Micky
Disaster area
Love Among The Sheep-Farmers
Micky and Seamus were waiting in the concourse at Ringway airport for Flight 196, CDG Airlines to arrive from San Francisco. They’d invited their American buddy Dave to stay with them for a couple of weeks.
The plane was nearly four hours late. Almost immediately after take-off a crazed Iranian had brandished a hand-grenade and demanded to be flown to Jerusalem. The passengers, Dave among them, had overpowered him, but the plane had been diverted to Phoenix, where a SWAT team was waiting to deal with the Iranian.
At last Flight 196 touched down at Ringway and Micky and Seamus scanned the disembarking passengers anxiously. They knew what Dave looked like, because he’d sent them his photo, and their expectations were high. And when they caught sight of him they weren’t disappointed, in fact they were awe-struck, he looked so flamboyant and fine.
They had to wait until he’d come through customs, then they stepped forward nervously to introduce themselves. Dave gave Micky a big hug, lifting him right off the ground, then he turned round and shook hands very courteously with Seamus. Seamus blushed to the roots of his hair.
The three of them went into the airport bar for a drink before catching the subway into Manchester. Micky grew more and more impressed by his American buddy. He had an almost indefineable quality about him, and for a long time Micky couldn’t work out what it was. He wasn’t camp, it was much more subtle than that. He was... ‘exotic’, Micky finally decided. Yes, that was the word for him. Dave was exotic.
The first two days of the visit went amazingly well. At night Micky and Seamus cosied up on the sofa, while Dave as guest of honour slept in their bed. The three of them went to Valentino’s together. Dave kept drawing Seamus into the conversation without pushing him too hard, and Micky felt happier than he’d ever done in his life before. Suddenly he asked Dave: “What say we go down among the trees on the other side of the canal afterwards?” Dave put his head on one side, gave Micky a quizzical, comical look and waved a warning finger at him. Then he went back to talking to Seamus.
But the third day tensions began to develop. After breakfast Dave was looking at himself in the mirror, he did quite a lot of that, and Micky caught Seamus gazing lustfully at his ass. “Hey kidder, you can cut that out!” he said angrily.
“And stick it up,” said Seamus.
“Whaaat? You horny little fucker! You can cut that out too!”
Seamus blew him a kiss. Micky sighed. There was definitely a power-struggle going on in their relationship over who would be the dominant sub, which sounds like a contradiction in terms, but isn’t. Micky was determined he was going to win this struggle and continue to to call the shots.
Dave realized immediately that this was more that just kidding, and to break the tension he said: “Hey guys, would you mind taking me somewhere olde worlde and steeped in history today? I just love your British history...”
Micky racked his brains. “Well there’s Lancaster... Really old place. It’s got a medieval castle. Part of it’s still a prison...”
Dave interrupted him. “I don’t do prisons.”
“It’s got an old torture chamber...”
“Hmmmmmm,” said Dave.
“Or there’s Skipton,” Micky went on. “There’s a medieval castle there too. Fucking retarded place if you ask me. Full of sheep farmers – sheep-shaggers more like. There’s a pub called the Naked Man...”
“I want to go to Skipton,” said Dave immediately. “When can we go?”
“Well, now, if you want,” said Micky. “If we put our skates on, got the bus from the city centre into Manchester, we could catch the X43 from Chorlton Street Bus Station.”
Just over an hour later the three of them were walking towards the concrete passageway that leads into the bus station. “Don’t mind the rent boys,” Micky told Dave. “They always hang out round here. If you don’t look at them they won’t pester you.”
“It’s cool, buddy,” said Dave. “I’ll link arms with Seamus then they’ll think I’m already taken.”
Micky instantly flew into one or his rages, spinning round on him and yelling: “Oh yeah? Well screw you, you fucking horrible cunt! Screw you!”
“Whoah there, Micky,” said Dave, raising his hands in surrender. “I was only kidding.”
Seamus was blushing so fiercely it’s a wonder he didn’t set the sprinklers off in the bus depot.
By the time they reached Skipton Micky had calmed down and everything was okay between the three of them again. They spent half an hour looking round the castle. They stood on the stone bridge looking down into the river Aire. Dave threw a coin into the river. They looked at the town stocks, which had been there since the 14th Century. Everything he saw seemed to fill Dave with delight. He kept saying: “Man, this is so cool!” and this delighted Micky and Seamus too, because all they wanted was for their American buddy to have a good time.
Finally they went into the Naked Man, and sure enough, there were some sheep farmers standing at the bar. They bought their pints and went to sit in the corner. Micky had to admit to himself that Dave stood out in that dingy tap room like an orchid growing in a cabbage patch. But that didn’t embarrass him – it filled him with pride.
For a time they sat talking among the three of themselves, but then – and it wasn’t for the first time – Dave seemed to single Seamus out for his particular attention. Micky started feeling uneasy and a bit jealous, not because Dave was talking to Seamus, but because Seamus was talking to Dave. But then Seamus glanced at him and gave an apologetic grimace as if to say: ‘I know, buddy. But there’s nothing to worry about.’
Then something happened that totally took Micky’s mind off any feelings of jealousy. The tap room door opened and another sheep farmer came in, but not just any old bog standard sheep farmer. Micky took one look at him and thought “Yow! What a fucking amazing guy!” The farmer was tall and lean, with slim hips and broad shoulders, and looked to be about thirty-five years old. His angular handsome face was weather-beaten and already lined. His straw-coloured hair was bleached by the sun and the rain. While Micky sat staring at him in awe-struck admiration he went up to the bar, bought himself a pint and leant against the bar, drinking it. After a couple of minutes he happened to turn his head and he saw Micky looking at him. Micky didn’t flinch and look away, and neither did he. For about fifteen seconds they held each other’s gaze, and it was like a flash of recognition had passed between them. The farmer knew what Micky was, and Micky knew what the farmer was...
And he didn’t waste any time, didn’t this sheep farmer. He picked up his glass, walked over and asked: “Would you boys mind if I joined you?”
“No,” said Micky, “No, sit down.”
Introductions were made. The farmer’s name was Andrew. He smiled at Micky and asked, “First time you’ve been in here?”
“Yes,” said Micky. “I’m surprised it isn’t full of sheep.”
Andrew laughed. “Not from these parts by the sound of you. Where you from? Manchester?”
“Manchester?” exclaimed Micky in mock outrage. “How dare you – how fucking dare you! I’m from Salford!! Right, out of this pub right now, cos I’m not standing for this. Fight to the death, weapons of your choice...” Andrew laughed as though it was the funniest thing that had ever been said.
For a time the four of them engaged in general conversation. Andrew asked Dave what part of the States he was from and Micky cringed, thinking: ‘Please, Bro, please don’t say you’re from a bath house...” But Dave just said he was from San Francisco.
Eventually Andrew and Micky were just talking to each other. Andrew said he reared sheep on a hill farm called High Withens and he lived alone. His dogs were called Mollie and Meg, both border collies. He said it got very lonely living up there, especially during the winter months. Then he suddenly asked: “Could you step into the snug for a moment, Micky? Because there’s something I’d like to ask you. You two boys don’t mind?” But Dave and Seamus were so busy talking they didn’t realize he was speaking to them.
Micky followed him into the back room which was empty and they stood facing each other. Micky’s heart was pounding in his chest, but not from fear. Andrew said slowly, almost as though he was thinking aloud, “You and Seamus seem like very close friends, and judging by the way Dave speaks...” He broke off, then started again. “The top and the bottom of it is, young Micky...”
“Go on,” said Micky, “I know what you’re talking about.”
“You do? Are you sure?”
“Yes. You’re asking me whether I go top or bottom. I go bottom. I’m a sub. Seamus is too. We live together.”
Stephen whistled. “Hey, you don’t mind taking a risk, do you? That’s good. And Dave?”
“Top. Dave’s a top.”
Stephen stood looking at him, put his head to one side and stroked his chin pensively. “Food for thought, Micky-my-lad,” he said softly. “Food for thought... Okay come on, let’s rejoin the others.”
Micky sat back in the tap room, looking from Andrew to Dave, then back to Andrew again. His heart was beating fit to burst, and he couldn’t stop himself from shaking. He felt like the whole world was dancing in his head. Queen Elizabeth and Barack Obama, Buddy Holly, Pete Doherty and Shostakovich, the Taliban and the Navy Seals, the dead guys, everybody... They were all doing a war-dance in his head, and as they danced they were chanting louder and louder until they nearly deafened him: “Wow man! Fucking wow man! Fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking wow man!”
Micky and Seamus were waiting in the concourse at Ringway airport for Flight 196, CDG Airlines to arrive from San Francisco. They’d invited their American buddy Dave to stay with them for a couple of weeks.
The plane was nearly four hours late. Almost immediately after take-off a crazed Iranian had brandished a hand-grenade and demanded to be flown to Jerusalem. The passengers, Dave among them, had overpowered him, but the plane had been diverted to Phoenix, where a SWAT team was waiting to deal with the Iranian.
At last Flight 196 touched down at Ringway and Micky and Seamus scanned the disembarking passengers anxiously. They knew what Dave looked like, because he’d sent them his photo, and their expectations were high. And when they caught sight of him they weren’t disappointed, in fact they were awe-struck, he looked so flamboyant and fine.
They had to wait until he’d come through customs, then they stepped forward nervously to introduce themselves. Dave gave Micky a big hug, lifting him right off the ground, then he turned round and shook hands very courteously with Seamus. Seamus blushed to the roots of his hair.
The three of them went into the airport bar for a drink before catching the subway into Manchester. Micky grew more and more impressed by his American buddy. He had an almost indefineable quality about him, and for a long time Micky couldn’t work out what it was. He wasn’t camp, it was much more subtle than that. He was... ‘exotic’, Micky finally decided. Yes, that was the word for him. Dave was exotic.
The first two days of the visit went amazingly well. At night Micky and Seamus cosied up on the sofa, while Dave as guest of honour slept in their bed. The three of them went to Valentino’s together. Dave kept drawing Seamus into the conversation without pushing him too hard, and Micky felt happier than he’d ever done in his life before. Suddenly he asked Dave: “What say we go down among the trees on the other side of the canal afterwards?” Dave put his head on one side, gave Micky a quizzical, comical look and waved a warning finger at him. Then he went back to talking to Seamus.
But the third day tensions began to develop. After breakfast Dave was looking at himself in the mirror, he did quite a lot of that, and Micky caught Seamus gazing lustfully at his ass. “Hey kidder, you can cut that out!” he said angrily.
“And stick it up,” said Seamus.
“Whaaat? You horny little fucker! You can cut that out too!”
Seamus blew him a kiss. Micky sighed. There was definitely a power-struggle going on in their relationship over who would be the dominant sub, which sounds like a contradiction in terms, but isn’t. Micky was determined he was going to win this struggle and continue to to call the shots.
Dave realized immediately that this was more that just kidding, and to break the tension he said: “Hey guys, would you mind taking me somewhere olde worlde and steeped in history today? I just love your British history...”
Micky racked his brains. “Well there’s Lancaster... Really old place. It’s got a medieval castle. Part of it’s still a prison...”
Dave interrupted him. “I don’t do prisons.”
“It’s got an old torture chamber...”
“Hmmmmmm,” said Dave.
“Or there’s Skipton,” Micky went on. “There’s a medieval castle there too. Fucking retarded place if you ask me. Full of sheep farmers – sheep-shaggers more like. There’s a pub called the Naked Man...”
“I want to go to Skipton,” said Dave immediately. “When can we go?”
“Well, now, if you want,” said Micky. “If we put our skates on, got the bus from the city centre into Manchester, we could catch the X43 from Chorlton Street Bus Station.”
Just over an hour later the three of them were walking towards the concrete passageway that leads into the bus station. “Don’t mind the rent boys,” Micky told Dave. “They always hang out round here. If you don’t look at them they won’t pester you.”
“It’s cool, buddy,” said Dave. “I’ll link arms with Seamus then they’ll think I’m already taken.”
Micky instantly flew into one or his rages, spinning round on him and yelling: “Oh yeah? Well screw you, you fucking horrible cunt! Screw you!”
“Whoah there, Micky,” said Dave, raising his hands in surrender. “I was only kidding.”
Seamus was blushing so fiercely it’s a wonder he didn’t set the sprinklers off in the bus depot.
By the time they reached Skipton Micky had calmed down and everything was okay between the three of them again. They spent half an hour looking round the castle. They stood on the stone bridge looking down into the river Aire. Dave threw a coin into the river. They looked at the town stocks, which had been there since the 14th Century. Everything he saw seemed to fill Dave with delight. He kept saying: “Man, this is so cool!” and this delighted Micky and Seamus too, because all they wanted was for their American buddy to have a good time.
Finally they went into the Naked Man, and sure enough, there were some sheep farmers standing at the bar. They bought their pints and went to sit in the corner. Micky had to admit to himself that Dave stood out in that dingy tap room like an orchid growing in a cabbage patch. But that didn’t embarrass him – it filled him with pride.
For a time they sat talking among the three of themselves, but then – and it wasn’t for the first time – Dave seemed to single Seamus out for his particular attention. Micky started feeling uneasy and a bit jealous, not because Dave was talking to Seamus, but because Seamus was talking to Dave. But then Seamus glanced at him and gave an apologetic grimace as if to say: ‘I know, buddy. But there’s nothing to worry about.’
Then something happened that totally took Micky’s mind off any feelings of jealousy. The tap room door opened and another sheep farmer came in, but not just any old bog standard sheep farmer. Micky took one look at him and thought “Yow! What a fucking amazing guy!” The farmer was tall and lean, with slim hips and broad shoulders, and looked to be about thirty-five years old. His angular handsome face was weather-beaten and already lined. His straw-coloured hair was bleached by the sun and the rain. While Micky sat staring at him in awe-struck admiration he went up to the bar, bought himself a pint and leant against the bar, drinking it. After a couple of minutes he happened to turn his head and he saw Micky looking at him. Micky didn’t flinch and look away, and neither did he. For about fifteen seconds they held each other’s gaze, and it was like a flash of recognition had passed between them. The farmer knew what Micky was, and Micky knew what the farmer was...
And he didn’t waste any time, didn’t this sheep farmer. He picked up his glass, walked over and asked: “Would you boys mind if I joined you?”
“No,” said Micky, “No, sit down.”
Introductions were made. The farmer’s name was Andrew. He smiled at Micky and asked, “First time you’ve been in here?”
“Yes,” said Micky. “I’m surprised it isn’t full of sheep.”
Andrew laughed. “Not from these parts by the sound of you. Where you from? Manchester?”
“Manchester?” exclaimed Micky in mock outrage. “How dare you – how fucking dare you! I’m from Salford!! Right, out of this pub right now, cos I’m not standing for this. Fight to the death, weapons of your choice...” Andrew laughed as though it was the funniest thing that had ever been said.
For a time the four of them engaged in general conversation. Andrew asked Dave what part of the States he was from and Micky cringed, thinking: ‘Please, Bro, please don’t say you’re from a bath house...” But Dave just said he was from San Francisco.
Eventually Andrew and Micky were just talking to each other. Andrew said he reared sheep on a hill farm called High Withens and he lived alone. His dogs were called Mollie and Meg, both border collies. He said it got very lonely living up there, especially during the winter months. Then he suddenly asked: “Could you step into the snug for a moment, Micky? Because there’s something I’d like to ask you. You two boys don’t mind?” But Dave and Seamus were so busy talking they didn’t realize he was speaking to them.
Micky followed him into the back room which was empty and they stood facing each other. Micky’s heart was pounding in his chest, but not from fear. Andrew said slowly, almost as though he was thinking aloud, “You and Seamus seem like very close friends, and judging by the way Dave speaks...” He broke off, then started again. “The top and the bottom of it is, young Micky...”
“Go on,” said Micky, “I know what you’re talking about.”
“You do? Are you sure?”
“Yes. You’re asking me whether I go top or bottom. I go bottom. I’m a sub. Seamus is too. We live together.”
Stephen whistled. “Hey, you don’t mind taking a risk, do you? That’s good. And Dave?”
“Top. Dave’s a top.”
Stephen stood looking at him, put his head to one side and stroked his chin pensively. “Food for thought, Micky-my-lad,” he said softly. “Food for thought... Okay come on, let’s rejoin the others.”
Micky sat back in the tap room, looking from Andrew to Dave, then back to Andrew again. His heart was beating fit to burst, and he couldn’t stop himself from shaking. He felt like the whole world was dancing in his head. Queen Elizabeth and Barack Obama, Buddy Holly, Pete Doherty and Shostakovich, the Taliban and the Navy Seals, the dead guys, everybody... They were all doing a war-dance in his head, and as they danced they were chanting louder and louder until they nearly deafened him: “Wow man! Fucking wow man! Fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking wow man!”
