Lust for Nancy

Saturday was tough. My band played a good set in a pub in Warwickshire, which would have been great, but for the fact that the landlord had neglected to tell his clientele the correct date of our appearance. We rocked the joint, sure, but in front of ten people it's not exactly the greatest feeling for a musician. Feedback from the audience is part of the experience, and when the band outnumber the audience, it's going to feel a bit... flat. Plus two of the audience were my Mum and Dad. I was nervous as much as I was when they saw me in the Richmond Primary nativity play in 1985 when I lost one half of my costume and had to be a shepherd dressed in a hastily tucked in bath towel.

This is merely to set the scene. After the gig I was hungry. The lack of an audience had meant we finished early, all the times were fucked up and I had not eaten for some twelve hours by this point. And as always, in this situation of hunger, time and darkness, my stomach's mind turned to fried chicken. There is nothing like a sack of dirty chicken, especially at midnight on a Saturday after a foreshortened, but still quite lengthy, rock session.

Now, when I say fried chicken, I mean of course Maryland Fried Chicken's value box - three wings, two pieces of chicken, fries and a drink for £3. Bargain. The box has a lovely list of their branches throughout the UK on the side, all of them with a Leicester phone number. Anyway, I like it and I wanted it. So after dropping off Nick I found myself driving slowly along the streets of Leicester, looking for a branch of Maryland that was open and ready to sell me fried chicken. I drove for 20 minutes out of my way like this, squinting through the sodium lights for what I needed.

This is not far from kerb crawling, only for chicken. And inevitably, had I not been unable to find such a branch, I'd have come away with a box of friend grease I'd have eaten by lamplight in a guilty hurry, like a child eating a whole packet of forbidden biscuits, because Emma was in bed and wouldn have been annoyed at me if I'd started banging about the kitchen looking for plates, salt and a fork. I'd have probably not enjoyed the experience that much, and consuming some 2000 calories in one go will leave everyone feeling a bit sick, a bit ashamed and in a bit of a funk of despair at their own gluttony. But I'm obsessed.

And obsessions, left alone, will destroy you. You'll end up starting a website dedicated to the joys of Maryland Chicken, start photographing their branches throughout the United Kingdom, start eating it every day because it has become so much a part of your life. You'll lose your friends, job and eventually self on the altar of fried chicken. But sometimes, it just happens. Through osmosis. I live in a city where every second shop is a chicken place. So it's inevitable I'll start eating it and end up with blocked arteries. Immersion is the best way to learn. To adapt. It can come from anywhere. Like my other obsession. Nancy.

Mmm. Nancy from Hollyoaks. Now I'm not a fan of the programme in any way. It's ludicrous, pretty poorly written, definately poorly acted and aimed at any audience but me. But Emma likes it, so I watch quite a lot of it and against my better judgement, even against my will I have been drawn in. I know character names, plot lines, all that. It's pop-cultural osmosis. Which has left me with Nancy. I like Nancy. Not the actress, Jessica Fox (according to Wikipedia). I remember her being in an advert for some kind of fake cappuccino a couple of years ago, and thinking 'who's that perky bint raving on about cappuccino in a packet?'. She was irritating. Like Daisy from Spaced, who I'd run away with at a moment's notice but wouldn't think twice about Jessica Hynes, especially after she did The World According to Bex. I'm not after the actress.

But the character has made herself a birdhouse in my soul. And I feel for her. she's a soap character, and so is doomed to a constant stream of bereavements, court cases and the kind of experiences just one of would leave us a gibbering wreck unable to look after ourselves and needing 24 hour care. Nancy lives through all this and remains gorgeous. She needs a break, a holiday from doom. Preferably one that involves her wearing some skimpy swimwear. Actually, no. Because that'd be out of character. Maybe a tour of European capitals - Paris, Rome, Barcelona. She'd enjoy that. And as long as she wears a skimpy croptop, I'd be very happy for her. Thunderously sexy.

But also, I'm a moral man. I have a girlfriend who I love a great deal. I have been raised to show women respect, and I am not going to exploit Nancy for short-term erotic gain. In fact, I can't. It's programmed in. I can't even enjoy a saucy dream with her in the starring role. I don't usually dream about particular people, but I had a dream last night where she helped me find my mobile phone after I lost it at work. She then agreed to be my girlfriend and smiled at me in a way that melted my heart. Game on, my dream self thought. But as soon as we got into the bedroom, she announced she had a terminal illness, retired to bed and I was suddenly jostled out of the way by a large group of wellwishers. I then woke up.

I am even uptight in my dreams. It's depressing. But I can always soothe the pain with a Marlyand Chicken Value box...

I'll be back in a minute.

Good Night, and Good Luck
Doug