Life and Laughing_ My Story - Michael McIntyre [58]
‘But she isn’t really,’ I admitted.
‘That’s not the point, this is your first time. You have to start somewhere, and girls need to be coaxed, they need to be turned on. Listen to me, or it will be a disaster,’ Sam continued.
When we arrived at Calais train station to be picked up, the scene was tremendously awkward. Sam and I spoke GCSE French, and Sandrine and her parents spoke Baccalauréat English. This worked quite well at the beginning, but we soon used up all our phrases in the car journey.
‘Hello, how are you?’, ‘What is your name?’, ‘My name is Michael’, ‘How old are you?’, ‘Can you tell me the way to the train station?’, ‘Why? We’ve just come from the station’, ‘What time is it?’, ‘I would like some bread.’
The last ten minutes of the journey passed in silence until her father said, ‘This is our home.’
To which I said in French, ‘Where do you live?’
Waiting for us was Sandrine. She was hairier than I remembered. I wondered if she might be related to Panos Triandafilidis from Merchant Taylors’. She was pleased to see me, she liked me; I just wished she liked deodorant as much. She had a friend with her who was much better-looking. Sam swooped instantly. Sandrine showed me around her sweet home. Strangely, her parents went out, encouraging me to take their daughter’s virginity. Sam also disappeared, with the hottest girl in Calais. ‘I told you I had a girl in every port,’ he said as they left. ‘Remember,’ he whispered, ‘compliment her.’
She showed me to her bedroom. It was neat and tidy and had views of the Channel. We sat on her bed, with my diagram in my pocket, and shared a bottle of duty-free wine and giant Toblerone from the local booze-cruise supermarket. I was a little freaked out by a shrine she had constructed in her room. It was a shrine to the few days we spent together in Malta. It was a bulletin board that had the note with my address on it as well as the tickets from a disco we went to and photos of us together. This was obviously the moment. I couldn’t not close this deal. She had a shrine. To me. In her bedroom.
I don’t want to go into too much detail, but by the third mountain of giant Toblerone I made my move. We started kissing and undressing. Sam had briefed me on the potential stumbling block of the bra strap. Rather than risk an awkward hiccup, he had equipped me with nail scissors which I subtly removed from my back pocket and cut clean through the strap behind her. Bravo. It worked a treat. I went swiftly though first, second and third bases, but I was nervous, so I then went back to second base, then back to first base, then to third. What kind of a baseball game was this?
This was probably the most nervous I had ever been in my life, which, of course, made me super posh when I followed Sam’s advice to compliment her. ‘You have quite the most beautiful …’ I scanned her for her best feature. She had pretty good legs. I was all set to say ‘legs’ when I noticed this enormous birthmark on one of her thighs. So I decided to say ‘leg’. But then I thought, ‘I can’t, I can’t say, “You have the most beautiful leg.”’ I ended up saying ‘room’. ‘You have quite the most beautiful room.’ She didn’t seem to mind that I’d overlooked everything about her and commented on the scenery.
In fact, she loved it. ‘Merci, merci, Michel.’ It really got her going.
This encouraged me. ‘I’m particularly fond of your lamp; is it antique?’ Things moved swiftly from here. Before I could comment on her rug (the one on the floor), I found myself at home base. I’d scored. It lasted no more than about three minutes (still a record for me) and afterwards I felt like a man. At last.
I lit one of her duty-free