A right royal knee's up

This blog is about Amy Rowland. It’s long overdue and I can only apologise to the lovely, big bosomed lady who sits three doors to my right, her chirpy northern chatter like a lullaby to my right ear, her peroxide blonde hair a twinkle in the peripheral vision of my right eye, her smile, wit and warmth a wonder to behold.

Ever since I started this blog-fest, this marathon of writing (and it’s more than one a month Gareth Jones) Amy has been a fan. I’d even boldly go so far as to say she loves it. But as she read each entry – one about Hannah and I buying shoes, one about Gareth and I camping, one about Skinner and I eating lunch – she had but one question. When, Kim Willis, will I be featured?

Amy began to question her merits. Was she not as fun as Hannah? Did our nights on the town mean nothing?

But the more she pined, the drier the sponge that is my brain became. Yes, she is – you are – incredibly fun. I love it when Amy gets the giggles, I don’t think anything makes me laugh more than when Amy gets the giggles. I love it when she inappropriately grabs her boobs in front of men and says ‘I’m good at chatting up men’. I love that she hates it when people cry in front of her, doesn’t know how to react, and yet reacts as any perfect friend would when I cry. I love that she has a sense of humour comparable only with a man – and that’s why I love men. Because to them, everything is funny, nothing is offensive. Men and Amy Rowland.

So what to write my Amy tribute blog about? There can only be one night to recount.

I love it when friends from different social groups get on. Remember that scene in Spaced when Tyres takes everyone to a club and they all have a jolly time and he assess the situation from the smoke-filled doorway and, palms together, says ‘my work here is done’ ? That’s how I feel. Bring the brilliant people together, that’s my job.

And so I invited Nicola Apples Appleton and Amy Lysette Rowland for dinner at my house, along with Michael Henry Wiper and Olly Big Eyes Not Sure What Your Surname Is.

Sun shining, we gathered in the garden for pre-dinner drinks. Everyone was getting on just dandy. Olly’s a funny old man. He was in a relationship for seven years or some ridiculous amount of time, and has just broken free. He appears to be rather taken aback by how the world has changed since he was 15. His eyes are always wide, none more so than if you say something shocking. I’m sure he just has big eyes, but his constant look of rabbit-in-the-headlines shocked leaves me wishing I was a librarian.

We’re all outside, wine flowing, guacamole gone. I feel like Tyres - everyone is bonding well.

Dinner done, we sat about eating cheese. I think. I forget what was eating because all I can remember is what happened next. There was a lull in conversation. Shock! Horror! These people don’t know each other, there can’t be a lull! Don’t you worry, Amy Rowland to the rescue.

‘Shall we see how many of my mates will send me a picture of their cocks?’ she asks, as calmly as if she’s asking the time.

Olly’s eyes widen.

Amy whips out her phone and sends a message to all the men out there – hey you, long time no speak, could you please send me a picture of your cock – or words to that effect.

We all have a good laugh about how wild our Amy is. There were probably a few dick jokes and the banter was certainly restored. Within a minute her text message was all but forgotten.

And then… beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep. Not one, not two, but DOZENS of Amy’s male friends are apparently willing (and able – as in, in a place or situation where they CAN get their dicks out and take a picture) to send Amy a picture without question.

Olly’s eyes widen.

Amy gets the giggles.

We all gather round to judge the offerings.

And then – from one –the ultimate. Without even being asked, he sends more than just a picture. He sends a video, of him bringing himself to orgasm.

I think Olly slipped into a state of shock. I don’t think he knew girls like Amy existed.

Mike then proceeded to make a vagina out of his knee so that Amy had something to send back to the poor men. Most of them thought they were in, quickly texting back to find out if Amy was free and fancied a drink.

A lesson, to anyone lucky enough to be a man and in Amy’s phonebook, is never ever send her a picture of your penis upon request, because you never know what kind of lull she is trying to fill, how many of her friends she is going to show and how many of Mike’s knees she’ll borrow to make you think she thinks your penis is worth a picture of her fake knee-vagina.

I think you think she’ll think it’s your lucky day, but I know she knows you don’t know it’s just a hairy knee.