BACK in 2012 at the height of Fifty Shades of Grey mania – as the second and third installments of the books were released – I wrote a series of parody posts for Irish website Ramp.ie imagining what it would be like if Christian Gray was a Dubliner.
As the film version of the book is set to be released this coming weekend I thought it was time to resurrect Git Gray and let him out to play again.
I’ll be posting an installment (or two) of this saga every day this week in the run up to Valentine’s Day. Enjoy! *gasps* *bites lip*
Fifty Shades of Shite – Vol I
Christian Grey – Git to his friends – stood in his office on the top floor of Liberty Hall in Dublin and stared moodily at the silvery snake of the River Liffey below, watching its slow meander through the centre of town.
Jaysus he felt rough this morning. That last pint was definitely a mistake. And now he had some bint from the local rag coming in for an interview.
There was only one thing for it. He reached out with his extraordinarily long index finger and buzzed for his secretary, settling himself back into his chair as the cool blonde entered the office.
‘Git?’ she enquired, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow.
‘Get us a breakfast roll will ya, love,’ he belched. ‘Extra hash browns, and don’t forget the black puddin’.’
He grinned, grey eyes glinting, noting her curvy hips and high, firm breasts beneath her demure office attire as she left the room.
She was a right little ride, so she was, a fine thing. He’d have a go at her later in the pub, buy her a bottle of WKD, the ladies loved that.
Twenty minutes later he wiped the grease from his fingers, adjusted his low slung trousers – he was going to have to buy a belt – and prepared for the interview.
Miss Anastasia Steele – stupid fucking name – fell into the room all big eyes and long hair, ivory skinned and delicate, biting constantly at her lower lip.
Probably coming down with a coldsore.
‘Alright?’ he asked, hoping to put her at her ease. She’d already dropped her notebook and looked mortified, though he couldn’t be sure that wasn’t her permanent expression. You could never tell with burds these day.
Botox and all that.
‘Tell me Mr Grey, um, Git, to what do you owe your success?’
Straight away in with the hard questions. He liked that.
‘Ah, a bit of this, a bit of that, you know yourself. Do you go out around town much?’
‘I’m sorry?’ She sounded confused.
‘Town. Do you go out much? At the weekends like. I love me weekends, can’t wait to get out of this kip,’ he grinned, deciding he’d throw her a bone after all.
‘What about hobbies?’ she asked, hurriedly moving on to the next question. ‘I read somewhere that you like music? And animals?’
‘Aslan,’ he replied, promptly. ‘Best band in the fuckin’ world. Christy Dignam in his bare feet, belting out Crazy World; it’s a religious experience. I’ve an oul mutt as well yeah. Leo Dowling, I call him. Looper, an absolute looper.’
‘Fine, right, em… Mr Grey, you’re never seen in the company of a woman more than once. Are you gay?’
‘WHA’?!’ he exploded out of his chair, almost losing his trousers in the process so low did they hang off his hips, lips tightening with rage.
‘Gay? Me? Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, but Jaze, no! No! Who told you that?’
It was probably that bitch at the front desk. Just because of that one time he couldn’t get it up. But what did she expect after a feed of pints and a cheese curry chip? She hadn’t been complaining when she’d been lashing back the Smirnoff Ice.
‘No, Miss Steele, I’m not gay.’ And I’ll prove it to you, he thought, imagining the playroom in his penthouse apartment in the Docklands and what it’d be like to have her there.
You never know, she might clean it up a bit. It was in a jock after the last time, massage oil and lube all over the place. That shit was a pain to get off. Got everywhere. He’d lost count of the number of genuine leather couches from Cost Plus Sofas he’d destroyed.
When he had her stripped and tied up with the laces from his football boots, with a bluey from the three for €20 range at Xtravision playing on the flat screen, she’d know all about gay.
He bet she was a screamer. The shy ones were always screamers.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Gray. The question was just written here… I’ll go now,’ the girl said, blushing and rising to her feet.
‘Grand job, gameball, you’re grand,’ Git replied, seeing her out. She had a fine little arse on her all the same, she was probably a right goer.
Door safely closed, he sank into his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin – decisions, decisions. He wanted to know much more about Miss Anastasia Steele, but how?
His hand hovered over the speed-dial to call in his private detective but then he remembered Miss Steele was 21-years-old and there was probably an easier way.
A slow smile spread across his face as he called up his Internet browser. Of course. Facebook. And that was the rest of the morning sorted.
Fifty Shades of Shite – Vol II
Git Grey walked angrily towards the Mill Centre in Clondalkin hoping there’d be a coffee shop open. He needed caffeine after the night he’d had.
How could he have known that when he turned up at B&Q Liffey Valley – where the delectable Miss Anastasia Steele worked – to buy some supplies for his playroom, he’d end up spending a night in the cells being questioned by Gardaí?
Couldn’t a guy buy cable ties, lengths of rope, a shovel and a body bag without being arrested anymore? It was all perfectly innocent; if he’d been allowed to continue with his purchases, the gimp mask would have made it all clear.
But oh no, Ana’s supervisor Jenny couldn’t have that – so rough a bear wouldn’t hug her, by the way – and the cops were there before he knew it. Before he got to say more than two words to his love.
She’d been distraught when he’d been carted away, her porcelain skin flushed with distress as she’d apologised over and over.
‘Git, I’m so sorry. If it had just been those first few items it wouldn’t have been so bad. It was the bone saw that did the damage, Jenny just freaked out, you can see how it must have looked?’
Fair point, well made.
Anyway, at least Anastasia had agreed to see him again tonight. He was bringing her for dinner and then to his penthouse in the salubrious Docklands and if there was any justice in the world he’d be getting his hole as well.
Eight hours later he stood outside the Central Bank, copper hair carefully mussed – Jedward robbed that off him – watching the delectable Miss Steele walk nervously towards him. She was wearing some sort of a skirt and top yoke, not bad. Nice tits.
‘Are ya right?’ he asked, hands in his jacket pockets. ‘C’mon, I’m marvin, have to feed you up too, if you know wharrimean wha’?’
No point beating about the bush. He hoped not anyway, waxing made everything just so much easier.
They strolled along by the Bank of Ireland and Trinity College, towards Westmoreland Street, stopping outside Git’s favourite restaurant.
‘I’m not hungry,’ whispered Ana, chewing on her bottom lip, eyes wide and overwhelmed as she looked in the window.
‘You must eat, Ana,’ Git insisted, grey eyes flashing. ‘You will eat.’ He did not like to be disobeyed.
‘I can’t, not in there,’ Ana managed, her voice barely audible, trembling, eyeing the menu, real terror in her eyes.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ Git sighed, vowing to punish her later. He strode up to the counter. ‘A large Abrakebabra Meal with Coke and a side of garlic fries please,’ he ordered.
Women. Always on bloody diets. He was going to eat his fill anyway, his trousers were hanging off his hips, he was skin and bone.
After he’d finished eating they made their way back to his place – a quick call had summoned his driver – in Git’s personal limo. A Hummer. Tinted windows, the works. Total chick magnet.
His apartment was cool and dim when they entered and smelled like Mr Sheen. Only the best. Ana was silent as she took in the white leather couches, the white shag pile rug, the white flowers and the white flat screen surround sound.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed softly, eyes widening. ‘It’s just like… like…’
‘Cribz,’ Git finished for her. ‘You’re right. 50 Cent has this exact apartment. Look at it there, pure class. See these leather-bound books? They’re actually DVD holders!’
Steering her towards the centre of the room, Git removed her jacket, his overly-long index fingers making short work of the buttons, throwing it on the sofa.
‘I want to show you my playroom, Anastasia,’ Git murmured, leading her towards the imposing glass-panelled door on the other side of the penthouse. He’d wood on him that’d repopulate the rain-forest, wait until she got a load of this.
Ana gasped as the door swung open, revealing a room every man dreamt of – posters of Jason Sherlock and Robbie Keane decorated the walls, there was a Wii and a PlayStation in one corner and a giant iPad in another, leather couches scattered everywhere. Centre stage was a super king-size bed with a mini-bar on each side and a 75 inch flat screen telly screwed to the ceiling above it.
‘When you’re in my playroom, you’ll dress appropriately, the way a real woman should dress,’ Git said, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he produced crotchless knickers and a Dublin jersey from behind his back.
Ana blushed, fingers trembling as she reached to take the items from his hands. Jaysis, she was gagging for it, he was going to hit that. Hard. Hit it with his rhythm stick.
When she was dressed, he led her towards the bed, binding her hands with the cable ties he’d bought in B&Q, his trousers barely able to contain the monster within.
‘Git, wait,’ Ana breathed. ‘There’s something I have to tell you before we do this. I’m a virgin.’
At her words Git felt something twist deep inside him. An unfamiliar sensation. Desire? Guilt? Fear?
‘Ana, my love,’ he gasped, suddenly recognising the sensation with sickening clarity. ‘I’ll be right back. I. Shouldn’t. Have. Had. The. Garlic. Fries.’
As he bolted for the en-suite he briefly wondered if Ana would be still there on his return – the door to the toilet wasn’t exactly soundproofed – but then he laughed. He’d seen her copping a sly look at his trouser truncheon. Of course she’d still be there. And then the fun could really begin.
To be continued …