Runty profile (i)

If you walk down one of the quieter back streets of Wellminstow, past the Filipino bookmaker's and just round the corner, you'll see a boarded-up little shop, some of the brickwork covered in the graffiti typical of our area, phrases like 'eschew obfuscation' rubbing shoulders with 'Naz, Doz, Baz, Jez woz ere'. The boarding isn't that old - this isn't a business that burned all too brightly then died in the hardnosed, boom-bust 80s, but one that pined away in the caring 90s. Because Runty cared too much.

This shop was run by Runty. It made him as much as he made it. Whatever self-esteem, whatever chutzpah and elan and eclat and joie de vivre and hubris (Runty avoids English quite a lot; he trusts it as much as he trusts the transport system) he had, he owed it to being in charge of a modestly successful enterprise that had found a niche in the admittedly niche-heavy local economy, and filled it eminently well.

What kind of shop was it? Runty's first faltering steps into entrepreneurship came hard on the heels (as so many of his clients were later to do) of his painful, literally, acceptance of his orientation and preferences. Runty opened a discount S & M shop, which he christened, after much deliberation and brainstorming with a few associates, 'Bargain Abasement'.

Soon a steady stream of clients made their way to Runty's shop, peering in through the frosted windows before crossing the threshold to see if their order had arrived, or whether Runty had bought in some interesting new products - he usually had. And of course prices were low, as Runty seemed to run every line as a loss leader, paring his profit margins down to the bone in the quest for a satisfied clientele. And he succeeded. Never was a clientele more satisfied. And exhausted. And bruised. And a bit sore, just there, ouch stop it now.

Then one day Runty's reason walked out of the door, the day a fat, peevish Argentinian chef walked in.

It was a day like any other. Quiet in the morning, just a couple of breathing-restriction masks, a bit busier round lunchtime of course, including helping a customer try out some of the wares in the changing room, just a bit of fun, mistress, no stop it now you've got to buy it, then time for a cuppa before dusk fell and the creatures of the twilit time slunk into Bargain Abasement to stock up for an evening's passion.

Runty was in the back, behind the crimson velvet curtains that were held together at the top with a giant aluminium labia ring he'd got at a German trade fair, briskly stirring two sugars into a pint mug of tea, when the door chime (a pressure pad under the mat set off a recording of the crack of a whip) sounded, making him start as it always did (partly with surprise, mainly with a frisson of M pleasure). Poking his nose between the velvet curtains he beheld his nemesis gingerly inspecting a scrotum clamp.

Days of their lives - Keith, Alf

Keith was telling us about how he'd been to this lap-dancing club in Shoreditch. 'West End quality at East End prices, it was,' said Keith, 'and I had this oriental bird in gold lamé hotpants standing over me grinding her hips into my chin and everything. I stuck a pony down her knickers and she took her top off right away. Blinding, it was.'

There was a bit of a pause after that, and we all gazed reflectively off into the middle distance, then Alf cleared his throat and told us how he'd been to a lap-sitting club. We didn't know what that was, so he took a pull on his pint of mild, took a last, long, lingering drag on his roll-up and explained.

It was a bit like a pub, he said, and not unlike this one in fact. You can amble up to the bar adjusting your tackle or picking your nose and they'll serve you a pint of mild and a couple of bags of scratchings no questions asked. The atmosphere isn't so much electric as gas, he went on, if you had to choose a public utility to describe your surroundings. And walking round are all these characters in catsuits - cats, in fact. Who jump up onto your lap and, being mostly well into feline middle age, generally doze off. And sometimes they purr, especially if you offer them a lick of a pork scratching. Very relaxing it was, said Alf, very relaxing indeed: you got on with your paper and did the crossword and wrote a few horoscopes and next thing you know it was time to get off home for a little kip.