Muncle: fun for all the family?

“Gemma, I guess what I’m trying to say is, well… if he wasn’t your uncle would you, well… you know, shag him?”

Another one to chalk up to experience. With hindsight even I have to acknowledge that there are probably better ways of ascertaining whether Gemma had a fuckable uncle. But in my defence I had the best of motivations – she was considering bringing him along to the beer festival and he had just turned 40. One of my friends going had also just turned 40. It could have been beautiful as their eyes met across a foaming pint of “Old Bollock”. And even if romance didn’t blossom there was still the possibility of a cider fuelled knee trembler behind the portaloos and they have their own kind of unique beauty I suppose.

But anyway, that reminded me of “Muncle” which is what I wanted to tell you about.

This story concerns my excellent friend Sarah. Now, I'd thought for a long time that Sarah was well brought up, posh and wouldn’t say boo to a goose. But one night the mask slipped with arresting results. Sarah, my friend Glenn (aka "Private Glennjamin") and I went out for a delicious Thai meal and copious bottles of red wine (Thai red wine, which bizarrely is not to be sniffed at) got knocked away. Before I knew it we were all having a discussion about which two of the Charlie’s Angels we’d like to have a threesome with. Better still, Sarah was playing a full and active part in those discussions and had decided to give Cameron Diaz the heave ho. On the other side of the table, Glenn had the sort of dreamy look on his face which is almost impossible to describe. Imagine Homer Simpson being told that he’s Krispy Kreme’s one millionth customer and that he has to do a trolley dash round the doughnut factory. Then double it.

Then it got worse. We got back to the flat and met up with Kelly and lots of other friends. The drinking continued and Sarah passed out on the sofa. Somehow the conversation got round to George Michael. At that precise moment, something very strange happened. Sarah suddenly awoke, sat bolt upright and loudly exclaimed,

“George Michael is a CUNT”

before promptly falling back to sleep. The next morning Sarah couldn’t even remember the incident. More alarming still, despite being as much of an indie snob as me she had to admit that she didn’t personally have anything against Britain’s top pop cop cottager.

So I knew that Sarah could be a Jekyll and Hyde character. But that was before “Muncle” reared its ugly head.

It was many months later and I was having a house party. The flat was heaving with guests and a small group of us ducked into Tony’s flat downstairs which had been serving as a smoking room. We all sat round enjoying a moment of relative peace and calm from the hubbub upstairs. I looked over at Sarah. She had that expression, that way you look when you’re about to say something. More precisely, the way you look when you’re deciding whether to say something. I felt something subtly shift in the atmosphere of the room. We were in for another George Michael moment. I braced myself for some impending bad stuff.

“Let’s play Muncle” she announced.

“What’s Muncle?” I responded.

“Oh, it’s a cool game I played at a party a few weeks back. It’s really simple. I ask you a question and you just have to answer it.”

I thought. What could be wrong with a simple game like this? My mind was fogged with vodka and coke but it sounded innocent enough to me.

“Okay. Hit me with it.”

“Would you rather fuck your uncle’s body with your mum’s head on top or your mum’s body with your uncle’s head on top?”

And that’s how my party collapsed.

Because the thing about a horrible Hobson’s choice like that is that it’s like staring frozen into the headlights of an onrushing lorry. You have no choice but to answer. It’s especially creepy in my case because I only have one uncle and he looks like my mum only ten years older and with a goatee.

Fig. 1 - Putting the "uncle" in "Muncle"

And even if you don’t answer, you can’t help but think about it and your mind takes you kicking and screaming to places nobody should have to go. Bumming a scrawny old man with my mum’s head on his shoulders would have been grisly enough, so potentially the alternative would be preferable. At least it would involve lady petals. But my mum’s lady petals! No! Plus my uncle’s a dirty old man. I bet he’s got quite a potty mouth on him. Do I really want to hear my uncle’s running commentary as I intrude on my mother’s lady petals for the first time since childbirth?

GOOD GOD MAKE THE THOUGHTS GO AWAY.

I felt soiled. For about five minutes, anyway. Then I went back up to the party, grabbed one of the guests and said,

“Want to play Muncle?”

Since then I’ve developed quite a fondness for these kind of horrible dilemmas much in the same way that abused children become abusive adults. Darren recently told me another in the kitchen which is “would you rather wank your dad off into a horse’s mouth or wank a horse off into your mouth?” Actually now I think about it, Darren lives in rural Scotland near his dad. With lots of animals nearby. Maybe he’s tried them both.

My favourite is the old “if you had to shag X or Y which would it be?” game where the key is to pick the two most unattractive people you can possibly think of. We play this at lunchtimes a lot. My finest hour was when I asked Iain who he would sleep with out of Liz from complaints and his own mother.

He’s still thinking about that one.