21.
A Walk on the Wild Side
HE dips the tip of his sausage in yolk. He is breakfasting at The Ambience Café Bar, Bistro and Tea Garden in Gillygate. Two sausages, two bacon rashers, a fried egg, hash browns, baked beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, toast and tea, all for £4. He also gets to sit in a lovely garden with wooden tables and green and white umbrellas watching a rabbit playing on a lush green slope by an ancient wall.
He'd told Aunty Latch he didn't want any breakfast and had left the house at 8.00, saying he had 'things to do'. Lily Gusset, dressed today in pink hot-pants and an orange crop-top which revealed her rather hairy navel, had squealed disappointment.
''Ohhh, but Yo-yo, you know how much I enjoy our little breakfasts together.''
''Sorry, Lil,'' Yo-yo had said, lacing his silver trainers, smoothing his purple T-shirt and hitching up his dark green jeans. ''It'll all be clear later.'' He gave her a peck on the cheek, gave Aunty Latch another, and bounced out of COZEE NOOK leaving his aunt and her friend lamenting the conduct of 'young 'uns today' and his uncle pleading plaintively ''But don't you want to play with me nudibranch today?''
Yo-yo piles beans on hash-browns and crams them into his mouth with a yum. Breakfast in Gillworthy is never like this. Breakfast in Gillworthy is generally prunes, figs or bran, to keep him regular, and a large, healthy spoonful of cod liver oil.
''Would you like more tea?'' the waitress enquires.
''Mmmm,'' Yo-yo mmmms through his mushrooms.
The plan is good. He believes it will work but he needs a disguise and that is what has brought him to Gillygate at nine in the morning. There is a fine shop called KAOS which hires fancy-dress costumes. Yo-yo has spotted in the window a huge and fluffy Tweety-Pie, a grey and sinister Sylvester Cat and a fabulous Orinoco the Womble complete with hat and unfeasibly long nose. He isn't yet sure which costume he'll choose but he'll sure have fun trying them on. 'The Party Starts Here', says the motto over the shop front, and Yo-yo sincerely hopes this is true. He finishes his breakfast, swallows the tea and belches softly, quietly satisfied.
Gillygate, as the Lettuce Brothers have already discovered, is an eclectic mix. From the imposing red-brick Salvation Army Head Quarters and Wacker's Fish and Chip Restaurant (Parking at Rear), Yo-yo passes Bohemia Galleries, Ruby Chinese Takeaway, King's Pizza, and The 'Cello Wine Bar on one side, Mamma Mia, Hudson Moody, the RSPCA and Lloyd's Pharmacy displaying leaflets on 'Beating Diabetes' in its window on the other.
But Yo-yo is not to be distracted. He has one goal and one goal only and it stands on the corner of Gillygate and Bootham, facing the scene of yesterday's Great Art Gallery Pie Fight. It is Jax Hair Design. Two school teachers, covered in custard, are chained to the railings outside.
''Will you marry me?'' Mister Mealey asks Miss Mousey.
A blob of custard drops from her nose.
One old fellow is already in the barber's chair, chatting about the weather and horse racing and his friends in Japan. (104.7) Minster FM is playing Justin Bieber:
''I wish we had another time, I wish we had another place,
But everything we have is stuck in the moment…''
Yo-yo flicks idly through the Daily Bale. Not much in there. So what's new? He picks up the Yorkshire Post. Bad move. His buttocks stare out from the front page. He blushes, hurriedly puts it back face-down, then conceals himself completely inside The Stun.
''Going to the ducking?'' the stylist asks the old fellow. ''Bloody pervert, running round the Minster without his clothes. Totally starkers, they say. Waving his todger all over, they say. Hidin' in bushes scaring the kiddies, they say.''
''Bugger the kiddies,'' squeaks the old fellow. '' 'E used me 'at fer a piss-pot, 'e did.'' Yo-yo chokes. ''I'd lop his bollocks orf,'' squeaks the old fellow. ''That's what they did in my day.''
Yo-yo shuffles uncomfortably. Those shears were fairly blunt, he recalls.
''You been to that there circus?''
''Aye,'' says the old fellow. ''Marvellous. They got this lion tamer, can't be a day under 105, juggling bear, yuman cannonball, an' the clowns are great. Mind you, they 'ad more custard in my day. An' redder noses. An' bigger shoes. These modern clowns. Don't get 'em. I filled in a survey for a focus group and telt 'em - redder noses and bigger shoes. That's what the public wants. Clowns were clowns in my day, tha knows.'' The stylist holds up a mirror so the old fellow can see the back of his head and what's left of his hair. ''Aye, very nice,'' says the old fellow.
''Anything for the weekend, sir?'' The stylist winks.
''What? You mean this trim won't last till Christmas?''
''No,'' says the stylist. ''Something for the wee wifie at home. Grrrr.''
''I can't afford a new duster, not at my age.'' The old fellow eases himself out of the chair.
''No, sir,'' the stylist persists. ''Something … er…. intimate? For the evenings?''
''Oh,'' says the old fellow. ''You mean contraceptive devices.''
The stylist glances at Yo-yo, who hides his face in the big tits on page 53 of The Slum. Honestly, these footballers with their booze-fuelled antics and super-injections…..
''Black Mambas and that there ribbed stuff with studs?'' says the old fellow. ''French ticklers and flavoured johnnies? Condoms and ready-lubed tubes? Extra-strong rubbers for a bit of back-passage interest?''
''Sir….,'' says the stylist, glancing at Yo-yo who is perusing the pop profiles.
''Blimey, in my day you 'ad ter make yer own out o' a rolled-up chip wrapper or a salt-and-vinegar-crisp bag if you wanted a bit of adventure.''
''Sir,'' says the stylist, darting a glance at Yo-yo, who is deeply engrossed in the fashion section, ''There are children present.''
''You'll be asking if I want a cock-ring and some love-eggs next.''
Yo-yo chokes behind the paper.
''Sir….''
''Oh, all right, then,'' says the old fellow. ''Give us some o' that there pomade. Make me hair all glossy for the wife. Just don't make me smell like a Parisian prozzie.''
The stylist does his bit with the scented spray and sooner than a Frenchman can drop his trousers, the old fellow is out in the street plumping up his fancy new hair-do.
''Now then, young man,'' says the stylist, rinsing his comb in a jar of disinfectant as Yo-yo moves into the chair, ''What's it to be?''
''Black Mamba?'' says Yo-yo hopefully. ''French tickler? Something for the weekend? Grrrr.''
''I meant your hair,'' says the stylist starchily.
''Dunno,'' says Yo-yo. ''I want a new hair-style. Try some stuff out and I'll tell you when I like it.''
The stylist runs his comb through the dusty red hair that had earned Yo-yo the nickname 'Copper Nob' in Gillworthy. Though he'd never really connected that with his hair.
In the mirror
Yo-yo has a short back and sides. ''No,'' he says, ''Too military.''
In the mirror
Yo-yo has a crew cut. ''No,'' he says, ''Too Fascist.''
In the mirror
Yo-yo has a ginger scarecrow wig. ''No,'' he says, ''Too Scottish.''
In the mirror
Yo-yo has black curly locks. ''No,'' he says, ''Too Scouse. Calm down.''
In the mirror
Yo-yo is bald.
''Hmmm,'' he says, running his hand over his gleaming smooth scalp, ''I like it, but something more... feminine.'' The stylist blinks.
In the mirror
Yo-yo's coppery hair is blonde and in bunches, with pale blue ribbons for contrast.
''That'll do,'' he says. ''Thanks very much.'' He pays his ten quid and leaves. ''Forget the Black Mambas. I'm in a hurry.''
Feeling somewhat self-conscious, he crosses the Bar to the Gents toilet on the other side. It smells strongly of wee. Last time he was here he ran into Mister Vanilla. He goes into a cubicle and locks the door. The floor is covered in water so he opens the tartan rucksack on the cistern and suddenly
Yo-yo is wearing white ankle socks and
black shoes and a pale blue knee-length party frock, bound at the waist with a white sash,
He looks like Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz. ''Oh Aunty Em, that awful old witch threatened poor Toto,'' he squeaks, then looks in his rucksack again.
Yo-yo is wearing very short, ludicrously tight pale green shorts and a white sleeveless cropped-top that exposes most of his stomach
The fashionable pre-teen jail-bait look that parents seem to permit. Hmmm. No. He looks in his rucksack again.
Yo-yo is wearing an ankle-length black dress with tassels on the hem
Very nice, but a little too hippy-dippy. He looks in his rucksack again.
Yo-yo is wearing pink dungarees with a large yellow sun in the centre of the chest
Possibly, though a little too Playbus. He looks in his rucksack again.
Yo-yo is wearing a two-piece bikini-style swimsuit in green with blue polka dots
For God's sake, who packed this bag?
He shakes the rucksack and realizes, with some dismay, that his knowledge of girls' clothing is very limited.
Yo-yo is wearing a pink and white patterned skirt, a fluffy white cardigan
which buttons to the throat and pink and white fluffy slippers.
He has suddenly turned into somebody's grandmother. All he needs is a rocking chair and a nice bit of knitting. Follow the Yellow Brick Road, he sighs, and selects-
white ankle socks and black shoes and pale blue knee-length party frock, bound at the waist with the white sash.
He minces from the cubicle in what he hopes is a girly way. The old fellow from the barber's, washing his hands, simply stares. A young boy at a urinal gulps and rushes into the cubicle. A middle-aged man winks a ''Mornin' darlin'.''
''Excusez-moi,'' squeaks Yo-yo, ''I got ze wrong toi-lette. I am française and cannot read Eengleesh.''
''Zen let me 'elp you, leetle girl,'' says the middle-aged man. ''Zees is called ...un cock ... would you like to touch it?''
Yo-yo knees him in the bollocks and minces out into the street. The Sightseeing bus is still grid-locked in Exhibition Square. The Germans, Americans, Japanese and Italians are still aboard, still taking photos.
''Close your eyes,'' yells the tour guide, ''And pretend that we're moving. Here on your left is the Tower of London …'' A dozen flashbulbs explode.
A horse trots by. Martin Mizzenmast is tied naked to the saddle and facing the tail. He is pursued by a roaring, fist-shaking, pitchfork-waving mob and several pounds of tomatoes and eggs.
Yo-yo shakes his head and passes under the gate into High Petergate. The Lettuce Brothers are still in Number 4. The waiter reads back their order:
''So that's two ham-hock terrines with red pepper and cauliflower piccalilli, one steamed Shetland mussels with pancetta and pesto, and one partridge and mango roll with canteloupe melon, Muscat and plum relish, followed by one pheasant breast with celeriac and potato dauphine, baked stone-grave figs, crisped Parma ham and pan juices….''
''Yum,'' drools Endive.
''.. one red wine and juniper marinated Fort William venison with cinnamon-braised red cabbage and maple-roasted parsnips….''
''Tlap tlap.'' Rocket licks his lips.
''…one lamb loin tagine with herby couscous and caramelised baby pears, mint and coriander….''
''Mmmmm,'' dribbles Chicory.
''And one rosemary-marinated Yorkshire fillet steak with king prawn tortellini, honey courgette and caper-cream sauce.''
'Glglglgggggll,'' gurgles Kos.
''And to drink, sirs?''
''Four pints of mild, please,'' says Chicory.
''Any side-salads, sir?''
''Listen, buster,'' says Rocket, ''Do we look like weight-watchers?''
Yo-yo peers through the window of The Little Apple Bookshop. He has just spotted the cult novel YO-YO'S WEEKEND. It's remaindered at half-price because no bugger will buy it. Doctor Molasses says it's a load of old bollocks. Yo-yo's heard it's gratuitously offensive to just about everyone, has a beer fixation and an unhealthy obsession with kinky sex and therefore wants to read it, just for the laugh. Maybe he'll buy it just to annoy Doctor Molasses.
He looks longingly at The Hole in the Wall (serving Ridings, Snecklifter and Mansfield's Mild and offering curry nights on Monday, acoustic nights on Tuesday, steak and wine nights on Wednesday and quiz nights on Thursday) but it isn't open yet, so he walks on past the Minster and the statue of Constantine (''Hello, old friend'' he replies to the Emperor's subtly salacious wink) then heads down Goodramgate to Boyes' department store. He is promptly accosted by a middle-aged sales assistant with a bosom like two badly parked Volkswagens and a face like a bag of snails.
''What can I do for you, my dear?'' breathes the matron.
''I'm looking for lippie,'' squeaks Yo-yo, ''Something to go with my eyes.''
''You have beautiful eyes,'' breathes the matron. ''Very green. Come with me.''
Yo-yo finds Boyes' in York a little downmarket, albeit affordable. He prefers the slightly classier though more expensive Boyes' in Scarborough but he's not really that choosy. Being in Boyes' anywhere is an exciting adventure. He looks helplessly at the array of lipsticks lined up like miniature missiles and thinks a coral kiss might be nice, a mulled wine even nicer, but birthday suit? After yesterday's shenanigans? These names are exotic, alluring and deeply unhelpful. I mean, what colours are they?
Poncho pink Marshmallow whip Honey blossom
Coral kiss Heather berry Hot chilli
Birthday suit Passionate plum Mulled wine
It reads more like a race-card than a lipstick list.
Peter O'Sullivan : Welcome to the 1125 at York, the Boyes' Lipstick Chase. They're all in the gates and under starters orders, Poncho Pink 11-2, Marshmallow Whip 4-1, Honey Blossom moving out to 8-1, Coral Kiss is evens, Heatherberry and Hot Chilli 13-1, Mulled Wine 3-1 with Passionate Plum 16-1, Birthday Suit a distant 50-1 outsider. Conditions good to firm, they're off.
The gun claps.
Passionate Plum takes an early lead, with Heatherberry close on her tail, Birthday Suit is closing the gap as they come to the first furlong, and Coral Kiss coming up on the rails, as they close on the bend, and Mulled Wine is making up ground on the leaders as they turn towards the stand.
Yo-yo jumps up and down, the race card in his hand. ''Come on, Coral Kiss, come on Coral Kiss.''
They're coming into view and it's Heatherberry a length ahead of Passionate Plum, Mulled Wine is close on the rails, Coral Kiss a neck behind, Birthday Suit and Poncho Pink and Honey Blossom bringing up the rear.
''Come on, Coral Kiss. Come on, Coral Kiss.'' Yo-yo pounds the rail.
Heading into the final furlong, Passionate Plum in the lead, Coral Kiss coming up the outside, it's going to be close, Mulled Wine, Coral Kiss, Mulled Wine a nose in front, and it's …. Passionate Plum on the line, Mulled Wine second, Coral Kiss in third…..
''Goddammit,'' says Yo-yo, ripping up his betting slip.
''Ahem,'' says the shop assistant. ''When you've quite finished.'' Guiltily, Yo-yo returns the sticks to their rack. ''Now then, Coral Kiss.'' The shop assistant heaves her bosom up with her forearm and sets to work on Yo-yo's lips. ''Nice,'' she pronounces, ''But may-be some-thing mau-ver, or more bur-gun-dy? Those love-ly green eyes. Just like emeralds,'' she coos, ''And that gor-geous red hair..''
''Strawberry blond,'' growls Yo-yo, insulted.
''Hold still, love.'' She grips his jaw between finger and thumb, a ferret in a vice, and daubs his lips with Passionate Plum. ''There. Now then. Blusher …''
''You're all right,'' says Yo-yo. ''I just want the lippy.''
''You've got quite pale skin, dear,'' muses the matron. ''Maybe a mauve or a bronze?'' She dusts his face. ''Are you Irish, dear?''
''Certainly not!'' splutters Yo-yo.
''Gypsy, then?''
''Are you looking for a punch up the bracket?'' Yo-yo snarls.
''Eye-shadow. Taupe, or bronze, or something more b
uttery maybe? Let's try something apricoty, perhaps.'' She picks up an eye-pencil. ''Hold still, dear. You hear about that there freaker then? I come over all of a-quiver when I heard about it.'' That explains the earthquake then, thinks Yo-yo. ''There you go.'' She stands back and admires her artistry.
''Thanks,'' yelps Yo-yo, trying to avoid the mirror.
''Now what about a bra?'' breathes the matron. ''I'm sorry, dear, but I couldn't help noticing your bust is beginning to show.''
''What?'' barks Yo-yo. ''Man-jugs at my age? How dare you?''
The matron looks flustered. Yo-yo feels awkward. He looks at himself in the mirror, in his frock and bunches. He doesn't know much about busts. There are no girls in Gillworthy. All he knows is what he's seen in gentlemen's recreational literature, and he is damn sure his penny pieces aren't on the two-water-melons-in-a-bag scale.
''Okay,'' he twitters, and, before he knows it, he is modelling bras.
There's a primrose one
and a pale blue one
and a soft pink one
and a saucy, lacy black.
''How old are you, dear?'' says the shop assistant.
''Errrr …''
''About fourteen, I should say.'' She's rummaging in her drawers. ''What size are you?''
''What? Errr … 42...'' The 42E is humungous. ''Blimey,'' he quips, holding it up. ''You get a lot for your money. You'd get a couple of basketballs in here and still have room for the team.''
She plucks out a plain white 32B cup and a frilly black 34B cup and holds them up against Yo-yo's chest. ''They should do nicely. Good starter-bras for growing girls. Give you plenty of room to develop.'' She winks. ''You'll have a nice pair when you're older, if I'm not much mistaken.''
You are much mistaken, Yo-yo thinks as he finds himself in the fitting room trying them on. This plan is not without hazards. He buys both the bras. The shop assistant throws in matching knickers. Apparently they come as a set. Yo-yo looks despondently at the two infinitesimally small wisps of frilly cotton. It'd be like wearing a cheese-wire, he thinks.
''Now have you started your period yet, dear? Maybe some tampons? We've got some on special offer.''
Yo-yo blushes and, quicker than an Italian soldier changes sides in a war, bolts with his purchases.
''We've got some nice sanitary towels,'' calls the shop assistant, ''If you don't want anything going inside….''
La la la la la la, ears covered by hands.
Yo-yo passes along the twelfth century street of St Gudrun, Our Lady's Row, built in 1316, and the oldest houses left in York. Despite the powerful enticement of a Fantastic Four poster, a Star Wars Trivial Pursuit DVD (£44.99) and Clone Wars Risk (£24.99) in Travelling Man's Comic Book Store, chocolate-dipped strawberries in Le Chocolaterie and the black waistcoat, red pants, bandana, black eye-patch and skull-blazoning flag in Festival of Fun, Yo-yo arrives unscathed at the narrow entrance to the ancient church of Holy Trinity and his long-anticipated