A tale of love, passion and betrayal...
JILTED by the BORO! by Steely Worksend
At first I thought it was a wind up. A bit of a leg pull. A good one, mind you, but I wasn't going to fall for it. "You know that posh lass, Claudia, from over Riverside way?" asked Kenny. I thought for a moment, trying to picture in my mind's bleary eye this Claudia. It was hopeless. "The only Claudia I know is Claudia Boro, you know, from Geordie land." "Why aye lad, that's her," enthused Kenny, "Lovely lass, gorgeous legs, lovely..." "So, what about her?" I asked. Kenny had let his mind wander and was beginning to drool and look a little gormless. "Well, I think she might be up for it, know what I mean?" "Up for what, Kenny?" "You, you pillock! She's had her eye on you for a while. Bet you didn't know that." "She's been worshipping me from afar, has she Ken?" I said a little doubtfully. After all, why would a class act like Claudia Boro bother her pretty little head about me anyway? "She probably feels sorry for you, mate," said Kenny, as if he was reading my mind, "Claudia's old mum, Ayresome, goes to bingo with my old lass and she gave her her phone number so I could give it to you." He handed me a tiny scrap of paper. I figured this was the punch line, the end of Kenny's little wheeze. I gave what I hoped was a disinterested sigh as I unfolded the note. And there it was, just the number and written after it four little words that set my heart racing. 'Call after six. Claudia.' I feigned disinterest and gave a nonchalant shrug while pushing the note into my pocket. Kenny was hopping up and down on one leg like he was a kiddie that needed the toilet. "Well?" he spluttered. "Well what?" I didn't want to give anything away, didn't want to give him any clues that an evening with Claudia, or a morning or an afternoon, or well, any time really, was my wildest fantasy, my dream, my heaven. She wasn't the most beautiful woman in the world. She didn't have the classic beauty of Margaret United from Old Trafford or the style of Laura Pool from Anfield. But she definitely had that something that spells sex appeal. I'd always thought she was out of my reach. But she wasn't now I had that note in my pocket. "Are you going to ring her? I would," said Kenny, still hopping, "No doubt about it mate. Cowps, I'd be in like a shot, me..." He was gulping in air like a fish out of water and his hands were waving in the air like a string puppet being dangled by a child. "Calm down, Kenny, you'll see soon enough." And with that I left him twitching and jerking to himself. Daft as a brush I thought, but was he still having a laugh or was this genuine? There was only one way to find out. So, at five past six, thinking I'd be making a complete tit of myself, I picked up the phone for the umpteenth time. And put it down again. I'd spent the last five minutes in this state of vacillation. No, that's a lie. I'd been thinking about it every last waking moment since taking that number from Kenny's sweaty mit. I was torn between being the victim of a practical joke and the embarrassment and hurt to my pride that would follow, or dialling those few digits to hear her delightful voice. Oh, what the hell! If it's Kenny or one of his mates on the other end of the line I can always say I knew it was a joke all along. So, nervous as a kid on his first day at the big school, I tapped out the numbers. Four rings, each like an electric shock and then, like 4,000 volts, her voice. "Hello?" Oh, no it wasn't Claudia. It sounded elderly and feeble, but at least it was friendly. "Er, hello, is Claudia there?" I was sweating now. "No, love, she's not back from a modelling job at the Stadium of Light, but she won't be long. Can I get her to call you back, love, or take a message for her?" It was her mum, Ayresome. I told the old dear who I was. "Ee, I used to work with your mum, pet. How is she these days?" And so, after a five minute conversation and having left my number, I was staring into space barely able to contain myself. Claudia Boro, the Claudia Boro, was up for a night out with me. ME. And she's going to call me back. Her dear old mum, Ayresome, had said so. It took two days. Forty eight sleepless, fitful, walking round in circles, endless hours. Hours when things got spilled or dropped, with meals that passed me by because I had no appetite and no coherent thought. Except one. When would she call back? Unbelievably, she did. So, a week on Friday, after returning from a photo shoot at Pride Park, which I think is near Gstaad in Switzerland, we are to meet up at my place then embark on the night of my life. Well, my best night out for a few years, at least. Oh and it wasn't me coming back from Gstaad. It was Claudia. You can probably guess the rest. Even the most optimistic individual gets let down from time to time. Well, I was about to be disappointed big time. No, disappointed is too mild. Deflated, devastated and completely wrecked is more like it. A charmless phone call from a heartless personal assistant broke my dream and split my heart in two. I couldn't take in the details, they seemed to get lost in a fog that enveloped my mind. I remember something about a lip gloss crisis in Goodison or possibly an underwired bra problem at Elland Road. Either way it was to be a no show from Claudia Boro and that was all that mattered. I'd been stood up and let down good style. I hid my disappointment and not many people knew anyway, just Kenny and my Dad. He's a splendid fellow, my Dad. The best of them. But he does have a skeleton lurking in his cupboard, as we all do if we look hard enough. His is a fondness for Carlisle United. I know, I know, but what can I do? After all, he is a grown man. Mum, bless her, has put up with this for so long that she no longer raises any objection. It wasn't always so. In the early days, when she found out his shameful secret, there were tears and raised voices when they thought I was asleep. I knew there was something wrong and I knew what it was when I found a Carlisle v Nottingham Forest programme. Yes, it really has been going on that long. So when my Dad suggested we have a night out together on the Friday when I should have been meeting Claudia, it seemed like a good idea. It would take my mind off things. But as I watched Carlisle hoof it in the air against Torquay United, my misery was complete. Desperate isn't the word for it. A loud, raucous crowd had gathered for this dreadful affair between the two old slappers stuck at the very bottom of the league. And how they all danced, drunk with delight at a one-nil victory. Dad was dancing with the rest of them. And when it was over I put my arm around his shoulders and thanked him for caring enough to invite me. He was jabbering on about survival. I was thinking dark and fevered thoughts of what could have been, what should have been. And one day will be. Issue 049 - May 2001