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At this precise moment, Sean is wishing that Andy would just Shut The Fuck Up.
When he’s sober, Andy is a peach, a dream – a bundle of bounce who’s all eyes and hands and voice and gob. God, the man can talk.
When he’s drunk, on the other hand...
He begins as a sleepy smile, slides into cheekiness, flirts briefly with beatific bemusement, and then docks at Pissed As A Pudding Bay. By this time Andy will be incapable of anything more demanding than sitting in a corner, beaming benignly at all and sundry like a small, leather-jacketed Buddha; less a failed West London wide-boy than a gigantic grin in human form.
Sean shudders, now grumpier than ever. He can see those inane yellow and black smiley faces so beloved of t-shirts and would-be Ibiza ravers everywhere being replaced by grinning Andy Serkisses across the nation even as he downs his fifth pint and sulks some more.
Because after The Grin comes something much, much worse than glassy-eyed contentment.
Because cometh contentment, cometh the karaoke.
And Andy will sing anything, regardless of whether or not he actually knows the words.
Or, indeed, the tune.
Not that it matters all that much, given that Andy has a good voice – lurching somewhere between Ian Dury and John Lydon when he’s belting out Baggy Trousers or some other selection from the Madness song book, slipping from Lennon to Ray Davies when they’re revisiting the 60s – and there’s a light richness to Andy’s tone which makes Sean think of treacle or light shining through dark amber.
But above all it’s Andy’s incessant cheeriness when he’s still mourning another Blades travesty that gets on Sean’s tits.
And in the taxi going home it just gets worse until, by the time they’ve pulled up outside Andy’s house, Sean is feeling homicidal as Andy begins “sha-na-na”-ing and “sha-la-la”-ing” fit to burst for the umpteenth time whilst revisiting the world of early 70s kitsch, trilling about the beauty of Texas Sunday mornings and things that ain’t half as purty as where his baby’s at.
Oh, and South American mammals.
South American mammals? What the fuck?
“Is this the way to armadillo?” Andy muses, crooning raucously as Sean pays the cab fare. “Ev’ry night I’ve been hugging ma pillow,” he adds, as he and Sean clamber out of the taxi.
“Come on,” Sean grumbles, hooking an arm around Andy’s waist and dragging him towards the front door. “For fuck’s sake!”
“Dreamin’ dreams of armadillos,” Andy continues blithely. “And sweet Sean-ie who waits for me!”
By the time Sean and Andy have got through the front door and Sean has kicked it closed and they’ve staggered into the hall, Andy has carolled out several versions of the chorus, alternating the words “armadillo” and “armadildo” with insouciant abandon.
“Fer Christ’s sake, Andy!” Sean exclaims, patience finally stretched beyond all endurance. “It is not ‘armadillo’!”
Andy immediately stops chirruping and stares at Sean, dark brows knotting, blue eyes wary, and – oh god, Sean thinks, with a traitorous lurch of lust – full lips pouting. “Wo’?” he demands sullenly, all glottal-stopped and chavesque.
“It’s Amarillo, you daft twat,” Sean sighs, trying to pretend that the sight of a tipsy, glowering Andy isn’t currently karate-chopping its way through his bad mood. “Place in Texas. Not an armadillo. And certainly not an armoured dildo!”
And then Sean lets out a breathy “Wuff!” as Andy launches himself at him, pinning the tall Yorkshireman against the wall.
“Ah,” cautions Andy, pushing up closer and tapping his fingers gently up and down the length of the zip in Sean’s suddenly too-tight jeans. “But you ain’t got your arse in your ‘ands any more, ‘ave ya, ya bad-tempered cunt! Brought a hint of a smile to that dour northern profile, ain’t I, you miserable fucker! Frankly, Mr Shankley was quite mistaken,” he continues, between planting big, tonguey kisses on Sean’s mouth. “Football is only a fucking game, after all. Not a matter of life or death.”
“Where Sheffield United’s concerned it’s far more important than that!”
“Only to long streaks of northern piss like you.”
Sean pouts. “And other Blades fans.”
“All five of you,” Andy retorts. “Spare me the histrionic speeches and fucking well shaddup and take me to bed.”
Several kisses later, Sean sees the wisdom of Andy’s words. “Okay,” he acquiesces, “I will. On one condition.”
“Wossat?” Andy enquires dreamily as his lips find Sean’s once more.
“No more fuckin’ singing!” Sean half-demands, half-laughs into Andy’s greedy mouth. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Andy moans softly, fingers tracing Sean’s vertebrae under his shirt as Sean’s fingers find his hardening nipples. And then he gurgles filthily. “You’d better make sure my mouth is fully occupied at all times, then!”
Sean laughs “Don’t worry, it will be!”
And his kiss makes that very clear as Andy holds him tight and all thoughts of football miseries dissolve like sherbet on his tongue.
~The End~