Linda Jones tells us why she loves Ann Summers parties (and nurses uniforms)...
I was talking about nurses' uniforms the other day (as you do) and I suddenly remembered I have one. Well, I have a size 16 piece of flimsy blue and white material with an apron on it, which is supposed to represent such a thing. Go figure.
It's hidden away in a drawer with a load of other tat, sorry stuff, that has come home with me from various Ann Summers parties over the years, having passed my dignity, also on the way out.
I love my collection of knickers, bras and other (cough) stuff that has never seen the light of day. Maybe one day I'll pluck up courage to wear it, or perhaps flog it at a car boot sale. There's one coming up at Emily and Melissa's school. Wahay.
So what happens at these bawdy events where the dirty jokes flow as freely as the cheap white wine?
Well, mostly I end up fearing I’ve got Tourettes.
I’m left feeling more than ashamed of myself – for winning the ‘rude alphabet’ game for the third/fourth/fifth time running.
I know I’ve got a competitive streak but this is ridiculous.
“A” says the hostess (who says she is quitting the sex toys game to become an undertaker. Bit of a conversation stopper that one, apart from the odd comment about ‘stiffs.’)
"Arse," I shout, as quick as a, ahem, flash, beating a couple of 'ar*eholes' and one (really very worrying) 'ar*e bandit'' into second and third place.
The game continues apace through b*ll*cks, dick and dildo, while more wine is sipped and the laughs get throatier.
At 'f' the general consensus is it should be 'f*ck' and my suggestion of 'fisting' causes some consternation.
"What's that?" Ask a couple of the girls and I pretend I don't really know.(A lone reference by the hostess to bottoms hadn't 'gone down' well, after all so I decide ignorance is the best policy.)
And so it goes on. I am gripped by the urge to shout dirtier and dirtier words, then immediately lower my gaze and mutter 'sorry' more than once.
There are looks of horror and bewilderment, not to mention a few muffled choking sounds as I offer: "jism, knob, l*zza, minge, nuts, orgasm, p******ps and quim" in machine gun-like, cathartic succession.
My mate Alison is pretending she doesn't know me. By the time we get to t (that's tits, and a solitary 'twat' from me), I'm romping ahead. At ‘v’, people seem a little stumped except for the rather obvious 'vagina'.
I shout 'vulva' triumphantly before apologising profusely and taking another gulp of Chardonnay - not to mention preparing myself for a very loud, and I would say, perhaps a little too cocky - see what I did there - 'wanker'.
I sense the atmosphere changing.
Nobody likes a smart arse. Dirty looks are coming my way. "But I work with words!" I protest. It doesn't wash.
The assembled other mums have made a mental note that I am a pervert.
My prize is a pack of cards with blokes in various states of undress. Hours of hilarious fun lie ahead as we play 'guess the year' this was taken.
Judging by the straw hat and the handlebar moustache it was the same year the Village People made it big. Bet the young studs in these pictures knew a few words that would make us all blush.
Linda Jones is off to wash her mouth out with soap. Again.