VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE
by John Morrison
Contents
76: The Monica Mouthwash
It's a sunny Sunday in Milltown. We're lucky to be enjoying one: every sunny day in
September is like being in remission from that unavoidable malady called winter.
Our Town Drunk staggers across the old packhorse bridge. He's kick-started his day
with a sizeable dose of Night Nurse: not merely an effective treatment for colds and flu,
but a damn fine aperitif to boot.
You wouldn't guess that he and Monica Lewinsky could possibly share a hobby. But they
do: they both hoard semen-stained clothing. Town Drunk's soiled Y-fronts, carelessly
tossed into the back of the wardrobe, are unlikely to prove as big a money-spinner
as that infamous cocktail dress. But then he's
never given Bill Clinton a blowjob, or, if he has, he certainly can't recall a damn
thing about it.
The good folk of Milltown are nonplussed by what's happening in America, the land
of the brave and the home of the free. Bill Clinton isn't, of course, the first incumbent
to have besmirched the Office of the President of the United States. But few men have besmirched the Oval Office in quite such a literal way. The
boys from forensic are busy checking out the White House, paying particular attention
to those places where a careless President might have spilled his seed and made a
half-hearted attempt to clean up. Curtains, cushion- covers, carpets (particularly under
the footwell of the Presidential desk), table-cloths, pocket handkerchiefs, old T-shirts
and the scummy tide-mark around the bath. By the time they've finished we'll be wondering not merely about the President's sexual pecadillos, but his manual dexterity
too.
The American people, punch-drunk from months of tawdry sex scandals, are worried about
their President's aims and intentions. Here in Milltown we just worry about his aim.
Here's the leader of the Free World, with his finger on the button. The Cold War
may be over, but nuclear annihilation is still just a heartbeat away. Yet the man
to whom this awesome responsibility is entrusted can't even hit - from point-blank
range - a target as warm, wet and willing as Monica Lewinsky's generously proportioned mouth.
It's like hitting a barn door with a howitzer. No wonder he failed the draft all
those years ago. ("Is that thing loaded, Bill? Oh my God..."). Those Vietnam conscripts
were better off without him; in serious action he'd have just been a liability.
Are a handful of hurried liaisons really enough to depose a President? Probably not.
But a quickie divorce? Well, that's another matter. Bill Clinton is, after all, a
man who seems to harbour the illusion that fellatio is a non-sexual act, scarcely
more intimate than shaking hands. If that's true we shudder to think what indignities are
being perpetrated, around the globe, in the name of international diplomacy. The
leaders of our two great nations used to congratulate one another about their 'special
relationship', but friendship can be taken too far. We can only hope that Cherie Blair has
enough presence of mind, on her next meeting with the President, to do no more than
offer her cheek for a chaste peck. If he tries to fit her up with a pair of knee
pads she should say, politely but firmly, "Thank you, Mr President, but no"
Hilary should throw her wayward husband out, change the locks and make him run the
country from a motel room until he sees the error of his ways. Then she'll need to
get some quotes, from Washington's more reputable dry-cleaning businesses, for fumigating
all the soft furnishings in the White House, and making the place look presentable
for the next President and his family. Though 'Gore in the Oval Office' sounds almost
as unhygienic as the semen stains on Town Drunk's fetid underpants.
A solitary swallow dips and swoops over Milltown. A few people noticed the first swallow
of summer: a sighting that quickened the pulse, briefly, back in April. But nobody
realises that the bird they see today - stretching its wings and preparing for that
long flight south - is the last
we shall see this year.
The little square in the middle of town has been renamed St Bernard's Square - after
the town's most celebrated son - to commemorate a lifetime's dedication to uninformed
debate. This is the best place to be, if you want to nurse a pint or two through
a balmy afternoon and watch the world go by. Wasps, drowsy and petulant, make a thorough
nuisance of themselves. They know their days are numbered, just like the days of
summer themselves. So they spend their last hours irritating alfresco drinkers, before
ending it all with a kamikaze dive into a glass of warm beer.
What's the point of rushing about on a sunny day, getting stressed-out and fretful?
In any case, if you sit here long enough, then everyone you know is likely to pass
by sooner or later. Milltown's that kind of place.
Wounded Man observes the catwalk of alternative fashions with more than passing interest.
All those sessions with the Milltown Men's Group seem to be working: he's developing
a new appreciation of the scantily-clad female form. He may be just another guy with straggly grey hair (the living embodiment of Milltown Man), but when it comes
to watching pretty girls go by, he seems to have taken Leslie Philips and Sid James
as his new role models. If he had a waxed moustache, he'd be twirling it suggestively
between finger and thumb and purring "Well, hello ..."
A sunny day offers the more nubile girls the last chance this year to put their belly-buttons
on general display. Wounded Man, approaching his middle years, savours their youth,
their energy and their joie de vivre.
More to the point, pert nipples piercing thin fabric make a powerful impression
on a man whose libido has lain dormant for far too long. Years of self-denial have
taken their toll, but those days are over. Never again, when faced with the prospect
of a sexual encounter, will he be tempted to take the easy way out and hire a stunt double.
Wounded Man salivates discreetly as Willow Woman arrives, as if on cue, to enjoy a
lazy afternoon of conversation and conviviality. She's looking particularly gorgeous
today, sporting the 'just-rogered' look that drives the men of Milltown to distraction.
She looks like she last had a good time - a really
good time - about twenty minutes ago. She really doesn't seem to be aware of the
effect she's having on the male psyche, which makes her all the more beguiling.
Clothes are supposed to say a lot about the wearer, and one or two lasses are parading
up and down in revealing dresses that seem to be saying "Just leave a tenner on the
bedside table". But Willow Woman is lithe and lissom and delightfully ingenuous:
she'll wear any old thing and make it look good. She wouldn't even think of saving a semen-stained
dress for a rainy day. It would just be added, unceremoniously, to the pile of unwashed
clothes that threatens to occupy every inch of floor-space in her little house in Hippy Street.
She falls in and out of love with startling suddenness. Sometimes the process can
be over and done with in the course of a long weekend. But you'll hear not a word
of complaint or recrimination from the men of Milltown. One or two may shake their
heads a little sadly. Yet the consensus of opinion seems to be that sharing love, laughter
and bodily fluids with Willow Woman is one experience that will remain a bright beacon
of wistful remembrance for the rest of their days.
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