Local Lothario still tries
Local Lothario still tries
CLINTS a real hit with the women. At least, he was in 1969. July alone saw four women in the village succumb to his amorous advances. Trouble is, Clints incapable of accepting that was more than 30 years ago.
Clint wears open-necked shirts and lots of jewellery. He walks with what he thinks is a swagger, but in fact looks more like the early stages of rheumatism. You could be forgiven for thinking he was permanently on route to a fancy dress party.
"Why, hello," he says at the women, gliding past in his Ford Capri Mark II. "That cars style personified," he whispered to his latest "conquest" – the new dinner lady at the village school.
He took her to The George, bought her three gin and tonics (she asked for singles, but he made them doubles) and treated her to scampi in a basket. "Stick with me, babe," he said. She left shortly afterwards.
You can see him cruising in the Capri, leaving behind him a trail of smoke from his Lambert and Butler King Size and the faint whiff of Brylcreem. Clints wedged in the fur-covered front seat, his belly carefully coaxed into its regular lair beneath the steering wheel, his thinning hair flapping, the stereo up loud. Yes, this is one village where Elvis definitely still lives.
The number plate is CLING 1. He said "Clint, as in the film star" when he ordered it, but the woman on the other end of the phone thought he said "Cling, as in the film" and it was too late by the time it arrived. Still, Clint rues, even thats better than his real name, Sidney.
He revs the car as he drives round. Its throaty engine roars. Cows have been known to bolt from the side of the field when he drives past.
"Im in the property game," he tells people. Which is partly true: He used to be a roofer. He had to pack that up, though, when his back gave up the ghost. "Its no wonder youve got a bad back," his ex-wife used to say, pointing at his medallion, "with that thing round your neck."
Clint uses the word "big" a lot, referring often to himself in the third person. "Big Clint knows when the fish is hooked," he says referring, not to his angling aptitude, but to his exploits with the ladies.
He says it blowing smoke out moodily, convinced he looks like James Dean. The kids – those who dont know him – think hes the villages new lollypop man.
He talks in a husky voice which is partly an affectation, partly the fags. He thinks he sounds like Barry White. "Barry White without testicles," Jill, the landlady at The George (herself no stranger to Clints octopus-like hands) says.
Clints got his eye on the woman whos just moved into the new house by the village green. Hes taken to wearing an extra bottle of aftershave (a day) and the old Capris been given a £3.50 wax and wash. You can smell his aftershave a mile off. Its like bad silage.
Hes been driving past her cottage a lot. She knows hes out there: Shes heard Barry Manilow. Plus, Clint winks at her every time he goes by. "Whos that strange old man," she asked her husband. "He looks like hes got something wrong with his eye." Evening sees Clint in the pub, explaining how shes falling for "the old magic".
He thinks about her at night, climbing alone in his satin-sheeted bed, stubbing out his cigarette, wondering about the children he never had and the rust spots appearing around the front wheel arches of his beloved, his Capri. An extra splash of aftershave, a bit more Brylcreem and tomorrow, he thinks, tomorrow shell be mine.