I don’t suppose Donald Trump was living in Wolverhampton in the 90s. And I don’t suppose, even if he was there, he went dancing in The Web with his blonde lego hair audibly flick-flacking up and down as he pogoed to Firestarter But his sort of mentality you have to understand was alive and kicking in ourclubland. Oh yes, it was thriving. Because back then there was a fad I’m sad to say of Trump style ‘pussy grabbing’. You’d be giving it large having a good time and some bloke’d make a grope for your lady bits. No not your tits. Your aunty Annie your fanny you know down there where it counts to quote Prince whose discs may well have been spinning on the decks his voice oozing sex. Though that grab had nothing to do with Prince’s sort of sex. This was an invasion of a space, a violation, the hot shock of humiliation. Yeah, that’s how it felt. And then the guy would just melt into the crowd, and you’d be Oh crap. Did I just imagine that? And then your head said Maybe you should stop dancing, or talking or queuing for the bar and sit quietly with your legs crossed like some little girl lost or maybe just end the night and go home. Right! Because every woman’s place is there. In that grab was the joke about closer to the sink. In that grab was every know your place, bitch, every power trip every glass ceiling. That feeling was about control. And then, the paranoia would kick in. The female conditioning. Was it good enough for him? What if he noticed I was on? What if my vagina was sub-standard? What if him and his mates are all sitting there now laughing at me and my C-U-N-T? And talking of those I know Donald Trump is not to blame in this story, that he’s not really connected to this memory, not personally. I mean, for example he wasn’t there the night my friend Shiv got grabbed like that. He wasn’t there when she went home early. And it has to be said Trump wasn’t there as she lay in bed for an hour or more simmering, her Black eyes flashing in her freckled face until she decided to wake her brother (Six foot four, handsome, used to kicking it out on the terraces on a Saturday afternoon). And soon she’d talked him into taking her back out, giving her a lift up to the curry house, the one where everyone went after The Web. That said ger brother waited outside, seen her fired up like that before. Not getting involved. Not anymore. So it was our Shiv went in and spied the chap (who wasn’t Trump) the one who’d done that. She walked over to his table and she twatted him. They say his nose broke in two places, he dribbled blood into his vindaloo. The sad thing is he probably never knew what she’d hit him for. And perhaps it hurt like fuck for a week or two and his mates all took the piss like mates do. And although he’ll never really know what it is to be a woman, in that second I recon Yes he had a sense of what it is to be the weaker sex. And so that thump, although clearly violence isn’t right, does take me back to Trump and the so called locker room quip which he claims, although he’s ashamed, was just banter. Shiv and me I’m not sure we’d agree. What Donald has in store for the world only heaven knows, but when he goes, and eventually he will, you mark my words pound to a penny or a penny to a pound it’ll be a slow simmering woman that takes the bastard down.
Emma Purshouse is a poet, performer, workshop leader and novelist, whose novel Dogged is out now and available here .