Nowt Like A Nice Big Pack
of Belly Babes!
Ayup examines the shape,
the flavour and the search for the biggest packet. Navel-gazing
obligatory.
_______________
We threw Jen out of the
gang. Well she sort of stood out, didn't she?
We'd had a belly full. Look are you completely gormless!
Do you need it spelling out? Couldn't stomach her any
more. Just not Ab Fab. Waist not want not, we always say.
She kind of went belly up, dint she! Leery tabloid journos
kept asking her if she was another one of these gymslip
mothers-to-be.
It's no good blaming puppy-fat anymore.
It were all very well waddling around with it all hidden
inside the school uniform, but now we're out babing she's
got to shape up. Out there after the bell goes, the belly-button
has to be out there, but with Jen it's too out there,
understand?. She should know that by now. It's all very
well her telling us that Mariah Carey has a belly the
size of Pavarotti and she's a stud magnet. Girl,
it's midriff madness out there, and your mids a bit rough.
It wasn't always like
this. She came with us on that glorious Saturday
last year when we all went under the needle. We'd been
talking about it for ages. Then Britney Baroclough whipped
out her knocker ( put your tongues back in, boys, it's
just a belly button piece ) at lunchtime. Said it din't
hurt a bit. Looked a bit green to us, but that colour
always suited her.
So there we were down at this tattoo shack
called Walk on the Wild Side listening to this scabby
hippy going on about how your belly should be a focus
for all your mental energies. Lend special awareness to
the breathing he says, puffing on a Silk Cut. Just behind
your navel lies the hara, in there with all that Pot Noodle
and Sunny D. The hara is a natural balancing point of
your consciousness that is your subtle body. I told him
that there's nowt subtle about MY body, pal. Get that
needle out and get me ringed up.
God it hurt.
Mel was snapping away with her Advantix like I was Madonna
or something - pics that have already been halfway round
the school. When I finally looked down there was this
cocktail stick with a cork on it. Nearly fainted I did.
But the gals were all whooping away so I told 'em it were
brilliant. Ah, the pain was over, I thought to myself....like
bugger it was!. The hippy took out the cocktail stick
and went to go put the jewellery in. Aargh!!. It was stuck,
and the greaseball couldn't get it through the other side
of the hole. It took about a week to put the ring in,
I nearly hurled all over his hairpiece and almost passed
out. He let me sit down (the entire mutilation took place
while I was standing) and I grinned for the camera. Sorted!
Pretty soon we were all
ringed up. The whole gang. It took three months
before anyone's mum found out too. After that we we spent
the whole summer walking around bellies out like Tellytubbies,
rings shining in the sun, framed by a greenish crusty
navels. The boys got all funny, asking us when we were
going to get our tongues done and blushed beetroot. Belly
Babes United. But then Britney Baroclough joined the gym
and that did it.
From then on, you had to have the UFB. The
ultra-flat belly. Britney had brought this spirit level
in she'd nicked from her brothers woodwork bag, and went
round measuring up. High heeled hooves, pastel slips and
feather boas just weren't enough anymore . You had to
have a six-pack and treat chocolate like it was a class
A Criminal offence. Muscles rippling like Linford Christie.
A six-pack that made Mr Diet Coke Break look like the
Michelin Man.
In Mizz and Cosmo the Gym Nazis have it
all sussed. Crop tops are in. Pot bellies out. Hipsters
that need hips like wishbones. You gotta be lean and chiselled.
Strong abs to stabilise the trunk and support the spine.
Like we're a telegraph pole with tits. Like we need a
bunch of council workers to get us upright. I always thought
a double-crunch was made by Cadburys and pelvic tilts
were for pinball machines. It was hard work just looking
at the pictures. Doing it was even worse. Soon we were
showing off with the toughs at the school gates. Thump
me there. Hard as you like. Felt nowt.
Jen just kept on doing
her own thing. Kept on stuffing her face with
chip butties while we were chewing celery sticks. Munched
toffees instead of Juicy Fruit Sugar Free. Still wore
the crop tops but ended up looking like a wannabe Turkish
Dancer. She just didn't fit in. We were thin as whippets,
five Sporty Spices who could open beer bottles in our
belly rings. Jen just hung it all out like her mum's washing.
Poured herself all over the place like a Charlie Dimmock
water feature. It just wasn't working. She had to go.
The weird thing is that the lads are all
over her like a rash. She got her tongue done and if the
bog walls are anything to go by, she's putting it to good
use. She has all the local studs eating chips out of her
knickers. I just can't understand it. She's got that "just
got laid" look on her smug face half the time. "If
you're keeping your maidenhead while all around are losing
theirs you just don't know the score." she shouts
at us, before leaping onto the back of some motorbike.
She just doesn't understand.
Piercing her nose to spite her face. Or something. Does
she not know how many calories there are in Polo Mints?
Does she not care???
Lookin'
fer a Mate
