“DON’T BE SHY, YOUR MOTHER WASN’T.”
In the sixties, the place to take your “lass,” as we called them in Newcastle, was Tynemouth car park on the sea front. Bouncing up and down, these old (and I mean old) cars looked like they were making a rough Channel crossing. Seeing a female ankle in a handle strap was a sure sign someone had triumphed.
Geordie love echoed across the tarmac:
“Gerrin’, you fucka.”
“If you come inside of us, I’m telling my dad.”
“Move over, you cow.”
“I’ve told you before, don’t come inside us.”
If you had a Mini Cooper, you were in business. They were so convenient, you see, because they had sliding windows. A lady could position herself quite comfortably by sticking one of her legs out of the window, the other over the driver’s seat, leaving me, for example, to position myself in her nether regions.
You could count on me to say something romantic. You would be surprised how many times “Don’t be shy, your mother wasn’t” did the trick.
One night, a girl’s father came running out of his house as I was dropping her off. He wanted to know what had been going on. “Nothing” was the reply.
Then he spotted the semen on the top of her blouse. I gunned it.