Chicken in a basket.

I can offer impeccable working class credentials; an outside toilet, hand-me-down everything and a spider infested coal cellar. But for incontrovertible class warrior providence, look no further than my strictly limited eating out opportunities.

Pub lunches were a much vaunted occasional luxury and the main dish was always served in a wicker basket sometimes garnished with the Chef’s discarded fag end.

But hey that’s fine. I’m not in therapy or anything. Well not for that anyway. But it did leave me a little undercooked when faced with proper big city restaurants. The first time Scampi – having escaped the deep fat friar – aggressively wiggled it’s proboscis at me, I didn’t know whether to fight it, fuck it, eat it or run away screaming It’s alive¦.”

So the whole car keys in a basket swinger scene kind of passed me by. I’d always assumed it was either an extravagant tip or some kind of executive valet service.

It is fascinating though. I can easily picture myself selecting the keys of some unfulfilled petrolhead fantasy. None of those awkward silence for me; oh no I’d be straight in with so the Audit Quattro 2.8 V6 with the leather interior “ how does it handle on those swoopy ˜b’ Roads?”

Not wishing to be parted from this fantasy, I’d include the keys in a three in the bed scenario and attempt to sequence the main event with the flashing of the remote locking. It’d be like Jean Michelle Jarre’s electronic harp. Only possibly slightly more cheesy. Vorch Sprung Technik Baby!

Lights on, off, on, on, on, oh yes on, (pause, remove pants), offffffff, on, off, onnnnnnnnnnn,off,on,off,on,offfffff (sorry about the elbow), on, on, on and then it’d all go Fibonacci strobe off on off on off on off onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn and ˜lock’

If we could remotely fire up a blast of Aretha Franklin on the 6 speaker stereo, then that’d be about as classy as you could hope for.

And then wouldn’t it be great if the entire swinging party took the same approach? That’d guarantee an audience and possibly a police presence. Pre-dogging dogging perhaps?

I’d love to write some more but Google has offered some fascinating opportunities that’ll need some frantic Ebaying for chest wigs and medallions for me to fulfil

This seemed a lot more amusing when it was composed. There are two likely, and possibly, interlinked reasons for this. First up is the pub based context in which it originated roared on by quite a few people having already had quite a few beers. The second is trainwritingâ„¢ which reduces transcription to something akin to a inky spider with broken legs perambulating sideways across the page before entering some kind of operatic death sprawl.

It’s frankly incredible the words form actually sentences. Oh. I see. Right. Thanks for letting me down gently.

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