You’ve probably seen me on telly, you know. I made a brief – yet pivotal – appearance on ‘Deal Or No Deal’ in 2004. Remember that suburban housewife in the audience crossing her arms and shouting ‘NO DEAL!’? Yep, that was me.
So I was excited to hear that my friend The Mild Mannered Lawyer was following in my footsteps and making her own appearance on an Australian game show of note. Except I was less excited to discover that, after the show had been taped last week, she was tight-lipped about the results. It turns out the production company in question made her ‘pinky swear’ that she would keep them to herself until the show was aired, later this month.
It also just happened that she was due to be a guest of ours at our Country Retreat (also known as my mother’s house in ‘Blinkton’) the very next weekend.
“She may be a millionaire!” I told my husband a few days before the weekend. “If we’re really really nice to her, she might give us money. MONEY!”
I shook him by the shoulders.
“MONEY!!!” I repeated, for good measure.
“How much ‘MONEY’ are we talking here?” my husband asked.
“That’s it,” I said. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
I paced around the loungeroom for a while, thinking, thinking, thinking. Then, I had it. My plan.
“We should get her really very extremely drunk and make her play ‘Truth, Dare or Torture’,” I said. “If she chooses ‘Truth’, she has to tell us if she won any money. If she chooses ‘Dare’, I’ll dare her to break the terms and conditions of her contract with [production company]. And if she chooses ‘Torture’, well, we’ll be in the middle of nowhere, won’t we? I mean, no-one will hear her scream… “
Now before you start getting the wrong idea, I was only planning to talk about my farts in her presence. You see, the MML has made it clear in the past that this is a kind of torture for her – and luckily for me, there’s nothing in the Geneva Convention that prohibits fart-talk. Nothing. Not a sausage. Not even a sausage-flavoured fart.
The MML, for her mild-manneredness, knew something was brewing. She tried to email me ‘drunken rant topics’ in advance to set some kind of conversation agenda for our (drunken) time together. But she wasn’t expecting the fart anecdotes. That was my little secret weapon and I was going to keep it… ‘secret’.
Anyway, my plan all ready, I greeted The MML warmly in Blinkford last Saturday. We even went out to dinner, just the two of us, while my husband and my mother tried to get the five children to bed back at home. But I’m sorry to say that my plan didn’t exactly go to… ‘plan’.
The truth? If anyone got “really very extremely drunk”, it was me.
The dare? Well, the only thing even vaguely daring we did was sit in the front bar of the Blinkton pub and drink a bottle of champagne. Moreoever, having whispered to each other that we should respect the Men’s Pub Code and not talk about menstruation or urinary tract infections while sitting there, we then proceeded to chat loudly about school lunches. Yes, school lunches.
The torture? The knowledge that I will never have a career in espionage, international or otherwise. You see, I totally forgot to talk about farting. I mean, how could I forget to talk about farting? In fact, I even forgot I was supposed to finding out about the money. And I didn’t even fart during dinner so now I can’t even turn the whole thing into a fart anecdote on my goddamn blog.