthday, I�ve got my sparkly shoes on and everything��

What a silly cunt. I fell asleep, and Sarah and Jen go on the girl�s night out without me. When I wake in the morning, I pick up the messages, clean the make up off my face. Feel guilty, so I call Jen up at midday. A sinking feeling in the bottom of my gut.

�Jen. I am so sorry. I mean it. I don�t know what the fuck happened.

�Oh it�s alright. We had a great night. Guess what?! You�re never gonna guess where I�ve been this morning? To have my belly button pierced. It�s the best thing that�s ever happened to me.. I swear.�

I can hear Jen�s voice is breaking a little. There�s definitely something not quite right. But I can�t seem to drag it out of her.

�Jen, are you ok?�

�Aww. Well last night. It was a bit weird. But, I�ll tell you when I see you Monday. Chicken Pasties for breakfast?�

�Jen. Don�t tell me Monday. What happened last night?�

�Meg. I swear if you tell Jason I�ll kill you.�

So the story goes like this; Sarah and Jen go out on the tiles, get legless before 10pm, end up in some South Yorkshire shithole, drink more shots, and bump into some guy having a spliff out the back. He offers them speed, and they have a bit with him in the toilets. He�s a teacher in a local primary school. Jen and him and Sarah have a dance, bounce off the walls, he�s a bit lost at the end of the night.

�Oh it�s alright love, come back to ours for a few drinks.�

The girls flirt a little bit with him. Not too much. But just enough. It gets to 6am, and Sarah is in the living room with him. Jen goes to bed. Sarah is obliterated but has a snog, a dirty fumble, sucks off his shrivelled dick in the pattern carpet hallway. Sarah falls asleep, the man gets up, walks into Jen�s bedroom, while she lays there, she hears the door close. She closes her eyes tight. He unbuckles his belt. Jen is scared. He gets into the bed.

�Stay asleep Jen. Stay asleep.�

The words pound around her skull.

He grabs her baby doll nightdress. Pulls it up. Jen is shaking, eyes wide shut. She stays still. He slaps his half erect dick into her butt cheeks. Rams it in.

�Please stop.�

She whispers to him. Asks him again. He doesn�t stop. Just sweats and groans and Jen is thinking what is going to happen when Jason walks through the door. The teacher comes inside her as he presses his palms over her mouth. Jen can�t talk. Jen can�t move. She just lays out and cries. He comes on the sheet. Zips up his trousers, pulls on his shirt and walks out the flat.

Talking to Jen that next day, it occurred to me that had I have been there that would never have happened. Or maybe not. But I should have been there to look after her.

Sarah gets up, and Jen tells her what happened, and Sarah says �Well you can�t tell anyone because if word gets out that I shagged him first then my reputation is over. You get it? Over�

Jen feels that maybe it was her fault. She washes the sheets, sprays a shower hose between her legs. But she can�t tell Jason. To make herself feel better she gets her belly button pierced.

We talk some more.

�Jen. Listen to me. You�ve been raped. It was against your consent. You have to tell Jason. The moment he walks through the door. Fuck what Sarah says. You have to tell him. And go to the police. Right now.�

Jen is scared that they won�t believe her. That he will say �she said yes�. It�s his word against hers. And he is a teacher after all. Why would a teacher be a rapist?

�Well Jen there�s always other ways. To deal with this whole thing.�

That week I had read �SCUM Manifesto� by Valerie Solanis, funnily enough, I lent it to Jen that week.

�Jen. Two words. SCUM MANIFESTO. We go and fucking do him. Right now. If you don�t want to tell the police, or Jason, then we take matters into our own hands. I know some heavy boys in Leeds. But we don�t need them. Let�s burn his fucking house down. Resistance. Come on, get the fucking force Jen; let�s go cut his balls off.�

Faced with the option of me burning a teacher�s house down, Jen decides to tell Jason. He takes her straight to the police. And surprise surprise; the teacher comes up with some bullshit, and the police take his side. They make Jen feel like a criminal. Like she�s a liar. That she�s the one in the wrong. Then Sarah, the only witness, denies all knowledge. She won�t go to court, refuses to go through with it, as it would mean standing up in court and admitting sucking this sleaze�s dick in front of a jury.

Jen drops charges in the end. With no witness, it�s his word against her�s.

And they believe him. He�s a teacher after all.

Jen never recovered from that night. She ended up leaving the shop and becoming an old people�s home nurse. I spoke to her one time, and she said how she would change shitty incontinent pants every day, disinfecting piss from cruddy damp mattresses � putting on a brave face. Keeping her chin up. She could never get over the humiliation she felt of laying out on a bed with her legs spread apart, ratty overworked police nurses taking swabs from a speculum up inside of her. Laying there thinking that no matter what happened at least the police might believe her, she knew in her own head what had gone on. She remembered the lights, how she had to wait and lay there staring at the ceiling, the strip lights burning away any respect she ever had for herself. Her dignity engulfed by the 100 watt neon bulbs.

� Megan Hall
Reproduced with permission

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