How I met Alan

I'm going to try to remember what I spent an hour writing last night... I finished what I was doing, clicked on the Publish Post button, only to find my mouse pointer had turned into the spinning beach ball of death! I guess you'll have to be an iMac user to know what I'm going on about.

I was seething. Bloody Netscape. I'll never use it again! It's Firefox for me from now on (thanks, Dan!).

Anyway...

I'm going to tell four stories of how I met Alan. Only one of them is true. Your job, dear reader, is to sort fact from fiction. Which one is true? Please tell me in the comments section.

I don't actually like recalling this story (I get heartburn just thinking about it), but tell it I must, since the ever fabulous Moncrief has instructed me to do so. I just love it when he bosses me about.

Version one

I would have been about eight years old, Alan, I think, was nine. We both had older brothers who were mad for fitba and played in the local team. Both our Mums hated football, which was a boon for Alan and I as we hated it, too. They'd take us, with our brothers, to the match on Sunday morning, then disappear once the game had begun into the public toilets to smoke fags and drink cider!

Spooky, very spooky. Alan and his Mum would be in one cubicle, my Mum and I in another. Mum and I had no idea there were people in the next lock up; Alan and his Mum had no idea we were in the lock up next to them!

One particular Sunday, Mum was busy contorting herself, scratching her bum.

"Oh! What an itch on my bum!" she said.

I used to wish my Mother was American. She might have then said fanny instead of bum which would have been totally hilarious!

Anyway, I digress... There was me with the cider in one hand, the lighter in the other and the fag in my gob. She was bending down for so long, my lungs were choc-full of smoke! You see, I had a cold, couldn't breathe through my nose. Mum eventually came up for air, and so did I! She swiped the fag out of my mouth and I immediately began hacking!

"Who's there?" came a voice from the next cubicle.

Mum put her finger over her mouth, a mimed instruction to reinstate that broken silence.

Next thing, a rolled up piece of paper came sliding through a hole in the dividing wall between cubicles. I took it, unrolled it and read it. I'd recognise it now as Alan's unmistakable handwriting, but back then, I had no idea who was hoping to correspond with Minge!

What are you into? the note enquired. I responded:

Mars bars, custard and The Bay City Rollers.

The sound of the bolt sliding out of its sheath filled me with electricity! I opened the door of my lock up, as did Alan and we met for the first time in front of the urinal.

We've been friends ever since.

Version two

I think I was nineteen at the time. Alan was in his early forties.

I fancied knitting myself a nice cardy, so went down to the wool shop, looking for a nice pattern.

I couldn't believe the lady behind the counter. She was quite the grotesque! Huge lemon twin set with matching hat, shoes, bag and gloves. Pearls. Full make up. Hairy chest.

"Are you a sex swap?" I asked.
"No, I'm doing this for a bet," said Alan...

I told him I'd come in for a nice cardigan pattern. He, very kindly, took me over to the pattern books and picked a few out for me, showing me the ones he'd already knitted himself, showing me which ones were easy and which ones caused him stress.

I chose one and we went back over to the counter.

"How much?" I asked.
"Just put it in your bag, love, before anyone sees. We queens have got to stick together!"
"But that's theft."
"No it's not, it's a fucking gift. Now scarper!"

I went back two days later to show Alan the finished cardy. Obviously the bet was to be in full drag for a very long time as he was still wearing ladies' clothes. He was very impressed. I offered to knit him a nice chenille jumper. He accepted, we went out onto the street for a fag and we've been friends ever since.

Version three

I moved to Armadale from Edinburgh in 2002. I wondered if there were other gays in the Dale so had a look on gaydar. Have you seen my gaydar profile, by the way, dear reader? No? Shame on you! Click here.

Anyway, I had a look. I found two. One was Alan, one was called dragon-something-or-other... The latter just wanted to chat, afraid of meeting anyone. There were others from Armadale, but they listed their location as Bathgate. Not sure why.

Alan and I chatted for a while - a few months actually, before plucking up the courage to meet. He came round to my house for a cup of tea, we chatted, he went home. We've been friends ever since.

Version four

I went into the chip shop one evening, desperate for white pudding! Before making my order, a guy joined the queue behind me. He turned out to be Alan. But I'm jumping ahead...

Ouch! I had these horrible stomach cramps. Appendicitis? I collapsed on the floor.

"Are you constipated, love?" asked Alan.

I shook my head.

Alan told me he was a witch-doctor (witch was right) and knew a good cure all for stomach cramps. He told me I probably just needed a good fart. He ordered the mary behind the counter in the chippy to give him a small cooked sausage. Next, he was pulling my panties down and inserting said sausage into my anus!

"Oh, gosh," he said. "You're really tight down there! It's only a chipolata and I'm having a right game to get it in. Fancy going for a drink?"

He took me to The Goth and bought me a diet Irn Bru. Oh, those cramps again!

We rushed off to the toilets. Alan tried to retrieve the chipolata, but it was no good. I was so tight, he couldn't get a finger in! I screamed!

A barman came in and, well, to cut a long story short, sent for the bobbies. We were arrested and spent a long time getting to know one another in prison. We've been friends ever since.

That sausage never did make a reappearance. For all I know, it's still in there. It's too big to come out. I'm as tight as a cat's anus down there and only do jobs the size of wee ball bearings. The sausage has no chance.

Fin

So, which story, dear reader, do you suppose is true?