A Young Friend of 'Mr Sex' regaled me over the weekend with information about the house she's just purchased, but unlike every other story I've ever heard from someone whose just bought a house, it's actually interesting.
Before I relay it to you, a minor proviso; we were both pissed up when the tale was told, so my recollection may be a little shaky - but the main point is absolutely, unquestionably true. I have pictorial evidence.
Now then, said mate purchased the house from a couple in their seventies; a chap called Tony, and a lady whose name I didn't catch, unfortunately. They'd been there for nigh on 40 years, and the house was in good nick, although a bit chintzy. So, when she got settled in, she got on with the job of availing the walls of manky 70s wallpaper, with a view to putting up something that someone else would find disgusting and dated sometime in 2041.
Whilst removing three layers of wallpaper, she chanced upon the following letters;
Awr, she thought, trying to imagine Tony and his new bride moving in at the start of their married life, picturing him tucking his kipper tie into his Bri-Nylon tangerine shirt to avoid splash-back as he proclaimed his love for his True Intended, waiting to see shards of unadulterated glee explode from her little face when she came home from work and saw it. Then she scraped back a little bit more;
Hm. That's a tad noncommittal, isn't it? But no matter; gripped with an almost religious fervour to discover the hidden message, just like that scene in The Da Vinci Code - even though I've not seen it, but I bet there's one anyway - she set about the wall with the scraper until every shred was removed.
This is what she discovered. Round about the same time that the Americans left a plaque on the surface of the moon, this is what someone in my home town had similarly hewn for future generations to discover and ponder the meaning of. This is what my mate has to stare at until she gets the right wallpaper sorted out.
Naturally, there's been ramifications. For one, my mate absolutely dreads the approach of workmen to her door, and is shitting bricks that one of them will be called Tony and will think she's trying to tell him something. Even worse, Tony's missus has found out, courtesy of a neighbour who still knows her, and it's safe to say that Tony is in for some shit. Possibly because it's taken her this long to find out, when it's too late to do anything about it.
Personally, my sympathies are completely with Tone. Being the romantic that I am, I choose to see him as a crusader for the sanctity of the female orgasm, stuck in a dark age when cunnilingus was considered as something that only depraved women would want and even more depraved men would offer, unleashing his inner turmoil with a passionately anguished flourish of erotic samizdat. Because if I don't think that, I'm led to the more prosaic conclusion that he'd been working through a crate of brown ale and flicking through a copy of Titbits while his missus was at the bingo, and it was all too much for him. And I don't want to think about that.
So, lovely readers of TT - what disgusting filth have you secreted for future generations (and possibly aliens) to discover? I'll be the first to confess; there are more than a few drawings of cocks with all spunk coming out them in the lift shaft of the TK Maxx in the Broadmarsh Centre attributed to me, when I was a lift boy and it was a Co-Op. There. I feel much better. Your turn.
(Oh, and Tony, if you're reading this - why didn't you rely on Manbits to get you out of this awful situation? I would have advised you to style your way out of it by telling the wife that you were only expressing your love for Fannetone, a made-up pasta dish that came in a packet in the early 70s...)