As the erotic trilogy Fifty Shades of Grey out-sells even Harry Potter (difficult to believe the hitherto most successful author of modern times, J K Rowling, failed to spot this yawning gap in the market:- Is that a wand in your pocket, Voldemort, or are you just pleased to see to me?) I’ll concede that yes, once again, I have been pipped at the post (which is perfectly legal and surprisingly comfortable, as long as you apply a good dollop of Vaseline). For I had been working hard on my very own erotic novel, Forty-Nine Shades of Grey. Tsk.
But that’s the world of quality fiction for you – you spend an hour and a half writing a trilogy, and then three come along at once. And whilst the now multi-millionaire author of Fifty Shades of Grey has her knockers, I can actually sympathize (I’m almost certain my knockers are bigger than hers).
Still, I’m nothing if not innovative – you should see what I can whip up in the kitchen with a pint of double cream, a ripe banana, half a cucumber and a few sheets of kitchen roll (optional). Thus I am delighted to offer you an extract from my spanking new novel Fifty Shades of Beige, the style of which perhaps owes a smidgen of something to E L James, the
illiterate illustrious mistress of fastest-selling books in the history of fastest-selling books.
More than that, however, I have sought to introduce to the world of literature an entirely new category: Erratic Fiction.
Read it and weep. (You might find biting into a cushion helps).
FIFTY SHADES OF BEIGE
Titty heard the key in the lock and shivered with delight. Or was it the breeze coming from the ill-fitting draft excluder on the bottom of the magnolia sitting room door? Never mind, she raised her buff stilletoed legs onto the puce Habitat sofa bought in 2004 with Aunty Betty’s birthday money, pulled down her low-cut cream chiffon blouse (2 for 1 in George at Asda, bargain) and smouldered (she really had to give up smoking, this was the third time this week she’d set fire to herself).
Roger’s frame appeared in the door er, frame. He had something in his hand.
That wouldn’t be an S & M catalogue would it? Are you planning to tie me up and roger me, Roger?
“No”, Roger answered coolly, unbuttoning his camel-coloured dufflecoat the way he always did, slowly from the neck down. “It’s the M & S home store catalogue. They’ve got a sale on, I thought we could re-paper the walls in the spare bedroom. My grandmother’s coming to stay at Christmas”.
Titty picked up her crest from the floor, onto which it had fallen. She’d been asked to strip hundreds of times before, but never like this. What would her mother say? (Who, in bringing her up as a nice, middle-class girl, had instilled in her from an early age the importance of using handymen. “Always practise safe decorating, darling. You don’t want to put your back out doing something dull and menial, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life if it stops you from having a bloody good shag with your boyfriend”).
Roger sat down next to Titty and opened the booklet at his favourite page, 69: Pelmets. Titty got up from the sofa, took off all her clothes and self-consciously ran out into the street screaming at the top of her voice: How could you treat me like this, you pervert?!
Anastasia Unlikelyname rushed out of number 27 and put her arms around Titty. Guessing what had taken place, she guided the heartbroken girl into her home, where she could offer comfort, solace, and two litres of Tesco’s own brand vodka.
Everyone knew it was curtains for Roger (p.74 B&Q catalogue, p.439 Homebase, p.98 Argos, cont. p.5976). Probably the tan ones.