The storage room is large and divided into two distinct areas. At one end, there are rows and rows of stacked boxes. That end of the room is not lit at all and fades into complete darkness at the far end. Whereas, at this end of the room, there is a large table in the center. It is flanked on one side by a row of green metal lockers set against the wall, and by a row of wooden benches on the other. The benches effectively divide the room between the locker and the storage section. There is a solitary light cluster above the table. It casts a yellowed circle around the locker area, which fades towards the edges.
As we exchange brief introductions, she explains that as she is only being heard and not seen today, there is no requirement for her to be formally dressed. Instead, she is wearing a little white skirt and a baggy, fluffy white v neck jumper. I would categorize her as a very pretty, mid ’30s, shapely young woman, around 5’5″, with an hourglass figure. ‘Tits n Ass,’ as they say in the movies. She has placed her bag on the center table and is busy sorting through it. Removing papers and a notebook, she places them in a pile on the table. She looks a little nervous, and fiddles with her long dark hair, which I appear to find quite seductive.
As she does this, I am sitting on one of the benches, my back to the darkened storage section, and I am also going through my bag. The difference is mine is not full of paperwork; mine holds my referee’s black uniform. I have taken off my jacket and sweatshirt and folded them up next to me.
She is pacing back and forward, practicing the pronunciation of some very tricky names (a lot of which sound foreign and as difficult as tongue twisters), in a quiet measured voice. After one such run, she stops pacing and turning to me, asks, “How do I sound?”
“Fine,” I say. “Sounds great…. like a pro.” Perhaps she is here today to do some announcing, I think, as I untie my trainers, remove them, then stand up to loosen my jeans.
She offers a weak smile of thanks, but tells me, “Some of these names, especially for the foreign riders are ‘fishhooks,’ to pronounce!” She exclaims.
So… the lady doesn’t speak French!
“You’ll be fine,” I try to reassure her, but I can tell she has concerns.
As she paces, I have now replaced my jeans with my black shorts. As I pull them up, there is a knock at the door, and it opens. An elderly man, with a bushy grey beard, cheerily looks in. “Hello, mind if I join you?”
“Hi, come on in,” I reply, as I pull my shirt over my head. He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. He is a tall guy, dressed in a tweedy green sports jacket, collared shirt, open at the neck, beige trousers, and a pair of well-worn tan brogue shoes. If I had to guess his age, I would put him in his mid-70’s.
Walking towards us, he extends his hand firstly, to Emma, for a more formal greeting. In his other hand, he is carrying what looks like a doctor’s briefcase. “I’m Jasper Cotton,” he offers. She shakes his hand, and introducing herself, explains that she has been booked to provide commentary for the International Equestrian event that is being held here today, in this very nice multi-sports stadium complex. It is scheduled to be broadcast live by the BBC and Sky.
Then turning to me, he asks “And who are you, young man?”
“I’m George, but please call me Geordie, everyone does. We shake hands warmly. I like him and he has a surprisingly firm grip, for his age. I explain that I am here today, as a stand-in referee, for a football match between two national teams. I just have to be available, should they need to call me in. Jasper tells us he is a ‘wellbeing practitioner’ for one of the Equestrian teams, their therapist and masseur.
He sits down near me on a bench and puts his case on the floor. He is recalling his journey to the stadium today and tells us how, at one point, he thought he was going to miss the event completely, as the traffic was so bad.
Reaching into my hold-all, I retrieve my football boots and lay them between my feet in readiness. Jasper has a kind demeanor with a mop of very unruly hair (much like his beard).
Emma, now pouting into a small mirror, she has pulled from her bag, is applying a light make-up of smoky eye shadow and a pale lipstick. I’m not entirely sure why, she looks fine to me, and she is not even on camera today. She then picks up her hairbrush and begins working her hair. Within a minute, she has brushed through the whole length, and it looked fabulous.
Watching her, Jasper comments on how he wishes his own hair would style that easily, and that it has always seemed to have a life of its own.
“Nonsense,” she says, “All you have to do is train it!”
“I’ve never had much luck doing that,” he chuckles.
Reaching into her bag, she brings out a bottle of hairspray. Approaching him, brush and spray in hand, she asks… “May I try?”
“Be my guest” Jasper says, standing up.
Given his height, she says, “No need to stand, just stay seated.” He sits back down again, as I begin putting on my boots.
The benches are placed tightly, side by side, so she must position herself in front of him to tackle his untamed hair. He leans forward, as she starts brushing through it.
I would describe Jasper as a lanky guy. His long legs were in her way. After several attempts, with her trying to maneuver around, between, and beside them, she says, “It might be easier if I just sit on your knee. That way I can get a better angle!”
Well, how could he say no… “Absolutely fine Emma, whatever you think.”
Too fucking right guvnor, I think to myself, I would quite like one of those on my knee.
So, she comes in a bit closer to him and sits down astride his right leg. Her little skirt rides up a bit and glancing left, I catch a glimpse of white panties, with a dainty purple zigzag motif.
Jasper is clearly a little uncomfortable, having to just sit there and let someone change his appearance because he is starting to get a little fidgety. Bouncing his legs up and down, he nearly unseats her a few times. In the end, he reaches forward to hold her by the hips, clamping her firmly onto his leg.
She brushes his hair this way and that, then when she is happy, she applies a little hair spray, “Just to help things stay in place.” she says.
“There…. take a look. I am confident that you will like what you see. I wish I was as confident in my ability to commentate on today’s event.”
As she rises to get off his leg, I notice there is a little dark patch on his trousers, where she was sitting.
Jasper doesn’t seem to notice, as he stands and walks over to the center table Emma was working on, to look at his reflection in her mirror. As he is deciding what he thinks of his new look, she asks me if I know where the ladies’ loos are.
“Absolutely….just out the door here, turn left and it’s the first door on the right.”
As she heads out of the room, I put on my boots, lace them up nice and tight and ensure my everyday clothes are packed away in my holdall. Standing up, I say goodbye to Mr. Cotton, who is smiling at his reflection in her mirror. I would say he views his new trendy hairstyle, very favorably! As I am now ‘match ready,’ I follow her out of the door.
Turning left, I start down the corridor. After just a few steps, I am walking past the door marked ‘toilets’ on the right side. As I pass it, I can hear a little moan coming from inside. I walk on past. As I turn left around the corner at the end of the corridor, I hear the toilet door open. I stop and wait a beat, then peep back around the corner.
Emma steps out into the corridor. She pauses for a second to look left and right. She doesn’t see me, and I watch her put her hand up under her little skirt as if feeling around for something? Then, withdrawing it, she smooths her skirt down and heads back into the storage room.
Curious now, I head straight for the toilets. It doesn’t take long for me to spot a little pair of white panties with purple zigzags in the bin. They are soaking wet, so naturally…….I stuff them in my pocket.
Heading back out into the corridor, I consider finding an excuse to go back into the storage room, to see if she’s ok, but I’m sure Jasper will sort her out if need be. So instead, I head for the exit. Just before it, there is a door on the left, marked ‘Storage Room – Door 2.’ I know this leads to the rear of the storage/locker room. Curiosity suddenly bites me on the foreskin, and I find myself carefully turning the handle, pushing the door open, and stepping into the room, before quietly closing the door behind me.
At first, as the immediate area around me is in complete darkness, I can’t see a thing. However, after a short while, my eyes begin to adjust to some level of night vision, and I see that I am indeed standing at the far end of the storage section of the room. I am amongst the rows and rows of crates and boxes, stacked up to the ceiling. Peering down the length of one of the rows, I can see the faint glow from the lights above the centre table.
Slowly, with the stealth of an SAS battalion with slippers on, I make my way down the aisle, toward the light. I can hear them both talking in the distance. As I get closer, I can begin to make out the conversation. He is asking her exactly what it is, about her assignment, that is making her feel so nervous. They are sitting with their backs to me, side by side on a bench.
Her head is bowed, and he has placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. She explains that she has never done an international event before and is just feeling the pressure a little. He asks if a massage would help. She says she has a couple of hours or so before she is needed in the control booth, so agrees to give it a go.
Like a Ninja, disguised as a football referee, I got as close to them as I dared. They were sitting within a few feet of me, as I crouched down behind a large cardboard box.