Tall But True Tales of Touring
NEW AND EXCLUSIVE! Want to peel back the curtain? Want to learn the gritty truth about life on the road with the Angel Brothers? Then you need to read Keith Angel's Tall But True Tales of Touring.
The Strange Tale of Nanny “X“
Or The A.B.’s Meet the Queen of the ‘A.B.’s’ The Wirral is one of those places you never really imagine yourself
ending up on the never –ending rollercoaster of hedonism and excess
that constitutes touring the U.K. Especially the *********Travel Lodge,
just off junction** of the M*- conveniently attached to the local Little
Chef. . Let’s face it. Your average Travel Lodge is not exactly
a bacchanalian fun palace on the lines of , say The Chelsea Hotel. At
best you might bump into a few fellow artistes from a Keane tribute band.
After an inordinately difficult check-in that rivalled U.S.immigration
in both it’s meticulous invasiveness and base stupidity, we made
our way past the half-witted receptionist / ‘beak’ to the
comfort of our luxuriously appointed ‘family suite’.
Happy Sahota and I had a whole night to kill before playing a gig at the
local High School – and the local entertainment seemed a little
thin on the ground to say the least. We slumped on the hard/ soft furnishings,
resigned to a night in front of the flickering T.V. and began to roll
the first of what would undoubtedly be many king -sized ‘doobies’.
At that point, it has to be said, things looked decidedly unpromising…
It was then that Happy had a brainwave / flashback/ realisation/ Eureka
moment. A few months earlier, he had recounted to us the story of a strange
chance meeting between himself and a late middle-aged ‘professional’
lady on a train somewhere between Telford and Birmingham New Street station.
Happy had at first been an unwitting party (i.e. earwigger) to a mobile
‘phone conversation between the woman and what appeared to be one
of her clients. The words ‘ wet nurse’ and ‘corrective
behaviour’ came up in an increasingly heated conversation , naturally
setting the wheels of Happy’s already inquisitive mind in motion.
Happy introduced himself, and the lady was quite forthcoming about the
nature of the ‘phone call. It transpired that she was in actuality
a professional full -time nanny; but the unusual thing was that her apart
was that her clients were all from a very specific age demographic; i.e.
thirty- five to eighty three. She was in short, an ‘Adult Baby Specialist’,
servicing a little – known but lucrative group of sexual and behavioural
deviants in the ‘Regressive Fetishist’ sector.
Well as it turned out, the lady in question – let’s call her
‘Nanny X’ for convenience sake, happened to live just one
motorway junction away from our current ‘spike’. We decamped
to the Little Chef and as we sent our reheated half-frozen salmon and
burgers back to be properly cooked and / or spat / pissed (or worse) on
by the miserable troll in the galley, Happy made the call and set up an
appointment with our Merseyside Madame.
Some twenty minutes later, we turned up, with bloated bellies and feeling
somewhat herbally refreshed, on the doorstep of a rather normal looking
terraced house in what shall remain an unspecified location near *******.
We were greeted by a smartly dressed, sprightly late middle aged lady
who introduced herself as the aforementioned ‘Nanny X’.
She then briefly introduced us to her rather herbally diminished, dreadlocked
‘white rasta’ son who gave us 'some skin' as a prelude to
a eulogy to his ma’ and her many talents which he delivered in an
almost unintelligible 'faux rude boy' patois. Thankfully, the fragrant
bong-head then disappeared into his smoke filled den, secluding himself
behind a Bob-Marley postered door for what undoubtedly would be yet another
lung busting skunk weed or hot knives marathon leaving him - at best-
shrivelled, cowed, paranoid and whimpering in a corner of his own private
Babylon…
Without further ado , we were whisked upstairs to view what Nanny X referred
to as ‘The Boudouir’,- upon first glance, a pretty regular
suburban bedroom, but our attention was soon drawn to a whole wall full
of assorted sexual impedimenta; whips, handcuffs, paddles, batons, full
bondage masks, studded cod –pieces, riding crops and , most unusual
of all , a giant hair brush. Nanny X explained that this formidable implement
was one of her most loyal clients’ favoured forms of punishment
and that he always insisted that his bare arse be flayed raw with the
brush until blood be drawn. Apparently she was always instructed to hold
up a mirror to his ravaged derriere to prove that her vicious work had
been done to good effect.
We were then led across the landing to a room which put me in mind of
one of the more bizarre chapters of the Reverend ‘Trips’ Dodgson’s
kiddy - mushroom novellas. The room took the form of a children’s
nursery –but with huge furniture including a towering four –foot
high seat , a cot the size of a King Leisure Bed and nappies to rival
the most substantial of table cloths. Nanny ‘X’ then proceeded
to tell us that the most successful branch of her business was that which
concerned that most unusual group of fetishists and deviants - The Adult
Babies .
It is a little known fact that this proud yet resolutely slightly crap
nation of ours is home to some 27,000 registered Adult Babies. In Scotchland
no such register exists and, officially at least, Adult Babies remain
unaccounted for. However , a cursory examination of the kilt and it’s
undeniable resemblance to skilfully rearranged tartan diaper points to
the fact that an cultish underground sect , heard of only north of the
border in whispered tones as the ‘Big Yin Wains’ has been
in existence at least since the days of William Wallace and Mel Gibson.
But alas dear reader, I digress, Nanny ‘X’ then proceeded
to tellus of her two distinctly separate Adult Baby client groups ; the
‘soilers’ and the ‘non soilers’. No further comment
required, I think… She told us of the Swedish sailor who came for
a full week at a time and went on shopping trips with his full A.B. gear
cunningly concealed beneath a chav-regulation shell suit. Of how he took
great delight in secretly soiling himself in the local Farm Foods freezer
store. Perhaps it was literally a gut reaction at sight of good honest
folk paying for frozen water by the pound. She regaled us with tales of
the lorry driver who was a naughty schoolgirl by day and an Adult Baby
by night . How he was subjected to a cruel , humiliating, classroom regime
by day and then soothed and breastfed to a rusk-gorged, smiley Mr.Moon
dummy slumber at beddybyes.
At this juncture , she led us back downstairs and opened a creaking door
to that most dreaded of all her ‘professional environments’
– The School Room… A dingy, unwelcoming place with a decidedly
Dickensian atmosphere; the school room had undoubtedly borne witness to
the miseducation and brutal correction of many ‘students’.
Nanny X took great delight in telling us of the canings, the fagging,
the humiliations, the wet towels, the dusty thwack of blackboard rubber
on burning ear. Apparently Nanny’s daughter featured prominently
in the perverse schoolroom scenarios; kinkily dressed in St Trinians gymslip.Teasing
and provoking the ‘students’ to unspeakable acts of disobedience
for which ‘Ma’ in the role of schoolmistress martinette would
bring down on them the full wrath of Mrs Wackford Squiers done by the
Marquis De Sade.
Enough was enough. We made a hasty exit from this deviant’s den,
mumbled our polite excuses and left with visions of Sodom, Gamorrah and
Farley’s Rusks reeling through our kiffed – out bonces. But
- not before Nanny X had attempted to engage us in a business transaction
package deal involving a rigid afternoon of ‘the three R’s’,
a ‘mother/ daughter combo’ and a bumper –sized tub of
Sudocream…
We politely declined. Yet to this day I am still haunted by the echo of
her final words… "It’s been a pleasure meeting you young
gentlemen. I’m sure we’ll see you again – they all come
back, sooner or later… ater … ater …ter…ter…er…er….r….r…r…"
(Recommend Roland Space Echo - classic analogue delay - for best effect).
