NICK HORNBY MEETS MEN BEHAVING BADLY

J I

Lr APllB aUfiii
IDffl

'Like fr/e/?cfs with

beer and football -
and all the better for
THE EXPRESS
 Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2010

http://www.archive.org/details/inyourdreamsOOross
Charlie Ross lives in Richmond with his wife and daughter.
In Your Dreams is his first novel.
In Your Dreams
CHARLIE ROSS

H
CORGI BOOKS
 IN YOUR DREAMS
A CORGI BOOK : 552 14754
Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,
a division of Transworld Publishers

PRINTING HISTORY
Bantam Press edition published 2000
Corgi edition published 2001

13579 10 8642
Copyright © Charlie Ross 2000
'My One and Only Love' words and music Robert Mellin and Guy Wood
© 1952 Sherwin Music Inc./Warock Corps, USA. Reproduced by permission of
EMI Music Publishing Ltd, London WC2H 0EA.

'Ring of Fire' words and music by Merle Kilgore and June Carter 1962 ©
Painted Desert Music Corporation, 640 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY10019
USA. Shapiro Bernstein &
Company Limited, 8/9 Frith Street, London Wl.
Used by permission of Music Sales Ltd for UK, Europe and Australia. All
Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

The right of Charlie Ross to be identified as the author of this work

has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the
Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Condition of Sale
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,
by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.
Typeset in Sabon by
Falcon Oast Graphic Art.

Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers,

61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,
a division of The Random House Group Ltd,
in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia,
in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd,
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd,
Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Mackays of Chatham pic, Chatham, Kent
For Amanda, my wife, and Molly, our daughter,
aged six months

In memory of Stephen Milton

Chapters

Proposing 11
Princess Lou and the Reverend Ratty 28
Preparing 35
Presenting 51
Camel Coat
Flapping 59
Supposing 65
Lost-cause Armpits and Rhino Skin 74
Postponing 81
Perspiring 90
Engaged 109
Sonar, Sharks and Microwaves 125
Enraged 132
Muttley's Satiated Smile 149
Ring Rage 153
Deranged 161
Nice Baubles 195
Endangered 211
Dung Beetle's Virtual 360 225
Disengaged 235
Departed 253
Depraved 266
D-Dayed 294
In Your Dreams
Proposing

'Will you m— me ?

Four words! Four! You wouldn't imagine so few words, so

few short, simple words, could create such chaos. You might
replace them with another four words. For example, 'Please
pickle my testicles,' or 'Kindly whisk my brains.' You would
expect these words to bring a little hassle, some grief, some
madness. But 'Will you m— me?' Only one of the words has
more than one syllable, for Chrissakes. The same word I can't
even say . . . not yet, anyway.
I guess I'll get used to it. I have to, really. I think it's just a
minor, temporary allergy, like hay fever, athlete's foot or
scrot-rot. Colin, my dubious hack mate, had scrot-rot once.
He'll be there, as an usher, on the big day. I can see him now,
scratching his beard while he herds the rest of the lads around
with as little success as he manages the pub football team.
Mind you, who won't be there? I wouldn't be surprised to
seeB Company of the South Wales Borderers (2nd Battalion)
and their mascot, Phuq the Goat, at the church on the day.
The bride-to-be (BTB) is composing the guest list with
months still to go. It's a Proust-sized 'remembrance of friends
past who we haven't seen for a decade' composition.
Yup, I am to be wed. I - that is, my fiancee and me - are
getting hitched. I have made the lemming-like leap of suicide
which is 'the proposal'. I, Johnny Riley, will be taking

11
she, BTB, for my on 31 May next year.
felafel bedded life

Sitting here in bed, half awake, I wonder if it was all a

sweaty nightmare. In the silence of dawn - no noise of
planning, no arguing about whether her twice-removed four-
teenth cousin should come, no barking or gunfire - I can't
quite believe what I've let myself in for.

A few months ago Imade a list of the things I wanted to

achieve by the time I was thirty:

Win Oscar for first script.

Run marathon.
Retire to live as a wealthy sloth.

They carried on in the same vein, all a little selfish and a lot

fantasy-land, which BTB says is me all over. I started again:

Finally get round to finishing my Mr Saturday Night script.

Try to keep place as Blue Boy's left winger by remaining at
the fitter end of unhealthy.
Toilet train Muttley (my grungy year-old mongrel), at least
a bit anyway.

BTB sighed and said they were now all too achievable and
still typically self-centred. I protested and said that I didn't
mind Muttley crapping on our kitchen floor, so that one was
clearly for her, but she didn't seem to buy it. Anyway, the
point is, you'll notice zero reference to getting m—d. Getting
hitched wasn't on the first list, and it wasn't on the second.
So why slip it in before the big three-o?
Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Repeating this question doesn't actually help.
I don't really know. But I want to find out. I mean, I'm not
the first, am I? It's not as if I'm the only plonker to have
popped the question without full knowledge of the risks.

12
Christ, there are 90,000 couples out there right now, in

Britain, who have set a date for their own personal dooms-
day - that's 'big day' to the optimists. 180,000 people! You
realize, unless there are lots of gay weddings, or weddings to
inanimate objects - sounds good! Bagsy the Hoover - that
90,000 of those people are blokes. More than eight times the
capacity of Craven Cottage! What would it be like?
'Come on ye gro-oms!'
Everything went pear-shaped a month ago. You know the
chaos butterfly theory, where fluttering wings in China can
cause a hurricane on the other side of the world by toppling
a chain of ever-worsening consequences. Well, my chaos, my
hurricane, was caused by a mate, a moth and a of moment
madness. To be honest, I blame my best mate, Merlin. Back
then, in August, I asked Merlin's advice on proposing. Merlin
said it was a grand idea. Merlin, the Welsh wanker, was
pissed when he said this to me, and pissed when he proposed
himself. Merl is a six-foot-five swarthy bloke, who looks and
sounds as near as dammit to Darth Vader - without the suit.
He has a streak of bright white hair sprouting from his tem-
ple, which stands out all the more amidst the scruffy, long
black mess. He pretends it went white with fear during a
visitation by the ghost of Sid Vicious, twiddles with it
constantly, but doesn't seem too bothered when we call him
Skunk.
I, on the other hand, am five foot fuck all, with hair that
BTB says reminds her of a short-lived Jack Russell her dad
bought her when she was a kid. Clearly me and Merl are

going to look like spanners at the altar together next year.

But, yet again, this is not something I considered in advance.
Darth Vader and bloody short-arsed, big-eared Yoda, that's
what we'll look like, with Merlin whispering in my ear every
five minutes, 'May the force be with you . . . 'cos you're

gonna need it!'

We were at one of Merlin's legendary barbecues on a hot

13
night, smack in the middle of summer. The flat - ground floor
and garden of a typical Battersea red-brick semi - looked
mildly ransacked. The French windows and kitchen door
were wide open, with colourful curtains billowing. Stacks of
dirty plates, bin-liners of bottles and cans were strewn
throughout, as alcohol had gradually got the better of our
efforts to keep the flat vaguely tidy. As usual, the sole sur-
vivors of the drunken debacle were Merl and his wife, Ruth,
BTB and me, who were incapable of the ten-minute totter
from their flat to our house near Clapham Common. Merl
and me slouched on uncomfortable garden furniture,
surrounded by post-barbecue waste: half-eaten pork-and-
leek sausages, eight trillion fag butts and the ever-present
empty bottles. The garden was all pot plants and patio; ease
of up-keep and maximum barbecue functionality by design.
I was fishing for proposing tips from Merl. Why the big

'M' was fixed in my thoughts at all is a puzzle. It must have

been something biological - colliding neutrons or hazardous
chemicals mixing in my head.
I guess that's the whole problem here, I'm confused. I was
in amuddle back then and, to be honest, I'm still not out of
the woods. Yousee, on the one hand you've got the 'M' thing
- the 'M' word - which scares me more than bank state-
ments. But there it was, lodged in my head like some cartoon
arrow shot through one ear and sticking out of the other. So
why was it there? Pass. Next question.
On the other hand you've got BTB - formerly known as my
girlfriend - who means more to me than my original Ian
Dury 'Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll' 12 inch. We've
been seeing each other since college in Scotland and have
lived in London together for years now. It's not as tricky as it
was back in ye olde days, when the smart women held the
best cards till the last hand and made poor sex-starved
grooms charge down the aisle for the sake of a virginity-
erasing shag. So it's not sex.

14
 Somebody said couples get hitched when they have nothing
else left to say. But it can't be that either. We still spark, BTB
and me. We still row, we still fight and make up. So she wins,
but not all the time. Actually, all the time. And when I say we
say sorry, well, really, I guess I say sorry.
Sorry 1 was drunk.
Sorry Muttley shat on the spare bed.
Sorry I flirted with Maddy.
Sorry I spend my life in a celluloid fantasy.
Sorry I called your mother a contract killer.

Maybe that's why I was thinking of m Maybe it was my — .

way of getting back on top. Proposing was the only crack at

dominance left for me, other than kinky bondage sessions -
which I imagine might chafe.
And then, of course, there's the minor detail that she's
beautiful. She's like the sea - frantic, captivating and danger-
ous in a storm; serene and irresistible on a windless summer's
day. I know it's vomit-inducingly soppy, but even that doesn't
explain why I suddenly felt the need to get all Neanderthal
and possessive, stick little gold tags on our fingers and
operate under one name.
Why did I ask her? I don't fucking know. I'm trying to
work that one out. Was it the threat of losing her to someone
else? Or fear of her eventual boredom with my ineptitude,

expanding gut, flatulence and diminishing libido? I don't

have a clue. That's what I'm trying to work out. I'd like to

just blame Merl, that would be easy. Fucking twat.

That bloody barbie was the pivot-point, the watershed.

While Ruth and BTB were doing the sofa-white-wine-and-
whispering thing, me and Merl chain-smoked in the garden
and foolishly cracked open a bottle of Laphroaig. Our con-
versation wandered aimlessly between irrelevant subjects. We
paused to stare at the stars, watch kamikaze moths head-butt
the garden spotlight, or refill our tumblers. It was all mainly
manly stuff - why Fulham should buy Portsmouth's reserve

15
goalkeeper, which US punk band did a cover of the Banana
Would you have a moral dilemma about silicon
Splits in '79?

implants? Or would you, in fact, be more likely to have an

erection? We made our usual trips to the land of make-
believe, where I was being wooed by Hollywood and Merl
was travelling the world as a famous travel writer, and neatly
side-stepped our current job-failures as crap video supremo
and never-been-there holiday-brochure writer. We were no
better than the moths, flitting between shallow subjects,
never pausing too long for fear of burning our wings on the
light bulb.

Inside, the girls would be nailing down a subject and stick-

ing to it. It might be any topic, but it would involve them and
they would keep at it, focus on it and pin it down. It could be

sex with Merlin or me, or whether terracotta kitchen floors

have had their day, or why Trish should leave Colin; the
merits of a new buttock-toning class at the local gym, or why
our bald team captain, Stefano - the Italian Stallion, as the
girls call him - would make their perfect bit on the side, or

even better, an ideal match for the terminally single Maddy -

BTB's buxom blonde best friend. By now their chosen subject
would have been dissected under the microscope, like a
laboratory rat. It would be easy to pass them off as gossips,
but actually they were probably having a real conversation,
without effort or the agony of forcing things out. Ruth and
BTB would probably be putting something right, while me,
Merl and the lads might take the piss, but at least the girls
could look back on a party or a night in the Blue Boy and say,
'we talked about this subject' or 'sorted that thing out'.
Usually, Merl, me and any combination of the lads would
simply mutter and wisecrack our way through the night. The
most important things remained unsaid, like odd taboos.
I managed to steer one of our fleeting conversational visits

on to the subject of proposing. At this point I wasn't entirely

sure I would, or even could, ask the big question myself. I

16
hoped Merl would be too pissed to make the link as he
happily talked me through his own experience:
'I was knee deep in booze, boyo, wasn't I. I'd 'ave asked
fuckin' JPR Williams to marry me that night, you know! It

just 'appened to be the case that Ruth was stood next to me.
I mean, I've not the faintest idea why it came out. It was only
months afterwe'd graduated, you an' me, Johnny. Mad old
time it was, remember? Anyway, back home from Edinburgh,
an' I was out with all the old lads, like, an' went up to the
I

bar in Llandaff - the Malsters, it was. You know, nice pub an'
all - an' I was supposed to say, "Forty-five pints of Brain's
Skull Attack for the boys," to Billy the barman, and instead
I you marry me?" to Ruth.'
said, "Will

you didn't plan it then, Merl?' I remembered the brain-

'So
numbing shock when he'd told me all those years ago. I
remembered thinking, You're having a laugh, aren't you?
We'd been best mates at college for three years, joined at the
hip, never apart for more than a couple of weeks here and
there. Then we didn't see each other for a few months after
college, and the next thing I knew Merl was hitching himself
to his teenage sweetheart.
'Plan it? Plan?' Merlin fell off his seat, landing in a flower
bed. 'I've laid more detailed plans for chronic diarrhoea than
I did for that proposal!' he said from behind the begonias.
'But you knew. I mean, you'd always said, "That Ruthie;
she's my girl." You were always going to ask Ruth to m-m-
m . . .

'Marry me? Course I was. Knew it since the day she shaved
me sideburns off at Snippets on the high street. Symbolic, it

was. Course, I'd met her on holiday when she had blond hair
tied in pigtails and wore one of those silly ra-ra tutu skirts
that were all the rage. But I really fell for her a few months
before that, when I popped in to get me flick trimmed. I sat
in the chair, and her reflection in the mirror stopped me in my
tracks. She'd died her hair black and cut it like an Egyptian,

17
but with a peroxide-blond fringe. Remember it made her
brown eyes look black. Told nabbed the idea from me she'd
a singer on Top of the Pops as she cut my hair, but I was too
dumbstruck to talk. She must of thought I was a real pillock.'
'So, if you knew all that time, how come you didn't plan
it?' I frowned.
'You see, Johnny, that was eventually. I knew I'd ask
eventually. Not now. I mean, eventually I know me hair'll fall

out. Eventually, like. But I'm not about to ask you to pull it

up by the roots now, am I?'

you were glad you asked, though?' I was spending too

'But
much moth was about to melt on the
time on the topic. This
light bulb. Merl looked at me with whisky-red eyes glowing

madly in the night.

'Glad? Glad? . Well, I suppose I was glad that it was
. . . . .

all You know, glad like glad I was under the anaes-
a blur.
thetic when the dentist pulled out one of my wisdom teeth!'
I was rapidly going off the idea of proposing, but it was

just too late for a change of heart.

'So you're gonna ask her?'
Like the moth with singed wings, I had remained where I

shouldn't have been far too long. Merlin knew for sure why
I'd asked the questions, why I'd dwelled on the unspeakable
subject.
'You are, aren't you, Johnny? You're going to ask her.'

Merlin was on to me now, an angler reeling in a slippery fish.

My life flashed before me. Well, actually it didn't. The light

bulb firmament was fizzling on the garden spotlight, making
it flicker like a very weak strobe. As it did, I fell off my seat
to join Merlin in the flower bed. The overall effect with the
light and the stars in the sky was, I imagine, a tad like having
your life flash before you.
'Yes,' I said, as I landed on my arse next to Merlin. I sur-
prised myself when I said this. Thinking back to that moment
of truth, I wonder whether I'd just had the wind knocked out

18
of me and the shocked noise I'd made as I landed just

sounded like 'yes', when I meant to say 'ow', or, 'I've hurt me
arse'. But Merlin heard 'yes', loud and and that is a very
clear,

big thing.He became a witness. He became a trustee. He

became complicit in the proposal.
If I never propose, Merlin will always be there to haunt me.
A physical reminder of one of the few good intentions I've
ever had. Now I was committed. I had to do it or . . . well,
not do it, but have Merlin take the piss a lot.

That makes it sound trivial, or small, but it's not. It's not
just about Merl taking the piss; it'sabout him knowing what
might have happened in my life. About him being party to
this great big thing I'd decided. Of course, asmy best mate,
heknew how much BTB meant to me. He knew how special
she was. Merl knew that bluff and bravado was a thin veil,
knew that if she left, or if she said 'no', I'd have a personal
Armageddon. And if I didn't ask, he would always be there
at my shoulder whispering, 'Hey, Johnny, you were onto
something there; she was the grooviest chick at the dance,
gagging to get it on with you, she was, and you fucked it. You
didn't even ask her.'
There was no fooling Merlin; we'd known each other too
long. We'd met in freshers' week at college, having happily
joined the Sacred Cow Irreverence Unlimited Club in the first

few days. As a sort of initiation, we'd agreed to shadow some

socialist workers around the university union dressed as
gnomes selling copies of the Beano while they touted their

own newspaper.
'Socialist WorkerV shouted the knobbly, bearded militant.
'Fight the class war. Beat Thatcher!'
'BeanoV we echoed. 'Bash Street Kids in classroom war!'
Gnomes on our knees with round rouge circles on our
cheeks. After a near beating, we became inseparable for the
next three years.
He can read me like a book, Merlin, and now he knew that

19
I'd made that big decision to pop the question. The real

behemoth of the decision world, and I'd shared it. I had

shared it all with Merlin, who went on to say what a grand

decision he thought it was, and that I should carry it out as

soon as possible.
Looking back to that August night in the flower bed - me,
my behemoth, Merlin and the (flattened) begonias - I have a
few question marks about the integrity of Merl as chief
adviser. He must have been one, or all, of the following when
he gave me this advice: too pissed to pay attention, just like

the night he could have married JPR; lonely in the sad-

bastard married club and attempting to bamboozle me into
joining; or perhaps just being honest and stating - in a veiled,

best mate sort of way - that if I didn't pin BTB down now I'd

be lucky to end up with a wildebeest in a skirt.

I looked through the patio doors at BTB and Ruth, still

nattering on the checked sofa. The back of BTB's head
bobbed up and down as she blethered, blond curls bouncing.
Although pissed, I remember Ruth's face clearly - pine hair
pulled back from her sharp features and tied into a French
plait. The whites around her dark pupils were bright red, but

I couldn't tell whether this was due to tears, or ten too many

'last' glasses of cheap Chardonnay.

For a second I wondered about the state of Merl and Ruth

and noticed the way he shuffled over the paving stones,
hiding the cracks beneath his feet. My thoughts were random
and unanchored, and anything too intense was lost in the
peaty fumes of the Laphroaig. I shook my doubt away, decid-
ing Merl's patio, relationship and advice were all equally
sound.
So, thanks to Merlin, I decided to ask the question. This
may sound like a cop-out. It may sound weak-willed that I

couldn't reach this decision unilaterally, like CND, but

I Nobody, unless they are Robert Maxwell,
couldn't.
Margaret Thatcher, Hitler or BTB, makes decisions without

20
recourse to absolutely anyone. Us normal folk humbly seek
advice. But where do you go for advice on whether or not to
pop the question? There is no place to go for a check. If your

car's fucked you go to a mechanic; if your foot's knackered

you go to a chiropodist; if your dog's broken you go to a vet
(BTB says Muttley won't be at the wedding unless he stops
peeing on the floor); but if you want to get hitched to your
bird nowhere to go.
. . .

I asked Merlin, and look where that got me.

After my life had flashed before me in the begonias, I

sought feedback. I sought confirmation that my brain hadn't
become a cabbage while I wasn't looking.
'So, Merl er what do you reckon . . . . . . to . . . you know
. . . popping the question?'
'Johnny boy, I think that would be a . . . urm . . . super
plan Yes, boyo. . . . . . really quite grand.' We toasted my
behemoth under the stars, draining our tumblers with
another sclerotic liverful of Laphroaig.
In retrospect, what kind of a daft question was that to ask?
Try to imagine saying to your best mate, 'I'm going to ask my
bird to m— me. What do you think?'
What are his options? What's he really going to say? 'Nah,
she's a moose with a personality that's got a wasp up its arse!'

Or, 'So, has she stopped shagging her boss then?' Or, 'Who?'
Or, in Merlin's case, 'Yes, boyo, follow the dark side of the
Force. Join me, Luke. Leave the Rebel Singlemen Alliance and
become a big cheese with Married Empire!' me in the Evil

So I suppose Merlin's simple response - 'grand' - which he

followed with a grin, was as good as it gets. We garbled into
the early hours, minesweeping his house for signs of booze
with complete disregard for the likely severity of our hang-
overs. And in this state, in this hazy, surreal summer flower
bed, I sealed the deal. I asked Merlin a question that trans-
ported him from merely complicit to something integral.
'Merl . .
.' I slurred, 'will yooobay thebesss mannnn?'

21
 And in that wonderfully harmonious way that, much like

the ancient language of Babel, drunk men always understand

each other's slurs, Merl said, 'Jahhnny boy . . . thers nuthin
ahhhhhhd raaddrer do.'
In this drunken exchange everything became more than a
glimmer in my eye. It was an 'it': an event that had grown
from nothing to having a best man. This is how it happens,
like mould on bread, starting tiny and growing with mon-

you know,
strous speed into a great big bacterial blob. Before
'it's' grown and flowers and lists and guests and china
cars
and cards and hymns and ushers and bridesmaids and honey-
moons and rings and favours and a budget bigger than a
presidential candidate's. It is a monster with a thousand
heads and a million legs, and you are a small helpless cell

somewhere insignificant inside the matter of that monster -

maybe in an arse-cheek, or a toenail. And BTB - or any bride
- they become the brain of the beast, with their wicked
henchwomen, the bridesmaids and mother-in-law-to-be.
Which is rich, really, when you consider that us grooms get it
all going in the first place. It's a nemesis we create for no

reason I can imagine.

Why?
Lying here, now, in bed with BTB, trying to wrap my mind
around the past mad month since I proposed, you might
think Merlin's advice wasn't so bad. Both BTB and the house
she has styled look calm and serene, like a swan. A cream and
white Mediterranean feel in the middle of a south-west
London terrace. Above the waterline looks effortless, while
below the surface madness ensues, as BTB tidies away the
perpetual mess of Muttley and me. It's a pristine screen
covering the chaos, a bit like its designer.
Looking under the duvet, you could presume every-
at her,
thing was normal. BTB's curled up, snoozing gently like a
shark. Balled up, tiny, with blond sleep-tousled hair, delicate
limbs, pale sun-kissed skin, freckling as the summer days

22
pass. She looks perfect and sweet and harmless. This is scary.

I know, like the house, it's camouflage. Have you seen

Predator} Where Arnie is hunted by an extraterrestrial whose
body armour changes like a chameleon. Looking at BTB now
she is equally well disguised. Dozing, you can see no sign of
the psycho-fiancee hidden below the surface.
Be warned, potential grooms. We need to form a club and
spend money developing hi-tech pre-emptive strike weaponry
to defend against BTBs who are hiding behind harmless
sweet exteriors. In the future, you too will be able to take
your BTB to a branch of Riley's Free Grooms Society™.
These will be located on all high streets and look, to the
untrained eye, like common-or-garden branches of Jigsaw -
which are to BTBs what maggots are to trout. Inside, while
trying on clothes that cost more than real estate in
Manhattan, special X-rays will be taken and printed out for
potential grooms. If an Alien-style aura is revealed surround-
ing their pretty young BTBs, they can quietly be disposed of
through trapdoors in the floor, put through a mincer and
made into Riley's Tasty Pies and Sausages™. 'She was a
monster' we could tell concerned friends and family. At least

we could pretend they were monsters if they responded to

our proposal in any of the following ways:

'Take a hike.'
'I'd rather m— Russell Grant.'
'Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha (ad infinitum).'
'Excuse me, but who are you again?'
'Barf.'

And then we could spend the next few years saying, 'Yeah,
I know she looked lovely . . . Well, yes, I guess she did have
a great personality . . . But underneath it all, below the sur-

face, trapped beneath the deceivingly attractive shell, she was

a monster. Honest. Fancy a sausage?'

23
 I feel like a lava lamp, in a constant state of flux, molecules
all hot, bothered and irritable. One minute staggered by my
foolishness, the next by my fortune. I admit BTB's no
predator really. She's . . . well, she's ... as you'd imagine.
She's my bride-to-be. How to describe her? I don't want to
use the same old words, in the same old way; they're kind of
hollow. Blonde, brunette, pretty, tall, small, gorgeous, thin,
fat - they're just descriptors. Words that Merl and I have to
apply to holiday brochures and the backs of videotapes. BTB
is a 'beautiful, blonde, undiscovered, picturesque, stunning
debut performance'. It means nothing. It's shallow and in-

sincere, so I have decided to boycott this method.

Instead, I'll use the unfocused technique. I learnt this years
ago as a penniless student, up for earning a few quid to piss
away pub crawling the Royal Mile with Merl and our per-
verted landlord, Simon Ratcliffe (or Ratty as he became
known, for his rat-up-a-drainpipe behaviour). There were
two particular earners that were a good bet and involved
little actual work. One was volunteering to be a guinea pig

for the university's medical school. This involved signing a

piece of paper that removed any responsibility from the uni-
versity for damage, disability or death. After which they
might do anything to you, from giving you a cold and then
trying to cure it some new suppository for side
to testing
effects. The wedge was determined by risk and
size of the
time. Inducing a heart attack with mink semen over the
period of a month might net you a grand.
The second route was faster and easier, but paid a lot less.
You put your name on a list held by the Business Studies
Department, which they sold to market-research companies.
You made sure you answered 'yes' to as many of the
questions as possible so that you got invited to the maximum
number of focus groups. I was a heavy consumer of wine,
cigarettes, business trips abroad, gardening equipment and
nappies, according to my profile.

24
 Once selected, researchers would then spend hours talking
to us in our focus groups while plying us with wine. Within
an hour or so, they were definitely unfocused groups. One of
the tactics researchers employed was the if-you-imagined
scenario. It went like this:

Research Group for Booze:

'Now, group,' said patronizing, posh, bespectacled
research woman. 'Imagine the alcoholic beverage I name and
describe in the form I request, and vice versa. So if I say,
it

"What would you use to describe Budweiser?" you might

car
say, "Jeep." If I say, "What drink might you use to describe

Harvey Nichols?" you might say, "Champagne." I may then

ask you to explain why you picked that descriptor. It's im-
portant to be spontaneous, OK? Is that all clear?'

The research group mumbled various noises, which didn't

include 'yes' or 'no'.
'Guinness,' she says.
'Monster Truck,' I say.

'Why?' she says.

'Why not?' I say.

'Bacardi and Coke,' she says.

'Porsche,' I say
'Why?' she says.
'Wankers' drink,' I say.

'Range Rover,' she says.

'Arse juice,' I say.

I was banned from the focus groups after this incident,

which was a bummer, 'cos twenty quid, free red wine and
some cheesy snacks were all handy as a student. Anyway, you
get the idea. Rather than describing BTB, I'll use the un-
focused approach.
Car?
If BTB was a car she'd be a . . . Merc, convertible SLK;
sleek, slick, purring and racy. A head-turner, with hand-
crafted bodywork you simply can't afford.

25
 Vegetable?
If BTB was a vegetable she'd be a . . . cherry tomato: juicy,
rosy, petite, with no pips.

Brand?
If BTB was a brand she'd be . . . Duracell. She's that
bastard bunny rabbit clapping cymbals forever.
Dog?
Most of all, most accurately, if BTB was a dog she'd be a

. . . Springer Spaniel: mad, energetic, bouncy, lunatic, plead-

ing get-anything-she-wants eyes. She is a human Springer
Spaniel. Trapped in a room, she'll whizz round the walls at
top speed, like Elvis's motorbike in Roustabout's Wall of
Death.
That's the best description you're gonna get - a Duracell-
powered, cherry-tomato-eating, Merc-SLK-driving Springer
Spaniel impersonating the King's motorbike. And she's going
to be my w— . . . Oh my God.
Once I tried this in reverse. According to BTB, I was a Capri
with go-faster stripes and no wheels, a retired greyhound
salvaged from the pound and some over-boiled cabbage. Odd,
but I wouldn't have described myself that way. More of a
classic Fifties Porsche, a Weimaraner and asparagus. But there

you go, self-perception and reality rarely collide.

I suppose there are crucial questions, like:

'When's the big day?'

'Where's the venue?'
'How many guests will be coming?'
'Will it be a religious ceremony?'
'What hymns will you be singing?'
'Are you going to use the word "obey" for the bride?' Fat
chance! BTB is as likely to obey me as Muttley, who shits
when I say 'sit', and you don't want to know what the randy
little sod does when I say 'roll over'.

'What are you serving as nibbles with the drinks between

2.47 p.m. and 3.34 p.m.?'

26
 AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH.
The details, the details, they make me mad. All I did was
ask the damn question. I didn't know there would be a list of
seventeen billion things to do, did I?

Actually, there are two sets of critical questions, one for

people who givashit (above) and one for those who don't
(below).
Q: 'Does it clash with an important fixture?'
A: 'Nope, first thing I did was rule out a few key dates.'

Q: 'Why did you ask her in the first place?'

A: 'Because Merlin said it was a grand idea' - OK, OK, I

know this is transparent - 'Because I like her. OK, more

than like her, love her.'

Q: 'How can I avoid this happening to me?'

A: 'Stop washing your body now and never look back.'
Q: 'When you asked, were you drunk, drugged, momentarily
possessed by a sonnet-vomiting demon, or otherwise
mentally impaired?'
A: 'All of the above and generally inept anyway.'
Q: 'Are the bridesmaids shaggable?'
A: 'Well, there's just the one - Maddy - and I can categor-
ically say she is entirely shaggable.'

Q: 'Is BTB pregnant?'

A: 'No, that was not the reason I asked. And, since asking the
big question, sex has become a distant memory.'
And most importantly:
Q: 'How in the hell did you manage to ask the question when
you can't actually say m
?'
—
A: 'I didn't.'

27
Princess Lou and the Reverend Ratty

'Over here, Ratty,' Merlin shouted across the crowded pub,

putting his Evening Standard down on oak bar. A
the scuffed
short, soaked, bedraggled pinstripe suit marched over to join
Merlin, squeezing past tourists and staff with tottering glass
towers.
Merlin chuckled at the sight of his old friend caught in a
sudden downpour.
'What the fuck are ye laughin' at, yer bastard!' Ratty was
not happy. Merlin continued to laugh, pleased that fate had
brought him and Johnny to the door of this strange little

man, renting rooms in his flat in Morning Side all those years
ago.

7 wiz hopin' fer birds.' Ratty stood in his doorway, wearing

a flea-bitten stripy dressing gown.
'Sorry, mate,' said Merlin.

'Youse want some blow?' Ratty asked. They nodded and

walked in.

'Fuckin' bastard weather. Bloody forecast said was gon it

tae be sunny.' Ratty rattled on in his raw Aberdonian while

Merlin sniggered.
'Get me a pint of lager, fer fucksake, ye great gigglin'
girlie!' Ratty caught himself in the mirror behind the bar and

28
broke into a smile. His short, normally spiky brown hair was
plastered down around his head, making him look like a
medieval fashion disaster, and his suit was beginning to steam

in the heat of the pub.

'It's nae s'posed to be like this, the weather. It's the summer.
It's August for Chrissakes. It's like the monsoon season out
there.' Ratty scowled, lines crowding darting eyes, as he

peeled off his jacket and shook his hands dry.

'Two lagers, Judy. Thanks,' Merlin shouted to the bottle-
blonde barmaid they'd befriended over the years.
Merlin and Ratty had both worked in Holborn for the last

three years,and the Princess Louise was an all too easy pit-
stop pub on the way home. They both preferred the pub in
the old days, when it was independent, the beer was good
and the pipes well cleaned, but found the habit hard to break.
The customers tended to be casual trade, apart from the odd
pub-anorak, Ye Olde London Pub Guide clasped in hand.
These customers were generally alone, always spent too long
perusing the guest ales on the chalkboard and admired the
pub in the order described in the guide. They'd begin with
the lofty Victorian ceiling, which Ratty said reminded him
of the texture of tripe, supported by fluted pillars spread
along the original horseshoe bar. Eventually, they'd wander
surreptitiously downstairs, to the famed gigantica Victoriana
urinals.
As ever, Ratty and Merlin looked an odd pair. One short,

one tall; one smart, one scruffy. Ratty, in his latest incar-

nation as a photocopier salesman, was wet but pristine,

ironed, creased and polished. Previous Ratty jobs included
oil-rigger, fisherman, gigolo (he says), carpenter, chef, post-
man and weird landlord, of course. He's the type of guy you
could guarantee would have the price tags on the soles of his
shoes, flashing like a bunny's tush as he tapped along the
streets of London.
Merlin, a brochure copywriter for a holiday company, was

29
a 'creative', a broad description for several thousand jobs in
London, of which only an estimated 1 per cent are even
vaguely creative. As a member of clan creative, Merlin wore
the compulsory 'individual' uniform of skate shoes, low-
slung trousers and T-shirt. He twiddled his white streak of
hair idly.

'Sup on that, Ratty lad.' Merlin passed Ratty his pint.

'Cheers,' they said together.

'How's work?' asked Ratty.
'Shite . . . yours?'
The two men worked through their short list of politeness
points as quickly as possible to get them out of the way. Their
conversation joined the general din of the pub, which teemed
with office evacuees grabbing a swift drink on the way home.
Smoke billowed upwards with the noise of the pub talk. The
sound was the adult equivalent of children at a swimming
pool, more a droning whine than the eardrum-piercing squeal
of brats at a pool. The noise and the smoke settled over the
crowd like a London dawn smog, nestling under the intricate
gold and ochre ceiling.

'Och, you know, work's not so bad . . . er . . . och, pretty

shite, I suppose. How's Ruth?' Ratty knew the relationship
was struggling and felt obliged to ask.
'Oh grand you know ... no different
. . . really.' Merlin
took a dollop of Artex to reality as usual. 'You still shaggin'
that bird in admin?'
'No, but I'm tryin'.' Ratty danced about like a sparrow,
twitching and jerking.
'And what about that girl you met at Zepher's Bar . . .

er v
'Elsa. Aye, I'm still seein' her.' Ratty was well known to be
monogamously incapable. He could no sooner see one
woman for any length of time than walk on water or suck his
own dick, both of which he had tried and failed at years ago
as a teenager.

30
 'But I'm goin' tae ditch her.'
'Who?'
'Elsa.'

'Why?'
'She's gettin' awfa serious.' Ratty rubbed his stubbly chin
as he talked.
'How d'ya mean? Like, movin' in serious, or what?'
'Away tae fuck, ya daft Taff twat. Movin' in!' Merlin might
well have accused Ratty of celibacy considering his shocked
response. 'Movin' in, Jesus!' Ratty shook his head in disbelief,
sipping from his pint in between head-shakes and sighs.

'Movin' in. I'm no soft pillock like you or Johnny, with your
lovey-dovey one-woman bollocks. Elsa just wants me to stop
shaggin' around.'
Merlin had covered this ground countless times with Ratty,
who considered it an indisputable biological fact that men
are genetically programmed to shag as many women as
possible. In closed male circles this point is often whispered,
and men will quickly glance around to check they are free
from scrutiny before nodding. Ratty however told this to
anyone and everyone. Merlin could picture Ratty wandering
the streets of London with a sandwich board and a soapbox,
preaching to passers-by like a puritanical Scots reverend.

'Sow yer seed as God intended,' the Reverend Ratty would

shout to people passing by. 'Follow yer true path, men, and
sow yer seed,' he'd rasp in his too-tight dog collar, handing
out pamphlets with a red face and sweaty palms. 'Sow it far
and wide, where fallow and fertile.' He'd redden excitedly,

fumbling furiously under his smock. 'In the name of God,

fuck! Fuck as many women as you can. Fuck all of them if
you can,and then, if you want to, fuck pigs and dogs and
sheep and fish and watermelons and doors and gravel and
spinach.' The Reverend Ratty would collapse in a gibbering
fit, semen leaking from his trouser legs.

31
 Merlin winced at this disgusting image and tried to shake
it off quickly. 'Stop shagging other women?' Merlin whistled
and mopped his brow in fake concern. 'What? The girl in

admin?'
'Aye, her as well, but awl women actually.'

'But you're not shaggin' anyone else, are you, Ratty?'

'Well . . . no, but that's nae fer the want o' tryin'.'

Merlin laughed at Ratty's honesty. Ratty reminded him of

a jolly kleptomaniac, who knows pinching things is wrong
but finds it too enjoyable to stop.
'So "say" you will lad,' Merlin suggested tentatively.

'Don't be daft, Merlin, I cannae!' Ratty fidgeted, playing

with a beer mat.
'But just "say" you will.'

That'd be lying.'

'So?'
'Och, I cannae, Merlin. That would be bad.'
Merlin cracked up again, and Ratty chuckled.
'Well, Johnny boy's about to get seriously serious.'
'He's serious already. They live together. What's more
serious than . . . Och don't tell me; he's not!'

'I never told you.' Merlin panicked, remembering Johnny

had only told him five days earlier at the drunken barbecue,
and called the next day, deeply hungover, to stress the secrecy.
'He's not, is he?'
'Don't say anything, Ratty, or I'm toast.'
'Fuckin' hell. Marriage. The stupid bastard.'
'Honestly, Ratty, this is top fuckin' secret.'

'What's he playing at?'

'She doesn't even know yet.' Merlin broke into a sweat.
'It's against aw the laws o' nature. Another fuck-up like
you and Ruth. Jesus.'
'What have I done?' Merlin wanted to push the rewind
button so badly he failed to even notice Ratty's derision.

32
 'It's like trying to stop lions fae eatin' antelope on the
Serengeti.' Ratty had many rehearsed poetic analogies for
why he, and all men, should be allowed to shag constantly
without protest or distraction.
'I mean, she's gorgeous, and he can be a right twat, but
that's no' the point; it's unnatural,' Ratty ranted.
'Oh God, I'm supposed to be the best bloody man,' Merlin
muttered to himself while Ratty wittered on oblivious. 'Best
man, not worst confidant!' Merlin held his head in his hands.

Ratty suddenly stopped and turned to Merlin.

'What d'ya say there, Merl?' Ratty was intense.
'I'm the best man.'
'No, not that bit, the bit about her knowing.'
'Well, she doesn't; she doesn't know yet. He's in Barcelona,
and she's flying out there tonight.'

'He's no' asked her yet?'

'No, he's asking some time this weekend.'
'So it might no' happen after all.'

'What? Oh, you mean she might say no?'

'Errr . . . somethin' like that . . . I'm burstin' fer a pee. I'm
off to the palace, get us another lager, would ya, Merl.' Ratty
scuttled off in the direction of London's poshest pub urinals.

Merlin turned to the bar and tried to catch Judy's attention.

As he did, Ratty glanced back, saw that Merl wasn't looking
and made a dart for the exit through heavy double doors.
'Same again, Judy.' Judy frowned and looked confused.
'Is someone else joining you, Merlin?' Judy had been

serving Merlin and Ratty and a few other regulars for years
now.
'Eh?'
'Ratty's left, I just saw him leave.' Judy pointed to the exit,
and Merlin's gaze followed her finger as he scratched his
temple nervously.
'No, he's popped to the loo . .
.' With a start, he spotted
Ratty through the leaded windows at the front of the pub. He

33
was frantically punching numbers into his mobile. Merlin
thought for a second, pieced it together and made a dash for

the door, barging through, shoulder first.

'. . . It's fuckin' unnatural only shaggin' one woman, listen

to yer pal, don't do it . .

.'

He lurched for Ratty 's mobile, wrestling it from his hands.

'Hello, hello. Anybody there? Fuck, fuck. Ratty!' Merlin

shouted into the receiver. 'Tell me you didn't call who I think
you called!' Merlin's face was pale.

'Who d'ya think it was?' Ratty looked guilty, failing to

meet Merlin's eye. A wee schoolboy caught shoplifting, a

packet of Refreshers tucked inside nylon Ys. The pair stood

still in the rain as commuters rushed to tubes and buses.
'You rang Johnny, didn't you?'
'Maybe.'
'What did you say?'

34
Preparing

It was in Barcelona, a week after my barbecued babbling

with Merlin, that I failed to say 'Will you m— me?' to BTB.
We'd been to Barcelona together previously, BTB and me. We
fell in love with each other at the same time as we fell for the
city.

We'd met as students at a gig, when Merl, me and Ratty

tripped the M8 across to the Glasgow Union in my rusty old
Maestro. From then on, the M8, me and the gold Maestro
became intimately familiar with each other, as I nipped over
to see BTB in her trendy West End flat.
For a year or so we enjoyed playing the non-committed-
this-will-never-last-but-let's-have-fun game. In fact, for a
large part of that period she refused to allow me to describe
her as my girlfriend. It was during this easy-going party time
that the one-night stand with her schoolfriend, Maddy,
occurred. Nobody ever mentions this any more. It's a sort of
self-imposed censorship.
we became as serious as students ever are.
In the final year
we moved to London - via Scunthorpe for
After graduating
me and Manchester for BTB - to live in a succession of
separate shitty rooms and flats.

Barcelona the first time, three years ago, was a seminal trip
for the two of us. It was here, amid the Gaudi and Gothic
spires, in the palm-edged squares, strolling down the

35
Ramblas, full-to-brimming with parakeets and lilies, news-
stands and caricature artists, here in Barcelona's passionate
madness, that we decided to live together and face the wrath
of our parents.
Their responses were predictable:
BTB's Dad, Gerry Donnelly, smiled at his daughter while
he whispered in my you hurt a hair on my daughter's
ear, 'If

head I will kneecap you and your whole damn football team.'
My father, Henry, said, 'Mmmm, save on bills, I suppose.
Have you seen the Sunday Times, old boy?'
My mum looked wistfully at us and said, 'Ah, young
lovers, just like Breakfast at Tiffany's.'' Mum was daydream-
ing again. I guess I've inherited her fantasy-land genes.
BTB's deceptively gentle-looking, white-haired mother's
response was the most frightening. No threats, no disagree-
ments, just a single, simple tear rolling down her cheek, and
the unspoken thought I could hear thundering through
the ether into my subconscious: He's not good enough for
you!
BTB's mother was only beaten in the sinister stakes by my
cookie Grandma Victoria, who is now ninety-seven. She
stared at BTB, gnarled white face, blue eyes as bright and
piercing as antique forks, pretending to look frail and weak
in a rocking chair.
'You are sinners, children of the devil, and she' - crooked
finger unfurled to point at a blushing BTB - 'she's just after

the money. Fetch my stick, boy.' Granny Victor (pet name)

had been watching Gone With the Wind again. Once she was
my wise old nan, who had a saying for every eventuality up
her sleeve, along with the crumpled linen handkerchiefs that
shared the same space. had set in, she'd
Since senility

forgotten that the only inheritance to be had in the Riley

family was debt, and the reality was that BTB was my
own financial equivalent of a Zimmer frame.
So, Barcelona seemed perfect; it seemed a suitable place for

36
a proposal. The place where I hoped I would rediscover that
courage and overcome my fear. Of course, the
earlier, reckless

fact that I had been asked to talk to some guff industry

gathering - the International Video Collation Expo - meant
that my flight and hotel were already paid for. The truth
is that my boss, the head of Extraordinary Film & Company,

had been asked to speak, but had passed the offer on to me

when it clashed with some freeloading trip to Brazil.
Nonetheless, all I had to do was get BTB air-freighted over on
some cheap haulage plane for twenty quid and I had a
bargain romantic break that any travel agent would be
chuffed with.
So I flew over on Poshasfuk Airways on
first class
Thursday and BTB was flying in
to speak at the expo,
on Cheapaschips Airways on Friday night. I remember the
flight vividly, like a video I can replay at will. I don't know
whether it was the flying or the fear and nervousness I was
experiencing at and second hand that kept it clear in my
first

mind. Maybe itwas because I met someone on the plane who

was literally larger than life, who seemed intent on invading
my thoughts from that moment onwards.
Here I was, flying to Barcelona in first class (first time) to

speak at an international video conference (another debut)

with someone up the tab (result). I took in my
else picking

surroundings, trying to work out what was worth the extra

grand to elevate you to first class. The stewardesses were the
same, a bit more polite and less rushed, but the same. The
seats, patterned a little less grotesquely, felt an inch or two

roomier in every direction. Not much, I know, but I was

revelling in the limited luxury. What jarred was the thought
that I'd got away with both the aisle and the window seat to
my selfish, expansive self. You know how it feels to want that
room, to keep that personal space surrounding you free from
threat. But with seconds to spare, while the stewards and
stewardesses were battening down the hatches and I was

37
settling in to the kind of comfort I'd never had before, chaos
arrived. Half running, dripping with sweat, pissed and clue-
less, Mr Big could not help but take centre stage for the
passengers. My heart fell when a steward pointed him in

the direction of the vacant window seat next to me.

Watching him squeeze into the space reminded me of my
recent waist expansion. I used to be thin, although I'm hardly
fat now. Let me rephrase that: I used to be effortlessly thin,
in the face of attack from gallons of beer and acres of fried,

fatty food. I used to laugh in the face of fatness. Mates, like

Colin the football managing bearded hack, would say, 'One

day, Johnny. One day it'll hit you and your waist will expand
overnight, like a balloon filling with water.' And he was
right, the bastard. Course, Colin was just after company.
Since marrying Trish, Colin had gained a beard, ten pounds
and misplaced both his and his wife's libidos like lost sets of

keys.
I met Colin Carter in my first job, when we were both
younger and slimmer. After graduating, I landed a prime
position on the Scunthorpe Gazette as cub reporter. Colin,
star reporter, as he had me believe, took me under his
dubious wing. He sub-let me a room in his toilet-like house
for way above the going rate. It wasn't long before I realized
I was a hopeless dyslexic with more of a future in celluloid
than print. Colin was fired for a quip about the local MP, and
personal friend of our editor, Jonathon Smythe-Bailey the
turkey farmer. Colin flattered the personal friend of the editor
in a piece campaigning against a local tax windfall for foul
breeders. Colin described Smythe-Bailey as a community man
at the very centre of Scunthorpe '. . . after the "S" and before
the "H", to be precise.' He was marched out of the building
by security.

My brief journalistic career lasted less than a month. I

back-pedalled stupendously and persuaded BTB to ditch her

mundane corporate Marks & Sparks milk-round job in

38
Manchester, and leg it down to the Big Smoke with me. She
moved in with her lunatic Uncle Alfie in East Dulwich. Colin
landed a job on the Sun, who considered the Scunthorpe-
Smythe incident a master stroke, and never looked back. I

moved in with Colin and entered the wonderful world of

video collation.
'Shorry, shorry.' Loud 'tutting' and 'tssking' came from the

seat in front. My own seat buffeted up and down while Mr

Big shifted nervously, checking for the nearest exits. He felt

for his lifejacket.

'Mine's there. I think yoursh is, too,' he said with in-
ebriated concentration and a hint of Geordie. I nodded,
trying to avoid a conversation.
'Can't shtand flying,' he said.
'You don't say.' I smiled.

'Medical condition, you know. Fear of flying, like.'

'Fear of falling rather than flying, surely?' I said, regretting

it as I watched his face whiten further, deciding I should try

to avoid making things worse for Mr Big. A stomach of his

scale could probably hold a sizeable quantity of vomit.

'I'm sure it'll be fine,' I muttered. The hostess wandered
past.
'Missh, missh. Hey, lady.' She kept on walking.
'Oi!' Mr Big shouted. I pointed to the steward button. He
pushed it, several times. It pinged like an annoying doorbell.
She returned.
'How 'bout a drink for me and me pal here.' I cringed at
the association.
'Of course, sir, once in flight.'

oh aye. Don't want to cause problems, don't want

'Flight,

to mess up anything, don't want a crash.' He was sweating

again.
'First flight, is it, sir?'

'No, just a little trapped wind.' His shiny face and wide
eyes glared at the hostess.

39
 '

'You'll be fine, just relax.'

'Should be's, like, I've drunk enough to relax a ferkin'
elephant,' he said and belched.
You'd need to, I thought. She wandered off.

'Sick bags. SICK BAGS,' he shouted after her. She calmly

strolled back, no sign of anger showing.
'Right there in the pocket.'
Mr Big pulled the bag out and examined it. 'Won't fit much
in there, like,' he said to me. 'Can I have yours, pal?' I

nodded and passed it over.

'Would sir like another drink?' An hour into the flight the
stewardess still wore a forced smile. It was as starchy as her
oversprayed big hair and ugly uniform, patterned without
thought for the potential fits caused to flying epileptics or
pissed passengers, like myself.
'Bloody Mary.' I think it was the fifth.

'That's five,you sad man!' she snapped.

'What! I don't think that's any of your bus
—
'I said, would you like lemon?' she repeated, caustically.

'Yes, please.'

'Arse?' she said. I looked at her again, shocked. She held up

the ice bucket and tongs with a smile.
'Ice .oh.' I nodded and accepted the plastic tumbler,
. .

small tomato-juice tin and miniature vodka bottle.

'And for your friend?'
'He's not my friend.' We both looked at the vast crumple-
suited catastrophe sitting next to me. Well, I say sitting, but
he was really too huge to sit in any single aeroplane seat. He
was as big as they come. As a result, he didn't seem to fit. He
didn't seem to fit into anything - his beige linen suit, which
bulged and strained at the seams in all sorts of unlikely
places; his snakeskin loafers, the leather of which was losing
a battle to contain what I imagined were feet the size of foot-
balls. Flabby limbs - elbows, knees, and arms - all escaped
from his space and helplessly invaded my own.

40
 'You seem very close.'

She was really enjoying this, the bitch. We both looked at

Mr Big. His head was resting on my shoulder, like a huge
grotesque baby. His puffy, pale orange-peel face had a life all

of its own. As he snored, sour alcohol breath puffed his

cheeks in and out and rattled his jowls, like a demented
whinnying horse. His tongue lolled around, a pink slick slug,
perilously close to my ear.

'I've never met him before in my life.'

'Oh, I just assumed, over the course of the last six drinks
you've had together . .
.'

'Five.'

'Five drinks.'
'In fact, this is the fifth now, so actually we only shared
four.'

'Uh-hmm.' The hostess paused and tapped her feet

impatiently.
'Four,' I emphasized.
'Four, sir. Well, I'd assumed you were friends.'
'No. Never.' The fat man snorted loudly in his sleep, while
we looked on with expressions of mild disgust.
'Shall I wake him?' she asked.
'No, no please. Let's leave him be.' Better a slumbering,
drunk, fat, man than an awake one.
space-invading
So I was left to face my own demons on the remaining hour
of the flight. As he shifted in his seat again, I stared down at
my notepad, headed, BARCELONA conference. Three or four
lines were scribbled beneath the heading, all of which had
been scored out. I was getting nowhere. In less than twenty-
four hours I'd face a room full of delegates from the video
collation world, and I didn't have a Scooby Doo what I was
going to say.

I don't in my job. Once, life revolved

know how I ended up
around up the opposite sex, football and
parties, chatting
fun. I dreamed of being an actor or a director; a 'something'

41
or 'somebody'. The next thing I knew, I'd learnt to say things
like 'profitability', 'efficiency', 'resource', 'networking' and
'proactive'.
I'm the marketing manager for the Extraordinary Film &
Company (EF&Co) who make videos for the 'grey market' -
marketing jargon/bollocks for 'elderly' - using old TV footage
from around the world. My first film was called Wartime
Women - a completely crap and very ordinary collection of
unrelated clips of women at war. Anything from Vera Lynn to
a bomb factory in Japan to Minnie Mouse cartoons, all pack-
aged together and sold using blatant jingoistic nonsense about
Britain and the good old days, even though 80 per
cent of the clips were foreign, as usual, as they're the cheapest.
We're the market leaders in this niche area. Our latest release
is very exciting and is provisionally entitled Amusing Clips of
Cats with Balls of String. Of course, this is just the working
title. I expect we'll come up with something left field like Cute
Cats V String Special closer to worldwide launch.
It may surprise you to learn that I had no intention of
doing this when I was a kid.

Johnson Riley, aged ten:

'What do you want to be when you grow up, Johnny?' asks
Mum through a cloud of lavender water. Mum always wore
this and, as a result, motherhood and the smell of lavender
are intertwined for me.
I am silent; a nasty ten-year-old with a classic Seventies
helmet haircut in a dirty tracksuit, picking his nose.

'An astronaut maybe?' Mum tries. 'Or a footballer? . . .

How about a butcher? . . . Or baker? . . . Or a drug-pushing

Gangsta-Rapper?'
'I want to be' - I spoke through a stubborn sneer - 'a

marketing manager.'
'You do, Johnny?' This shocked Mum. 'Not a stuntman or
a contract killer?' she offered.

42
 'No, a marketing manager.'
'Not a porn star or pirate?' she kept trying.
'No, a marketing manager. Ideally in the video collation
sector, perhaps targeting the "grey market".'
'And what do they do, then, johnny?'
'Nothing of consequence. But Granny Victor says
. . .

that's fine, that's what most men do.'

'Oh,' says Mum, clearly a bit despondent that her son isn't

going to do anything worthy of a Women's Institute lecture

(Cornwall branch). Her eyes rapidly glaze over as she drifts
into her own faraway dream world.

Mum often did this, drifting off planet into her own fuzzy
orbit. She would do it at all sorts of times in all sorts of in-

appropriate places. Away

she would be, dancing with Fred
Astaire, crooning with Gene Kelly, singing and swinging in
her celluloid world. Mum dreamed of the people she would
have liked me to have been, not EF&Co's marketing
manager, with launch plans for Gardens on Film or budgets
and revenue forecasts for Kids on Camera, but a tap-dancer
with a good voice, or a film star - a Valentino hero with puffy
silk trousers and thigh-length riding boots. Even a director or
producer's assistant; a gopher or film critic. A bloody pro-
jectionist's assistant would have been better than a marketing

manager. For a few years I fooled Mum, who thought I'd

become one of her fantasies. She would gush at her coffee

mornings, 'Yes, Johnson's in the film industry, my dears. I'm
sure he'll be directing in no time.'

Of course, Mum knew that her and my Hollywood

ambitions were one and the same, deep down. But gradually,
to save face, I'd buried them and allowed them to be worn
away by EF&Co, like tread on a tyre. Less and less grip for
the infamous Mr Saturday Night, and more and more rubber
burnt fruitlessly in pubs at lunchtime and after work. My
whingeing joined the sound of the other workers,

43
complaining at the injustice of a world that failed to spot the
brilliant flame of their talent, wasting away on a barstool and
capitulating to a 'career' in the video collation - VC -
industry.
And now, here I was, at the zenith of my career, about to
speak to the globe's VC experts (failed Hollywood hopefuls)
in less than a day.
Mr Big spluttered and twitched in his sleep, a fat finger
sending my Bloody Mary spilling colourfully across my pad,
swamping the few notes I'd made in tomato juice and vodka.
I swore loudly, turning the notebook over to see another set

of notes: reasons why should ask her TO M — me.

I This was
the serious list. This was the real demon, the real cause of my
nervousness. Beneath the heading was a series of scribbled
pros and cons, in no particular order, revealing my lingering
doubt. Eventually, frustrated that I couldn't rationalize an
argument for the big 'M', I'd scored them out and had to talk
myself out of the hole I was in. OK, forget logic, assume you
want to ask her and focus on the plan.
I reckoned on asking the question straight away, on Friday
night. This way I'd avoid weekend-long nerves and have a
slim chance of enjoying Barcelona. I'd tried to do some
homework on mean, how do you pro-
the art of proposing. I

pose? Who tells you what to do? I flicked through a

dictionary of quotations which I'd pinched from the office,
thinking it might do the job by providing a few examples of
prime proposals from the great and good.
After all, if you were to look back on your life and think of
your top sentences, the proposal must be pretty damn signifi-

cant. Ifyou are a normal person, then 'Will you m me?' must —
vie for the number-one slot. OK, if you're the prime minister

or a dictator or someone famous, then maybe there are more

important sentences, but surely, even for famous folk, the per-
sonal rather than the public bit of life is the part that
counts.

44
 'I came, I saw, I conquered.' - Will you m— me?
'I have a dream . .
.' - Will you m— me?
'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.' - Will you m— me?
But could I find anything of use? Could I bollocks. Before
the office on Thursday morning, all I found was some
I left

good advice from Kafka and one brilliant Darwinian theory

to help me prepare for Barcelona.
Kafka appreciated the impending doom of wedlock, was
twice engaged to the same woman, Felice, and twice broke it
off. I think we can take a tip from this. Engagement can

be escaped from. It is not Devil's Island or, if it is, you too

can be Papillon. Kafka said, 'Alone, I could perhaps
some day really give up my job. Married, it will never be

possible.'
I can relate to this; I wouldn't mind waving bye-bye to
marketing videos at EF&Co. The trouble is, I've got more
chance of doing this with the help of BTB than without her.
As a serious high-earning career chick, who pays far more
than her fair share of the rent and bills in our house, I was
half hoping to get her accidentally up the duff and offer to
look after the resulting sprog. I would then do such a crap job
of looking after said sprog that BTB would eventually
hire a nanny for fear of sprog becoming Mowgli the wolf-
child. Mowgli would have zero manners and develop the

single skill of cheering gleefully at the TV while slobbering

down its front, just like its father. By the time a nanny
was coping with the child, I would have joined the ranks of
the long-term unemployed and have to stay at home,
watching the nanny, the child and The Richard and
Judy Show. I would end up the Darwinian antithesis, de-
volving happily, filling out my ecological niche on a comfy
sofa.
Which leads me to the Darwinian theory. Now this isn't, as
you might expect, a theory of natural selection applied to the
big 'M', although it's fun to imagine how that might work. I

45
guess that a natural-selection theory might argue that blokes
like Merlin, who pop the question early, are more secure in

their chance of siring children - as is their biological require-

ment - than those who don't pop the question, like Ratty.
While Ratty would argue conversely that his seed, due to the
lack of any marital tie, has probably sown more little acorns
than any married man could ever hope. Colin would just be
confused about him and Trish. She was a press officer in a
merchant bank and admitted that she'd deluded herself into
ambitions of a 2D Barbour lifestyle with some stockbroker
called Eric. Colin reckons it was his superhuman sexual
prowess that lured Trish away from Eric. In the early days
he'd describe her as 'a cross between Nicole Kidman and a
Tasmanian Devil' between the sheets. 'I've had a redhead on
my red head' he used to tell a crowd down the Blue Boy with
a grin. But since tying the knot, in his own words, his little

swimming fish have been 'leaping to their death on the giant

tissue mountain sperm graveyard'.
No, the Darwinian theory I'd picked up on wasn't actually
about natural selection, which is lucky seeing as comparing
the lads seems completely inconclusive. No, old Charlie
Darwin might have got all intellectual about genus, class and
finches, but he was far more down-to-earth about getting
hitched. The Darwinian theory of m —
was a list. Charlie D.
wrote a list. Or, in fact, two lists regarding proposing to his
bird, Emma. In his inimitable, logical, batty-as-a-beagle
way, he decided that whichever of the two lists was longer

would resolve his dilemma and decide whether or not he

should propose. I suppose he was a sort of Victorian botanist
dice-man. On the plane to Spain, with a tranquillized
bull elephant for company, in my desperate, soul-searching,
pre-proposal state, this seemed the soundest advice
around.

46
 Darwin's (paraphrased) lists went:

1. Why I shouldn't m— Emma 2. Why I should m— Emma

Freedom to go where one likes Sprogs (if it so please God)

Gentlemen's club conversations The charms of music and female

chit-chat

Don't have to visit out-laws Good for health

No cost of sprogs Companion for life

No quarrelling Object to be loved and played

with

Terrible loss of time Better than having a dog any-

way!

Darwin wrote this in July 1838, when he was my age,

twenty-nine. And this was the state of his list, the Darwinian
criteria for m— Now, I may be just an amateur biologist but,
.

if you ask me, list one, 'Why I shouldn't', is looking more of a

winner than list two. There's more substance in the first list, far

more mean, by the second point of

stony, heartfelt sentiment. I

list two - 'charms of music and female chit-chat' - Darwin's

already scraping the barrel. As for the dog oversight, I mean,

how could a wife compete with Muttley? Even if you accept
some of the spurious entries on list two, it's still neck and
neck.
Therefore you'll be surprised to learn that Charlie asked
Emma to be his BTB. How? How could this happen when the
were equal, not to mention the fact that list two was
lists

mainly garbage? He added one final sentence to list two,

which went, 'My God, it is intolerable to think of spending
one's whole working life like a neuter bee, working, working
and nothing after all. No, no won't do. Imagine living all

one's days in a smoky, dirty London house.''

47
 This final point was so long that it blew the 'Don't marry'
list away. Darwin then wrote conclusively across the bottom
of the two lists, 'Marry, Marry, Marry - QED.'
He bloody cheated, didn't he! He might as well have written
'because, because, because' over and over in the 'Marry' list

like a big snivelling cheat. Liar, liar, pants on fire, I say to

Darwin's list, if playground terminology must be used.
But I was desperate for any help. After nearly two hours,
five Bloody Marys, three gin and tonics and acres of fan-
tasizing about joining the mile-high club with all three of
the air stewardesses, I read over my scrawled 'Why I

should/shouldn't ask BTB' lists.

1. Why I shouldn't m- BTB 2. Why I should m- BTB

Sprogs (whether God is pleased She knows how to magic the

or not, I am not ready for nappy bills away, I would be sent to

attack just yet!) gaol if left to me

Freedom to fart without fear of I think all my friends prefer her

reprisals to me

Her three brothers and father Her three brothers and father
(armed and dangerous) (armed and dangerous)

Footy Muttley loves her

A chance to play the field again Can't remember how to play the

field, can't find the field, don't

think they'd let me in field

anyway

Can't say m— Her smile

Like Darwin, I decided to leave the casting vote to a final

scrawl across the bottom, 'Because, because, because . . .

because she's wonderful . . . because she's . . . because to not

have her share my life would be total bollocks.'
Conclusive proof, QED (suck on that, Darwin.)

48
 'Do Mr Big belched the words out as he woke
it.' up. I

covered my pad like a protective child swot at a test.

'Excuse me?'
'Excused, pal.' Mr Big's face, like Playdoh, had creased
comically on my shoulder, where he'd left a pool of drool.
'It's none of your business,' I said defensively.
'I can help you.'
'How?'
'Wisdom.'
'How? You're you're just a fat drunk northern bloke.'
. . .

The man roared with deafening laughter like a great grizzly

bear. The decibel level made me realize that I'd just taken the

piss out of someone who could probably snap my spine in

half with an accidental sneeze, or eat me mistakenly, thinking
I was a light salad. I was glad he was laughing and tried to
make amends.
'Bad experience?' I asked. He stopped laughing suddenly,
and brought his wild-eyed face to within an inch of my own.
'Never, never, ever miss your moment.'
'What?'
'Never let something you want slip through your fingers
like so much sand. Never let self-centred thoughts cloak

you, like a Klingon vessel, so you can't smell the coffee.' I

tried to keep up with what sounded, and smelled, like weird,

pissed rambling.
'Capture your firefly, keep it tight in your hand, never let it

go. You can chase it ever, and

for ever, and ever, looking for
that thing that you you wanted when it wanted
didn't think
you and then, by the time you realize you do, it's hasta la
vista, baby.'

'So you're saying ask her.'

'I'M SAYING, FUCKING RIGHT ASK, YOU LITTLE
TWAT!' Other passengers looked nervously at the shouting

bear next to me. 'Don't think life is about this shit.' He

picked up my conference material. 'This is piss; this is nothing.'

49
He ate the conference programme. 'This doesn't even taste
any bastard good.' I if I was caught in a
stayed stock-still, as
loo with a lion.
swapped my soul for little slice of ladder-rung action; I
'I

let them cut out my heart for a pile of magic powder, planted

the seeds and grew a beanstalk.' A big, fat blob of a tear

plopped from his heavily bagged eyes like brimming china
cups.
'Now I can't find her. I look; look everywhere. I spend
money on people looking. Can't fuckin' fly, can't find her fast
enough. Always gone from where I get to next, like a rumour,
like the last good show in town.'
For the rest of the flight Mr Big sobbed. I held him. I tried

to wrap my arm around his shoulders and, at full stretch, I

could just see my fingers waggling on the far side of the sad

planet beside me. Just before descent, the caustic trolley dolly
came to offer help.
'Is he OK, your friend? Does he need anything?' She wasn't
so bad.
'My friend's fine,' I said. 'Just fine.'

At the end of the flight, Mr Big apologized, and gave me

his card, bouncing away into the Barcelona night, for all I

knew to chase his firefly again, the one he lost some time
earlier in his life.

50
Presenting

Barcelona continued to crash and burn. By the time I'd

checked in to the hotel, nerves had well and truly got the

better of my alcohol-to-blood ratio. Nerves always affect me

before addressing an audience; the trouble is those nerves, the
speaking ones, were being dwarfed by giant big-fucker
proposal nerves.
Post check-in, I continued the alcohol binge started on the
plane with more cerveza than was sensible. Conference hotels
are the same the world over, and the combination of my
worsening inebriation and the banal interior ensured that it
failed to register with my senses in any meaningful way. The
over-riding feeling was placid and predictable. My bedroom
was an oblong assembly-line job, with standard striped wall-
paper, glass-topped desk, ugly lampshade and beige
bathroom. A tiny balcony looked promising, but itwas hard
to tell in the dark. Heading for the bar, I stumbled through
the wash of pale fitted carpets, brass fixtures, soft lighting,
uninspiring paintings, listless wood and drab fake marble.
Eventually I located the hotel bar, after asking my reflection

for a drink in a large mirror in the foyer. The barman kindly

humoured me, putting up with my sad stereotypical term of

endearment for him. 'Manuel,' I shouted pathetically.

'Si, sehorj he said drolly.
'Teach me the Spanish for . .
.' I'd always wanted to learn

51
a language, and randomly fed Manuel words and phrases to
translate into Spanish.
'Sr, senorj he would reply. This carried on for way too
long. I returned to my hotel room arseholed, with a few
hours to sober up and prepare my speech.

On the day of the conference, I was an odd concoction of

hungover, sleepy, smelly and scared of the weekend coming.
Not a good mix. That morning, crowded by the tan-coloured
bathroom tiles, I was shocked by my reflection. I could have
been in an advert for a hangover cure. I attempted to disguise
myself with the pristine new suit and shirt BTB had chosen
for me - dramatically improving the chances of it looking
OK. On the hanger the brown cotton designer suit and
brilliant white shirt shone. I put them on carefully, daintily

trying to avoid creasing them. I looked in the mirror again to

wonder at the transformation. I had converted the stylish suit
and shirt into limp, bedraggled clothing. It was as if my hung-
over, parboiled face had spread its constituency through the
threads of cotton and wool.
I snuck into the darkened auditorium where the expo was
being staged after the first speaker had already begun, and

was directed to a reserved front-row seat. Sinking into my

chair, I gripped my pounding head and mentally gripped
my bowels, which were having a hard time with the hat-trick
gut hassle of beer, tapas and the prospect of proposing. I sat

smack in front of a sign saying, 'Have You Turned Your

Mobile Off?' I checked. It was still off from the night before
when, on Poshasfuck Airways, they'd announced something
like, ''Use of mobile phones will cause the plane to plummet

into a mountain, scaring Mr Big into a sudden bout *of

suffocating flatulence. I made a mental note to ring the office
and pick up my messages at the end of the conference. The
day rolled on and the speakers came and went. It was all
humdrum monotony until ...

52
'And now, please give a big Barcelona welcome to .'
. .

Conferences aren't normally this glamorous, I thought,

dazzled by the light show that had started. '
. . . the wonder-
ful . As I
.
.' stood up, overhead spotlights zoomed about like

a scene from the blitz in which my head was a zeppelin. '.

. .

the world-famous . .
.' Steady on, this is supposed to be a

boring work presentation with slides and charts, it can't be

me they're talking about. '.
. . JOHNSON
RILEY!'
Ohfuckohfuck. I looked at the audience, expecting maybe a
hundred bored executives to stare back, indifferent as usual.
Ninety thousand men were lit up in waves by the sweeping
spotlights. They cheered hysterically as I walked slowly
towards the stage, suddenly feeling as though I knew the
moves, that this moment was somehow choreographed.
As I stood on the steps to the stage, each one lit up as the
spotlight focused A drum roll started and I kicked left
on me.
and right. I reached to my left to catch a top hat, perching it
jauntily on my head. In my right hand, a silver cane
appeared, which doubled up as a microphone. Finally, at the
top of the stairs, I turned to face the 90,000 grooms in
the audience. In one movement, I pulled off my suit and shirt,
cleverly fixed with Velcro. Underneath I'm wearing an all-in-

one white Lycra jumpsuit, with JR embroidered in diamante

on each arse-cheek and the crotch. I notice that I've grown a
heavy black moustache, horse's teeth and a larger lunch box
than I'm used to. I'm Freddie Mercury. It couldn't be worse.
The crowd scream as I begin with the song they are all

expecting:

'Baaaarrrrceeeeloooooonnnnaaaaaaaaaaaa.'

'Such a beautiful horizon'

'Baaaarrrrceeeeloooooonnnnaaaaaaaaaaaa.'

53
 'Such a shame I am proposing

'Hmmmppp.' I on my suit, my
woke with a start, slobber
head in the lap of the Japanese lady sitting on my left. Being
Japanese, she had been too polite to wake me from my slumber.
I managed to time my awakening perfectly with a request from

the Spanish chairman for questions from the floor regarding the
last presentation from the German speaker. My loud
'Hmmmppp' had been mistaken for an offer of a question.

'Yes, a question from Mr Riley of England's EF&Co,' said

the chairman.
'Ah yes . .
.' Ah shit, I begin. 'A fascinating presentation
from our German colleague .' Which I slept through, I . .

bullshit. Ohgodwhatamigoingtoask? 'I would love to know

what the opinion of . . . er . .

.' Name? Name? Name? 'The
speaker is . . . er . . . regarding his home market of er . . . . .
.'

A suicide pill, a sawn-off shotgun in the mouth, a mercy

killing from a kind-hearted assassin in the audience would all

be welcome at this particular point in time. 'Er . . . the

Bertlesmann TV copyright battle?'

I had read about somewhere recently and it sounded

this

pretty good. God, from international em-

Saved, thank
barrassment. The speaker looked at the chairman in
confusion, who in turn said, 'Mr Riley, Mr Spiegel has spent
the last hour doing just that in his presentation entitled "A
Victory for VC, Bertlesmann TV Beat the Regulators".' Shit,
I had read about this recently - in the fucking programme!
Everything was falling apart. So far I had listened to eight
speakers from around the world without taking in a single
word. I had sat nervously, knowing that I fully intended to meet
my girlfriend at the airport later that night, spend a romantic
weekend with her in Barcelona and ask her a question which
would ultimately recreate, re-form and reanimate her as the
monster, Psycho Fiancee! After the next speaker, it would be my
turn, so I had roughly twenty minutes to get my head together.
54
 Normally at a conference I crap my pants copiously before
having to make a presentation, and then make a stuttering,
incompetent pillock of myself in any debates or workshops.
In my defence, this is not uncommon.
Do you know what the vast majority of Brits are most
scared of?
Not spiders, not snakes, not vertigo, not flying, not
even claustrophobia, but public speaking. Amazing, isn't
it? I mean, you'd think it would be the big 'M', having

children, mothers-in-law or Granny Victor. But no, it's

public speaking. I can understand this actually. In fact, my

company have sent me on courses to stop me spewing
profusely before presentations. And yet, here I am again,

nervous, no sleep last night, palms sweating, can't hold

my food down. But all for the wrong/right/wrong reasons.

I have thoughts for only one thing, one sentence, four

words, five syllables - and one specific word I still

haven't been able to successfully say yet: mmm . . . nope, still

not possible. I was scared spineless, but not about the pre-
sentation, about something far more frightening and
indelible. I looked at the conference programme for
inspiration.

Johnson Riley, marketing manager from Extraordinary

Film & Company, will present on his company's UK
experiences. Johnson has seven years' experience in his
industry. His successes include the Guff Video Initiative

in 1998 and the Crap TV Plan of 1999. Johnson is

about to make the biggest mistake of his life and pro-
pose to his girlfriend like a fool. In America his name
means 'penis'.

I thought back to the advice of the wiry, long-limbed

American sales evangelist who ran the course I'd recently

been sent on: 'Nerves are nothing to fear.' A hundred or so

55
scared presenters cowered in the room like shivering puppies
at the vets.
'Nerves are good, nerves are Neanderthal! It's all about the
science of fight or flight,' he explained, as if he was some
guru, some world-altering scientist, instead of a tin-pot, two-
bit preacher.I remember looking around to see if any of the

other delegates were falling for his shit, and realized they
weren't even listening, they were praying. Praying that he
wouldn't ask them to speak or make a presentation, so it

didn't matter a toss what he said, which is precisely why he

was talking shit.
I have to admit that he did give me a good tip on control-
ling anxiety. He explained that nervousness can be controlled
by left-brain activity. The right side of your brain is the
creative bit, while the left side is your rationality, memory
and logic - God skimped a bit on this side of my
I think
brain. The overcome your nerves is to get the left side
trick to
into gear. If you can do this, if you can wake it up, then what-
ever you're nervous about - presentations, proposals,
wedding speeches - becomes automatic. You flip into auto-
pilot and the creative side of your brain takes a nap. To get
the left side going, he advised reciting something you have
learned: repeating telephone numbers you know, doing a
crossword puzzle, or reciting multiplication tables in your
head. This bit of advice from the wiry Yank has since become
an entrenched habit. When I'm nervous I say them over and
over in my mind, just like we used to at school, in that sing-
songy, perfectly harmonious parrot-fashion way, while Mr
Smith, the maths teacher, conducted with delusions of Andre
Previn.
Now it was my turn to speak and I wished that I'd worn a
nappy as I approached the lectern.
Ohfuckohfuckohshitobshit, nervous as hell.

Three fours are twelve.

Trying desperately to control myself.

56
 Two twelves are twenty-five.
I'monlytwentyninewhatthehellamidoing.
Two nines are four.
I'mtooyoungtogetmnimmmmm . . .

One one is single.

Seconds before they called me to the podium my nerve

wires were still crossed.
'So we are pleased to welcome' - the chairman sounded
neither pleased nor welcoming - 'Mr Johnson Riley of
Britain.' The speaker seemed to spit the word 'Britain' out
like a bad oyster.

I stood up and large sections of the already dwindling

audience left. I looked at the script that I'd thought was good
at 3 a.m. ""iBuenas nocbesV I said, although it came out as

'bonus knockers'. The chairman shook his head, and I

realized I was about to talk nonsense for the next forty

minutes.
At the end the applause was similar to the deafening
when a batsman
clapping at a village-green cricket match
actually manages to hit the ball. Barcelona was not going
well. Barcelona had sunk without trace. Barcelona was a sun-
dried, cracked white turd.
Returning to my seat, humiliated, I was struck by a sudden
flash of clarity. I decided not to tempt fate a second time in
Barcelona. One Spanish disaster was plenty for this year,
proposing could wait. After all, it was only Merlin who

knew, my mate, my best buddy, my trusty confidant. Merl

would support me. After all, it was just a delayed fixture, a
postponement, not a full-blown cancellation.
Of course, there was the problem of BTB; of catching my
firefly, like Mr Big said. He would definitely disapprove, but

hey, what did he know, he was just a fat drunk. I fished his
card out of my wallet where I'd stuffed it, unread, along with
taxi receipts and meeting debris.

57
 Lord Norbert Camberly
Gold Sparrow Films Worldwide Inc.

Film Producer & CEO

A fat, drunk, nobody, world-renowned, Hollywood-

hunted producer of the best of British film. Lord Camberly,
who did all his business out of the back of a limousine driving
around London. Norbert Camberly - famous for refusing to
be lured (physically) to Hollywood, famous as the big
Geordie boy made good, and famous for his fear of flying. I'd

dissed the kind of contact most people trying to break into

film would swap a bollock for. Lord Norbert Camberly.

What a load of pants.

58
Flapping Camel Coat

'Four, four, two. Four, four, two!' shouted Colin from the
touchline. The rain was relentless on another grey Sunday
morning in Battersea.

The pitch was one of six that crowded a poorly kept stretch
of wasteland, hidden in the suburbs east of the power station

and just to the south of the Thames.

From a distance they looked like proper footballers in a
proper match. Eleven men, good and true, battling it out on
the chalk-scoured mud. Their plain blue, long-sleeved,
round-necked shirtsmade them look like a bunch of Fifties
throwbacks as they huffed and puffed around the pitch.
'Four, four, two!' Colin shouted relentlessly.
'Go fuck yersell!' Ratty shouted back, as he charged down
the left wing, low-riding on stumpy legs and snorting like a

warthog. Failing to pass his marker, he hastily cross-bred

a swallow-dive with a bellyflop in a feeble attempt to gain a
foul.
'Foul!' shouted Ratty, gripping his shin as his marker, now
in delirious possession, trampled up the wing unchallenged.
Up close, you realized they weren't real footballers, but
real people, realmen, better suited to barstools than
football matches. Aged anything between twenty-five and
thirty-seven, they were young enough to stagger around
the pitch for ninety minutes - just - and old enough to

59
have given up hope of Wembley, or even Craven Cottage.
'Up and after him, Ratty! Come on!' Colin used to play
with the lads, but since his marriage and subsequent loss of
stamina, speed and hair, he strutted along the touchline with
the self-importance of a cock.
'Come on, four, four, two, like I said! Tell him, Stef!' Colin
shouted to Stefano, the sole skilful footballer on the team.
'No!' Stef shouted back to Colin.
'GOALLLL!' shouted the red-and-black-striped opposition
- the Hope and Anchor - as the ref blew his whistle in

confirmation.
Ratty's marker had strolled past the defence and slotted the
ball insultingly through the legs of the keeper, Merlin.

'Jesus, Merl!' Stef stuck his hands on his hips and hung his

head low, and for all the world looked like Ronaldo, dis-
appointed at the failings of his team-mates. Stef was built like a

real footballer, was fitter than the rest of the team put together
and had once tried out for Brentford. He also, dubiously,

claimed he was of Italian descent (Stefano) even though his

surname was Smith. Of course, he claimed it was on his mum's
side, but she'd run off back to Italy with the local fishmonger
when he was eight, so there was no way of checking.
The rest of the team was more like a schoolyard rabble
having a- kick-about. The whistle blew for half-time and
Colin strolled determinedly to the centre circle, where the

Blue Boys had gathered around As both a solid foot-

Stef.

baller and a PE teacher, Stef kept in shape and was a natural

captain for the team. He looked the part, sounded the part
and played the part well.
Colin's new goatee partially hid his triple chin. He'd
nurtured the beard, taken up cigars and bought a second-
hand flea-bitten camel coat to look the part of team manager.
Unlike Stef, it somehow seemed pretend. Colin was a little
boy playing at dressing up, convinced that he's a superhero in
his outfit of red wellies and pyjamas.

60
 'Fuck me, here comes Cloughy,' muttered Merlin.
Stefano was in full flow when Colin arrived. 'Lads, we've
gotta hang back and cover their ten; he's a bastard on the
break. And Skunk, for fuck's sake, this is a football.' He held
up the ball. 'We want to stop it - the ball - going in the back
of our net!'
'No, no, no. What you need is a four, four, two formation,'
interrupted Colin.With unified and practised discipline, the
entireteam ignored him.
'Oh, come on, Stef, that was keyhole-surgery shooting,'
protested Merlin.
'Itwent through your bleedin' legs, which were spread-
eagled like Penthouse's September centrefold,' continued Stef.
'Aye, she wiz all right, her, right enough,' Ratty piped up
from the back, alternately wheezing and puffing on his third
good as May, though.' He looked
half-time cigarette. 'No' as
thoughtful, and the team momentarily joined in, mentally
conjuring the September and May Penthouse centrefolds.
'And it was your bloody fault Hope and Anchor broke,
Ratty, which led to the last goal. Passing is what we do
when we are about to lose the ball. That's called passing,
Ratty.'
'Ha fuckin' ha, Ronaldo!' Ratty scowled.
Stef glanced at the ref and saw that he was preparing to
start the second half. 'Right, now a word from our manager.

Over to you, Col.'

'Right, boys, it's all in the formation
—
With precision
'

timing, the ref blew for the start of the second half. The boys
trotted off at once, leaving Colin crouching alone in the
centre circle, scratching his stubbly beard, his camel coat
flapping in the wind.
Ratty and Stef kicked off. 'Have you heard about Johnny?'
Ratty asked, receiving Stef's tap and feeding the ball back to
the defence.
'No, what?' Stef watched the ball dawdle back to Merlin

61
and started walking forward, ready for a deep kick into the
opposition half.
'Have they split up?' Stef shouted, moving further away
from Ratty, ready to break.
'You wish, you'd love to have a pop at her, eh?' Ratty's
crude instincts were often accurate.
'Oi, steady, Rat, me and Maddy are supposed to be an item
nowadays.'
Merlin thudded the ball forward and Stef jumped for it.

Out-leaping his marker, he nodded the ball through to Ratty.

'Yeh right.' Ratty pushed up the left wing and Stef kept

with him.
'You know they're in Barcelona for a romantic weekend?'
Ratty said as he fed through to Stef who had found space on
the left.

Stef was tackled and the ball went out for a throw-in in the
last third. He shook his head and blamed Ratty. 'Stop
yabbering, you blouse. Get on with the game.'
A defender came up for a long ball, and Ratty and Stef

goal-hunted twelve yards out.

'Anyway, so what about Barcelona?' Stef couldn't scrub the
conversation from his mind, even though it was distracting
him from the game. The ball sailed through the air en route
to a perfect top-left-hand-corner volleying opportunity for
Stef, who had already lined up his shot.
'Johnny's proposing,' shouted Ratty. Stef sliced the shot
three miles wide of the left post.
'Fuck! Fuck, fuck, bastard.'
Nobody knew what Stef was cursing.
Within ten minutes almost every player on the field knew
that Johnny was proposing in Barcelona and were chatting
about the pros and cons of marriage.
'Foul!' The ref blew against Ratty.
'You know, scientists reckon, nowadays, that it's bio-

logically impossible for a man to remain with just one

62
partner.' The ref chatted idly to Ratty and the player he'd
just fouled, who joined in as Ratty helped him to his feet,

'Yeah, that's right, it's to do with longer life expectancies and

eating natural yoghurt.'
Ratty sighed and slapped his forehead. 'It's to do with
shaggin' as many birds as ye can, ya daft bastard.'
'So when's he asking?' Stef asked, on another doomed
foray into the opposition's half with the unhelpful assistance
of Ratty.
'Probably has already, daft fucker. He flies back Monday
night, so you never know, he might be saving the best for
last.' Ratty wheezed as he spoke.

Only Merlin, the lonely keeper, was unaware of the topic

of conversation that kept the players engrossed for the
majority of the second half.
In the last five minutes, the opposition scored their fifth
goal to the Blue Boys' bugger all. 'The decider that put them
out of reach,' as Colin later described it. While Merlin lay in

a heap on the ground, the Hope and Anchor number ten,

who'd scored a hat-trick, ambled past him to collect the ball

from the back of the net.
'So I hear you're gonna be Johnny's best man.'
'Hmm? Oh yeah, that's right. I . .
.' In the gaps between the
mud, Merlin's skin blanched to match his white streak. 'What
the fuck! How in the hell . . .
?'

'Let's hope you make a better best man than goalkeeper,'

he sniggered, and strolled off as the final whistle went.
Colin met Merlin as he stomped towards the concrete
oblong changing rooms, fuming. 'How about Dublin?' Colin
said. Merlin ignored him and seethed, massaging his temples.

He imagined castrating Ratty, or worse, nailing his knob to

his femur and taking him to a lap-dancing club.
'Little bleedin' jock bastard!' muttered Merlin.
'Or Amsterdam?' continued Colin. 'Or maybe we could
use that girl, Tina?'

63
 '

'What the bloody hell are you on about, Colin lad?'

'You know, Tina, that Kiwi you always go on about.
Works in your post room by day, gets her kit off at night.

Although, thinking about it, I know some hookers who'll do

specials for stags and
—
'FUCKING HELLLLLL!' Merlin shouted and clapped his
palms over his ears. What had he done?

64
Supposing

Would I propose?
It didn't seem likely.

Could I propose?
'Mmmmm . . . nope!'
I sat alone in the hotel bar post-conference, sulking. Even
though the majority of delegates were asleep, or had left
when I'd been presenting, their avoidance of me suggested
that news of my lacklustre presentation had spread like a

nasty rash. Forget it, I thought. Fuck 'em. Self-important film

failures; who needs their plaudits? Not me, all I need to do is

dust down Mr Saturday Night, pop it in the post to Lord

Camberly and it's arrivederci VC. I fantasized about success,
about cheers from the crowd at Cannes, about slaps on the
back from Norbert, about BTB smiling and laughing,
delighted, as I popped the question.
POP! The bubble burst. It was no good. I was a failure. Mr
Big would probably bin my script and BTB would respond to
my question with 'What? You, Johnny? Is this some sort of
sick joke?' I was glad I'd decided to ditch the proposal.
Delegates were scattered among the hazily familiar brass
and wood of the hotel bar. They huddled for comfort in
small groups of threes and fours, discussing monotonous
VC stuff, fixing phone calls and visits, exchanging hand-
shakes and business cards, adding to the standard conference

65
practice of copious bodily fluid exchange.
I spotted the Japanese lady I'd slobbered over earlier
among a small group of women at the bar. She smiled. I

smiled back hesitantly, presuming she was simply laughing at

a joke at my expense. Look at the English tool, wasn't his

talk cack, I imagined her saying to her colleagues.
Earlier, in my nervous, hungover stupor, I had somehow
failed to notice that the polite Japanese lady was, in fact,

stunning, in a shy and understated way. Her charcoal hair

hung in a short, sharp cut, which framed her delicate waxen
face. As she laughed, large black eyes danced like jet-flecked
jewels. Japanese women - kinky oriental sex slaves, I
mentally stereotyped from my sad-lads' library of fantasy
porn.
Gambling further humiliation, I strolled casually to the bar
and ordered a beer. Remaining there, awkwardly, I stood

slightly too close to the group, next to the Japanese lady.

Searching for some status, I pulled out my mobile phone. It

was off. I turned it on. It The digital display flashed

bleeped.
'One Message'. I presumed was from BTB, checking in,
it

telling me she was in the departure lounge at Heathrow and

would be in Barcelona pretty soon. I gulped, realizing the
imminence of her arrival brought my supposed proposal ever
closer. I thought it through again, thought about the con-
sequences of the question lodged in my head like a piece of

shrapnel. Soon I'd meet her at the airport and alter her

irretrievably into my betrothed - sounds like death-rowed.

Fuck it! I couldn't do it! I wouldn't do it. I turned the
phone off again. I could pick up the message another time. I
could ask her to mmm . . . thingy me another time. It's all just

too permanent.
I swallowed hard and sat on a stool at the bar, glancing
across at the group of women to my right. Did I really think
there would never be another woman after BTB? Because
that's what it all boils down to, you know. Either that, or you

66
accept lies and infidelity; and while I confess to being a
typical bloke, I'm no serial shagger like Ratty.
We'd lived together for three years now, and making that
decision had been hard enough. So far I'd managed to delay
the inevitable house buying and joint mortgage with various
excuses, ranging from 'the property market is collapsing like
a house of cards' to 'no chance of getting a mortgage, I'm a
credit fugitive'. But living together is one thing, the big 'M' is

quite another. Living together could be seen as chic,

bohemian, relatively painless, separable. It even sounds

temporary. While m— sounds middle-aged, permanent, the
final countdown. A bit like retired, or put out to pasture.
I slumped on my stool, head resting on my hand, necking
my beer. Just the thought of proposing brought a million
questions flying through my brain, like bats in a cave, each
one screeching through my mind.
What about sex? It's good now, living together, but will it

all take on a functional sprog-orientated connotation post

m— ? What about the potential for GBH from her family
when they find out? Apart from the incongruous, gentle
younger brother, Seamus, the them look violent -
rest of

silent mother and ranting dad, Jack and Paddy, the brothers

grim. Somehow, I get the feeling they see me as temporary, a

bit like the hyperactive Jack Russell her dad threw in the

canal when she was a little girl.

Will that be the final whistle for the lads? Sad husbands -
me, Merl and Colin - outweighing single beaver-hounds
- Ratty and Stef.
What about money and bank account?
the dreaded joint
She'd finally find out for sure just how much I piss away on
booze, fags, CDs, videos and leisure flotsam. And would she
mind if we only spent seventy pence - my savings - on the big
day?
Does it have to be a religious ceremony? My only God is

the King.

67
 And on that subject, how about Elvis impersonating priests
and tattoo-swapping in Vegas?
Would I scriptwrite - skint and hopeful - or spout shit in

bill-paying video collation? Way too rhetorical.

Am I supposed to stop fantasizing about Maddy? I still

remember that night at college too clearly. Maybe hypnosis

would work. And is that ditto for the kinky oriental sex slave
On my right?
Do I have to be a grown-up? I think that's less likely than
world peace.
Did Dad have the same questions in his head before he
asked Mum?
I could go on for ever.

Millions of bastard bats in the cave, some big fat life-

changing questions; some tiny, incey-wincey detail ones. But

they're all there, all screeching. Forget them. The real choice

is the to-be-or-not-to-BTB question:

Do I, Johnson Riley, take her, BTB, to be my lawful
wadded wolf, because I will never love another more?

Or, Do I, Johnson Riley, take her, BTB, to be my leerful

welded waif, but accept that there is every chance I will shag
a few other women on the way to an average fourteen-year-
long stretch before divorce and the messy by-products of
children and mortgages?
it. That is the choice. You either lie, but say 'I do'
That's
anyway, or you love her and say 'I do' genuinely. Liar or
lover, you choose. The Japanese lady was smiling at me. I

spilt my beer on my shirt, surprised to have been caught

staring. I panicked and looked away, hiding in my messed-up
thoughts.
You see, this is the whole trouble with life; it's what Mr Big
was trying to grasp in his slurred stream of consciousness on
the plane. Being happy, accepting your lot willingly with a
smile, is all about whether you imagine the grass is always
greener. Everything can be reduced to the nature of your

68
grass and whether you're happy with it. If you're not, but you
pretend you are, all you're doing is covering a yellow patch
on the turf, pretending Muttley hasn't dumped a steamer in
the middle of the lawn or ignoring the moss below the
surface. You're deceiving yourself - it'll go away, it won't
screw up our lawn, everything's OK really.
But accepting your lot happily often means living in the
real world and not a parallel universe where women fall at

your and beers guts are in vogue.

feet

BTB says there are two kinds of women, women who like
chocolate and complete bitches. I think there are two types of
men, men who want to be James Bond, and men who want
to be James Bond but either pretend they don't or have been
anaesthetized to zombie their way through life in a coma.
Every man wants beautiful women who can also fight. We
want fast cars, guns, commitment-free shags and pens that
you can blow things up with.
I returned the smile of the Japanese lady.
Nope. No-way Jose. Uh-uh. Forget it. I abstain from
voting, I postpone making the choice. I'll decide about my
grass later. No proposals for me today, I'm playing 007.
Another day, some other time, I'll sit and think about
whether BTB's greener than the greenest grass I can imagine.
OK, she's green, she's lush, she's a verdant velvet bowling
green. But won't it ever be greener?
The trouble is, I haven't seen all the grass in the world. I've
seen the grass in the gardens of our street, and in streets all

over Clapham, Battersea and right across London. I saw

grass Edinburgh and back home in Cornwall, where I
up at
grew up, and my grass is greenest by a mile. But I haven't
seen all the grass there is. Japanese grass, for example,
remains hidden away in some secret walled garden.
Eventually, in a few years, or perhaps five, a decade maybe
- at the end of my days I'll be able to make an educated and
intelligent judgement about the comparative greenness of

69
grass. And nothing will have been lost but a bit of time, eh?
No offence caused, no-one would know - just my pal, Merl.

After all, BTB never expected a Barcelona proposal, so why

worry? Ratty would back me up, if he knew, which of course
he doesn't. And Stef, too. Mind you, I reckon he fancies BTB,
so maybe he'd be biased. I'll just take my time and think
things through. See if I can find a few answers to the bat-
questions, check out a few more lawns to ease my mind.
Of course, you might think I've backed down because of
bruised confidence after a pants presentation, or fear of re-
jection from BTB, or of the consequences of the big 'M'. But
you'd be wrong. In my mind it's all about certainty. Honest.
And I guess, when she's not here, laughing and loving and
fizzling, it's easy to fool myself, to temporarily forget, to be a
love amnesiac. But it isn't that, either, really it isn't. My
phone beeps again, I still haven't retrieved my message. I put
the phone away, like the proposal. I'll worry about that later,
I think.
I watch the women in the bar from the corner of my eye as
I pocket my mobile, happy that it has performed its status-

rescuing function. The ladies on my right, and indeed the

majority of the bar, would be thinking, Look at that guy, he's
an important businessman, I bet he works for a cool com-

pany like EF&Co, who make cool videos like Bird-love - The
Mating Dances of Birds Around the Planet.
I wish I was James Bond.
I pull out my wallet. Searching for pesetas, I find the
crumpled piece of paper I'd torn from my pad on Poshasfuck
Airways. I read over my Darwinian Criteria for m— list.

About to throw the list away, I notice faint writing on the

other side of the paper.
The barman appears.
'Sir?'

'Ah, Manuel, a Martini please. Shaken, not stirred.' I

70
 '

return to the note. The words are written in flammable ink. I

reach into my dinner-suit jacket pocket for my standard-issue

solid-silver combined cigarette case and lighter. After lighting
a cigarette, I heat the paper with the flame and the words
begin to form:

007, you have ten seconds to digest your mission

before this ink dissolves. SPECTRE are suspected of
an international plot to distribute videos containing
subliminal messages that cause the viewers to behave in
a way that contravenes the security of the British
Empire. They are currently targeting Her Majesty's
Secret Service agents. We have already lost three
field operatives, 004, 005 and 006. All good agents
who previously womanized gratuitously in between
heavy bouts of violence, driving fast cars and spending
taxpayers' cash in casinos. All three agents, after only
one lethal viewing of the SPECTRE videos, have
married and settled down. 004 has a baby on the
way and 005 marries Moneypenny next weekend
(see you at the service). 007, the fate of the Service
and safety of the nation and the planet is in your
hands.
M
004 wants you to be a godfather, and 005 has
P.S.

asked if you could be an usher.

The words fade on the paper as quickly as they had

formed. 'Manuel, some Tabasco sauce.' I screw the paper up,
douse the ball in sauce and pop it in my mouth.
'Excuse me, I'm a bit peckish, ' I quip to the polite Japanese
lady watching me as I down my Martini and swallow.
'Allowme to introduce myself, my name is Bond, Johnson
Bond. May I buy you a drink?' Manuel returns. 'Champagne
for madame and I'll have a
—
71
 'Martini. Shaken, not stirred?' guesses Manuel.
'No, a pint of Guinness.'
'But, Mr Bond?'
'I'm bored with bloody Martini, it's a poof's drink.' The
waiter nodsand disappears.
'And for whom do I have the pleasure of buying
champagne?'
'My name is Slo Lee Gumming,' spoke the Japanese lady.
'Hmm, Opium. What an appropriate fragrance,' I say as
Manuel arrives with the champagne.
'Tattinger 'forty-three!' I exclaim as the bottle arrives in a
silver ice bucket. I lean over the bar.

'Yes, Mr Bond?' Manuel bored of my demands.

sighs,

I whisper, 'Haven't you got some cheap stuff, Pomagne or

Lambrusco; she'll never know the difference.'
'Certainly, Mr Bond . . . Anus,' he mutters as he walks
away.
'What was that?'
'I was thinking of retiring to a more private place, Mr
Bond. Why not join me in my suite?' Slo Lee talks slowly as
she strokes my inner thigh. She hands me the key to her suite
and slinks out of the bar elegantly.
I wink at Manuel.
'I'm in there, definitely in there.' I grin.
'Yes, Mr Bond, of course . . . Arse,' I'm sure I heard him
add quietly.

7 say, what was that?'

Icame to my senses suddenly at the hotel bar. After five beers

and one sickly Martini, I had still failed to engage the
Japanese lady in conversation. To be honest, I didn't really
want to. Not in the real world, anyway. As ever, I was far
happier in my threat-free fantasy land.
Looking at my watch, I realized I was in danger of missing
BTB's flight, so I drained my glass, thanking Manuel with a slur.

72
 Somewhere, mixed into the background noise of the hotel
bar, I could hear music - 'We Have All The Time In The

World' by Louis Armstrong. I remembered that even the

average male alter ego, James Bond, had once popped
the question. It was a sobering thought. If Bond, every man's

id, can do the m— thing, then anyone can. Tragically, Mrs

Bond was shot by Blofeld on their honeymoon in the saddest

ending to any film ever devised, and in the background 'We

Have All The Time In The World' played.
I didn't; I was late.

73
Lost-cause Armpits and Rhino Skin

'I'm telling you, lads, that fifth goal was the decider.' Colin

paced edgily in the corridor outside the white-tiled shower

cubicles, muttering while reading a paper. Every few minutes
he would shout something into the steam, directed at Stef,
Merl or Ratty, who were the last of the team still showering.
Colin was now
without camel coat, but comically kitted
out in his own, too-clean, Blue Boys' strip - Chelsea, late
Sixties - which rose up over his gut, showing off a hairy roll

of fat.

'Fuck off, Colin.' Merlin's words were lost in the din of the

shower.
'What did you say there, Merl?' shouted Colin, peering
into the gloom, before carrying on with his managerial dis-
section of the game, in between glances at the News of the

World.
Merlin sat silently on the tiles, angry that the whole world
seemed to know about Johnny.
'We've got to work on formation and and goal-
. . .

keeping.' The corridor outside the showers was the only

place where Colin's diatribes would go unchallenged and
uninterrupted, mainly because no-one could hear him over
the noise of the streaming water. Most of the team had
left the showers already and hurried down the corridor into
the changing rooms, where they were quickly tugging on

74
 '

socks, shirts and shoes over wet, half-clean bodies in the rush
to get their first Sunday pint. Merlin, Ratty and Stef dawdled
under the showers, sulking and chatting.
'I'll sort some training on Wednesday, shall I?'

'Shut up, Colin!' shouted Stef in the direction of the corridor

before turning back to Ratty. 'I wish Col'd give manager
this

thing a break. He thinks he's Arsene fuckin' Wenger; it's

becoming an obsession.' He talked quietly to Ratty, genuinely
concerned about Colin. Stef sort of acted as Colin's minder;
he'dknown him since their East London schooldays, and had
been his best man only six months before. 'I think it's to do
with Irish,' Stef said even more quietly.

'What, being a bollocks manager?' Ratty missed the point.

'No, I think it's all over for him and Trish.'
'See, this marriage thing's nae fuckin' use to anybody.
Johnny shouldn't be
—
'Ratty, shut the fuck up. You're like a bleedin' tape-
recorder on a loop,' Merlin grunted from the floor.

'Who rattled your cage?' said Ratty.

'A daft Aberdonian who follows his cock around and has
a larger mouth than Beatrice Dalle. Jesus!' Merlin slumped
back down.
'Fitness and focus, that's what it's all about,' Colin shouted.
'I've seen him do this before,' Stef said. 'He gets all ob-
sessive when he's depressed. Remember when he split up with
the one before Trish? ... Er?' While he searched for the
name, Stef shampooed his bald head, the habit of his own
mild amputee syndrome.
'Helen,' Merlin grumbled sulkily.
'Helen, I shagged her when — Ow!' a Merlin-hurled
shampoo bottle accurately bounced off Ratty's head.
'Yeah, Helen. Well, Col went out and bought this huge
home-cinema system - Home Entertainment 2000 it was
called - and then bought the entire Star Trek video collection.
Every single episode.'

75
 'Aye, and we christened the TV Helen Mark II. ' Ratty
nodded and grinned.
'And then there was the time his grandad died and he got
all weird about jigsaws. Completely addicted; two or three a
day. He'd drive miles to some jigsaw shop in Thurrock
Lakeside to get his fix.'

They both chuckled at the memory. Stef and Ratty turned

their showers off and the noise dimmed significantly.
'What do you reckon about an away kit?' Colin was
relentless.

Ratty and Stef grabbed their towels, looked at Merlin sulk-

ing inconsolably in the corner and walked towards the
changing rooms, past Colin. Stef made a last-ditch effort to
cheer Merl up.
'Come on, mate, look on the bright side: at least Johnny
won't need to tell everyone the news when he gets back from
Barcelona.'
Merlin looked up and stared at Stef, shaking his head. As
they passed Colin in the corridor he said, 'So what do you
think, Stef? Training on Wednesday night?' They ignored
him.
'The Skunk's taking this all a bit seriously, isn't he?' said
Stef.

'Och, he'll get over it. He let in six goals two weeks ago.'
Stef stopped and checked to make sure Ratty was joking.
'Och, well, never mind. It's aw Johnny's fault.'

'You mean, for telling Merl before he'd proposed?'

'Nah, for proposing at all, daft bastard. Anyway, I've a

cracking idea to help Merlin, and to take the sting out of him
tellin' aw the lads.'
'He only told you Ratty, not all the lads. That's what you
did.' Stef used his teacher tone and waggled a finger at Ratty.
'Aye, whatever, but it's a good idea, listen
— ' Ratty's face
carried a mischievous grin as the pair opened the changing-
room doors and their words became drowned by the noisy

76
banter of the two teams. They were swamped in the usual

chaos of twenty-five men chucking wet, muddy clothes

around, cracking jokes and spraying deodorant on lost-cause
armpits.
'You know what, mate?' Colin could now speak at normal
pitch to Merlin, who was still sitting on his arse with water
battering his back. 'I'm not sure the lads take me seriously as
a manager.'
Merlin's face finally cracked and he snorted at his friend,
bemused by his unintentional wit. Merlin stood and turned
the shower off.
'How's Trish, mate?' The question seemed to throw Colin
off balance slightly. He hopped from one foot to the other,
nervously, and folded up his paper.
'Oh, you know. OK, I guess.' Merlin knew this meant
worse than you can imagine, but stuck to the unwritten male
rule of keeping your emotions tucked away.
'How about Ruth?' Colin returned the shot.
'Ruth's . .
.' Merlin wondered for a second whether to
break the rules, suddenly change the game, rewrite the book
and tell the truth. 'Ruth's fine.' Merlin's messed-up life would
remain, like Colin's, his own private concern, his secret fuck-
up. He remembered that, as a child, secrets were exciting,

precious things, like jewels clutched in a tight-clenched fist,

buried deep in a pocket. But it wasn't true, it didn't last.

Adult secrets are nasty pus-filled boils in the crack of your

arse, which grow and and swell unseen.
fester and stink
Merlin knew that his and Colin's marriages were not
exactly models that you would proudly recommend to your
mates with a smile and say, 'Go on, it worked for me.'
'Think Ruth could fit in a trim tomorrow?' All the lads
benefited from Ruth's free haircuts.
'Yeah, sure. Listen, Colin, do you think it's good for

Johnny? You know, marriage and all that?'

Colin puzzled over Merlin's question. 'Well, to be honest,

77
 '

yeah. I mean, look at me? Trish would never say yes to me

now, but I caught her early, before I gave up football for
management, and
—
'But are you guys really happy, Col, lad? I mean, I don't

mean to pick on you, like, but, you know, take Ruth and me.
Well, I don't know if we'll last. She ... we fight ... we ... I

don't know, it's hard to explain, but I don't think we'll go the
distance.'
'You will. You'll be fine, you'll see. Like me and Trish, you
know, solid.' Colin balled his fist into the It shape of a stone.
was an open secret that Trish was on the verge of walking
out, and was already averaging two or three nights a week
stopping over with girlfriends.
T think we'll have kids soon, you know, seal the deal, good
and proper with a family. I'll be a dad, and Trish could give
up working in the City and . .
.' Colin's mumble tailed off

into nothing. Merlin knew this was unmentionable, another

dirty secret, another sham.
Merlin decided to let their own marriages lie, undisturbed,
and brought the spotlight back to Johnny. 'Apart from that,

the other question is will she say yes to Johnny?'

'I tell you, mate, he'd be one lucky fucker. She's gorgeous,
she's fun, she earns a wedge . . . and . . . and she gives good
head.' Colin relaxed now as the pressure was let off the raw
nerve of his relationship.
'Col? Jesus!'
'Johnny told me. Said she got a record-breaking nine point
nine from the British judge, which was him, and the rest of
the judges could piss off, 'cos they weren't getting a go!'
'Work OK?' Merl asked, and Colin's face lit up, suddenly
remembering his news.
'Oh yeah, good. I think I've got a crack at a column. Well,
just holiday cover for a mate really, who pulled a few strings

with the editor.'

'A column? Who for?'

78
 'The Mail on Sunday ?'
'Fantastic, Colin, lad. Bloody brilliant.' Colin had been
trying to break into columns as an escape route from the
gutter press for years.
'Yeah, I'm chuffed. You know, good money, but only for a
month, so I need to make one fuck of an impression in that
time.'
'So what's the column about?' Merlin probed and Colin
started shuffling awkwardly again.
'Well . . . I'm not sure, the editor wants to get younger male
readers and thinks a sort of blokey emotional thing might
work. But he wants a hook. You know, a theme. The guy
before me was slowly going round the bend and used to write
about his trips to the therapist. Now he's well and truly

flipped, and I think he's in a loony bin.'

'So what are you gonna do?' Merlin towelled himself while
they talked.
'Well, I'm going to have to use a pseudonym, but I was
thinking of maybe a column based on the footy lads.'
'Eh? What d'you mean?' Merlin asked anxiously.
'Actually, come to think of it, Johnny would be a good
character and
— ' Colin thought aloud.
'Johnny?'
'Yeah, the editor was saying how women have invaded the
columns. A plague of cellulite and PMT, he said. He reckons
that all the real-life subjects are from a woman's perspective.
Blokes are left with sport, cars and engineering. But a man's
take on matrimony, Johnny's perspective on the whole
marriage thing, now that would be brilliant.' Colin bobbed
excitedly on his toes.
'You can't fuckin' do that, you bastard. Jesus!' Merlin
suddenly remembered why he'd been sulking in the shower.
'Christ, for all I know the poor sod hasn't even proposed yet,
or she might have told him to get stuffed. And he only told
me, confi-bloody-dentially, eight days ago. Now, not only

79
does the entire football team know, plus the other team and
the ref, plus all the wives who'll be told it when the boys get
home pissed at the end of the night, but now he's also starring

in a bleedin' column in the Mail on Sunday every week,

telling a few million strangers about it, too. Fuck, fuck, fuck!'
'He won't mind. You're over-reacting.' Colin's skin was
thicker than a rhino's. Merlin shoved past him and marched
off to the changing rooms. Approaching the door, he could
hear a muffled song coming from the other side. He opened
the door to be greeted by the pitiful sight and sound of men
attempting to sing.

'Johnny's gettin' married in the morning . .

.'

Twenty-five grown men in various states of undress had

formed a semicircle facing away from Merlin and the door,
and were singing at the tops of their tuneless baritones.

'Ding dong his life's about to end . .

.'

Merlin laughed. Itwas funny, after all, and Johnny

wouldn't really mind the team knowing. He walked towards
them, half joining in.

'Johnson's proposing . .
.'

Merlin peered over the tops of heads to see Ratty conduct-

ing the rabble like a regular maestro.

'And we're supposing . .

.'

Who elsewould it be but Ratty, but what was that he was

holding in his hand facing the singing footballers?

'If she says yes his life's about to end!'

A mobile phone, a mobile fucking phone . . .

80
Postponing

I joined the rows of expectant faces at the airport, staring at

the automatic doors under the arrivals board. I scanned the
crowd to see who these people were and with whom, for a
short time, I shared a common cause. All of us waiting for
planes that held people we'd come to meet and greet.

Strangers, business associates, family or friends; lovers,

mothers, husbands or wives; brides-to-be?
The airport had the veneer of luxury attached to Barcelona
for the general Olympic overhaul in 1992, like cheap varnish or
a strip of pine on chipboard. The shine on the marble floor was
scuffed and littered with a thousand Spanish filterless fag ends.
The air was hot and heavy with smoke and the pregnant
tension of people nearly here. My nerves jangled after the
day's events: international embarrassment at the Video
Collation Expo and a near marital miss. My career was
fucked, but I'd escaped the clutches of the big 'M'. I felt like

Steve McQueen would have felt if he'd actually made that

jump across the wire to freedom on his Triumph. I lit a cigar-
ette to celebrate, needing that soul-massaging feeling of a
lungful of smoke, unlocking its nicotine fix. I smiled; I

wanted to laugh out loud. I wanted to sing, or better yet,

whistle the theme tune to The Great Escape. So I did. In my
head it sounded Dolby.
No proposal, thank God. I could just enjoy the bank

81
holiday weekend in Barcelona, a city of half-formed dreams,
half-hearted promises and half-empty bottles.

I watched the sliding arrivals doors. They were made of

smoked glass, and I tried, in the few quieter moments when
there were no departing passengers, to spot my reflection
when the doors closed. It wasn't hard; there I was, the grin-
ning, crumpled buffoon. My face was pale with the 'ill' tinge
that comes with London living. Among the teak complexions
of the Catalonians, I stood out like a town-hall clock face at
midnight. My new BTB-chosen suit now looked as weary and
overused as my unshaven, puffy face.
And suddenly, on the other side of the sliding doors, I saw
BTB for a few seconds before they closed, in a long security
clearance queue. There she was again as they opened. After a
day's work, after a four-hour journey and a two-hour flight,

she looked neatly pressed and fresh. She looked unsullied, a

photo from a magazine that you looked at cynically thinking,

Must have been staged, because people never really look that
good. The doors shut and there I was again, a dull reflection,
grubby and shambolic. They opened. Now BTB was walking
towards me on the far side of the doors with the swagger of
a film star, all slow-mo and shades. Her white-toothed, wide
grin was framed by feathered sunshine curls, which curved
around her dimpled cheeks and oval chin. In that moment, in
a reflection, her very presence reminded me why I couldn't
just forget everythingand walk away from the proposal. The
doors shut again and there I was, unkempt, broiled.

What the fuck are you doing, Johnson? Look at you. You
look like a scrotum. Ask her, ask her for fuck's sake, I
thought. Before she notices. Ask her to marry you, before she
realizes you're broken and can't be fixed.
We met, we hugged. I held her for a moment longer than I

would normally. She lifted her shades and her sparkling

emerald eyes looked into my poached watery pools in
puzzlement.

82
 'Hello, gorgeous. Have you been on the beer?' She smiled
and stroked my cheek.
'Cerveza,' I announced proudly, like a schoolboy. Happy, for

once, to have drunkenness to hide behind. Incapable of finding

words for my thoughts, which swirled between vague notions
of beauty, commitment, duality and the greenness of my grass.
'Si, sehorita, cerveza and, er . . . tapas,' I said, searching

among my extensive catalogue of Spanish phrases and words.

Out of the corner of my eye I was sure I saw a huge great
blob of a man shuffling towards departures, tearful and
desperate, another wild firefly chase.
'Mr Big. Norbert,' and scanned the crowd.
I said aloud
'Who's Mr Big Norbert?' BTB asked. But he was gone, a
whale that shows a fin and hides its bulk, as if it was never
there at all.

'Who is it, Johnny? Sounds like a gangster. Mr Big

Norbert.'
'Oh, just this guy I know. A guy who's looking for some-
thing he lost.'

'What, in Barcelona?'
'I guess that's where he thought he'd find it.'

'You are pissed.'

'It's a good city to find things.'

I smiled and she took my hand as we sauntered off towards
the taxi rank, a couple once more, complementary, easy with
each other.
'You remember the last time we were here?' I asked, won-
dering how BTB had travelled so lightly.
'Ye-es.' A cautious, two-syllable answer.
'You remember what we did?'
'Maybe.' She knew, she bloody knew. She couldn't have
forgotten such a momentous decision as let's live together
and face the wrath of the evil families. But she was playing it

and slow.
carefully, all wily

'Hang on, where are your bags?' I asked.

83
 'Oh, a nice man offered to push the trolley. Now where is

he?' She scanned the crowd, pointing in the direction of a

mountain of luggage on wheels, seemingly pushing itself.

A sweaty little man popped his head up nervously from
behind the mound. His face fell when he noticed me clinging
possessively to his damsel in distress.
'Four bags? Four bags for one weekend? For a petite . . .

scrub petite . . . for a tiny blonde chick!'

She giggled. She knew it was ridiculous.
'Couldn't decide, Johnny. Don't be mad,' she mock-
pleaded, like I had a choice.
Instinctively, I let BTB do the talking at the airport, picking
up the taxi to the hotel. Language is as natural to BTB as
belching is to me. She's fluent in Spanish, French, German,
Italian, Arabic and fifth-century Visigoth. I am fluent only in
alco-babble, as are Merl and most of the lads.
I tried to butt in on BTB's fluent chats with the weather-
beaten driver, about which I rapidly became paranoid:

'You speak Spanish beautifully, madam, but your man-friend

seems to be an English imbecile who expects the world to
understand his bleating. Tell me, he is an associate? A distant
friend?'
'My boyfriend.' She giggles flirtatiously.
'My God, it cannot be that a woman who I mistook for an
angel, with eyes plucked from the night skies and the voice of
the music of love, can be with . . . with . . . with such a thing
as this, which I could not even imagine shitting from my
hairy Spanish arse.'

'What are you talking about?' I asked.

'Oh just er directions, things to see, you know,' she lied.
. . .

'So what shall we do?' I wasn't letting the Casanova cabby

steal my lady with his slavering silvery tongue.
'Whatever,' BTB said distractedly and looked like

84
she was about to start another chat with the driver.
'Urn, you haven't asked me how my talk went,' I pre-
empted.
'Well?' she said. I realized I didn't really want to tell her
about that.

'Well what?'
'Well, how did it go?'
'Er . . . I've decided to change my career,' I said.

'Why? Didn't go well, sweetheart?' BTB looked

it

genuinely concerned. I didn't want to get into this. She

seemed to sail through the obstacles and pitfalls in her career
as if nothing was even slightly strenuous. She was happy with
her work and they seemed happy with her. Whereas I wanted
to be Spielberg or Coppola, or a scriptwriter, or something
famous and successful. Yet, here I was, a middling-sized fish

in a tiny backwater, only just attached to the film industry.

BTB was about to become a managing partner in her ad
agency and wanted to be a managing partner in that agency.
She had it sussed, the smug bint. Her ultimate desire and the
likelihood of her achieving it were almost exactly the same.
Mine were so far apart it was like saying, I want to be a
mountaineer, and ending up a chandelier.
'Video collation's not for me,' I said.

'So what is?' BTB had heard this before and didn't really
believe I would change anything.

'I'm gonna finish that script.'

'Uh-hmm.' I hate that noise, 'Uh-hrnm'. It's so brief and
simple, yet, said with a sarcastic tone, it can be soul-destroying.
That noise means, Yeah, right, like in your dreams.
'I bloody am,' I said, overdefensively.
'Whoa there, I didn't say you wouldn't.'
'You said the "uh-hmm" thing.'

'Johnny, I know what you're capable of, but you've said

that a thousand times before. Where's your motivation?
Where's your enthusiasm?'

85
 I pulled out my wallet and thrust the impressive Lord
Norbert Camberly's card in front of her.

'I've got a perfect contact. I met this guy; he's . . . he'd be

interested.'

'Wow, Lord Camberly. Was he at the conference?'

Wouldn't be seen dead there, I thought.
'No.'
'So how d'you meet him?'
'On the plane.'
'Oh.' That's cheating, she was thinking. He had to be there,
he was stuck on the plane, constrained. She was more right
than she knew.
'Well, at least it's a contact.'
'Yeah, sure, Johnny. You finish the script, you send it off,

then you change your career. I'm sure it'll be brilliant.' This
was BTB's way of saying, Go on then, I dare you. 'It's just . . .

it's just that you rarely have the courage of your convictions.

You so rarely do the good things in life that I know you can
do. And it's a shame. One day, one day it'll all be too late and
you'll look back on a life that's a long list of might-have-
beens and could-have-beens all racked up, Johnny.'
And she was right, of course, in a horribly incisive way.
Years ago, when we met in college, when everything seemed
to last a long time - sex
was all night, and after sex was talk-
ing, and morning was more sex, and energy was on tap
in the
- back then I'd shown her my stuff: poems, plays, scripts. I'd
shared my dreams and she'd been so impressed. She'd stroke
my hair while I lay on her lap and read things to herself.
Every once in a while she'd smile, or a tear would well in her
eyes, and she'd kiss me proudly.
But now it feels old and faded and grey. Even the words are
lost. The taxi driver butted into my thoughts, noticing I'd
stopped hogging BTB. I translated:

'Beautiful lady, forget El Loser, he has as much chance of

86
writing a good script as I have of making my lovely taxi fly
up into the sky. But I can make you fly. I can make you
fly with me through the skies in the hack of my taxi, once we
get rid of the boy-fool

Bastard. I knew some Spanish. Manuel, the barman, had

taught me plenty. While BTB and the driver chatted, I

mentally recounted the phrases I knew:

1: Dos cervezas, por favor.

2: Donde estd las zapaterias?
3: Mis cojones son tan grandes como melones, y tuyos
son pequehos como los chicharos.
4: Quieres chuparme los dedos del pie?

Watch out Collins, you're buggered. Riley's slim-edition

phrase books are set to take over the world. I vowed to use

each phrase in turn over the course of the weekend.

On Friday night I said,
l
Dos cervezas, por favor.' Which
l
means, 'Two beers, please.' That's Dos cervezas, por favor.'
l
Repeat, Dos cervezas, por favor.'
By the end of the night I'd used it so frequently that it

slopped off my tongue with the familiarity of 'a pint of

Guinness please, Frankie' at the Blue Boy on a Sunday after-

noon, post-football, pre-pissed coma. I wondered whether
the boys would miss me back in Battersea on Sunday.

After dropping BTB's bags - one wardrobe on wheels, one

hold-all and two shoe trunks - at the hotel, we tried to out-

party the locals. This involved downing cerveza and gin and
tonics alternately, dancing to any and all music in a parody
of flamenco - which made BTB look good and me look like
a dancing bear - and eating a hearty meal - tapas at 2 a.m.,
which consisted of three cold prawns, some balls of some-
thing and a pint of garlic sauce. Something clicked as we

87
tuned in to each other and grinned the night away like a
couple of kids. We could have lived and laughed and licked
every second off each other twice over.
After tapas we moved on to a series of glass-fronted clubs
and bars along the Olympic Port, staggering between them,
indiscriminately happy. Lambada'ing in gay bars and twisting
in trendy dance haunts.
'Johnny!' BTB had to shout, her lips to my ear, as we
danced, our bodies glued together with sweat. 'I love you.
This is fantastic' A night of talking over loud music had left

her with a bourbon-coated, bluesy voice. Her breath on my

face, the dancing and her words made me shiver with exhila-
ration, like a sudden shot of coke bursting in my brain.
'I . . . I . .
.' Come on, Johnny, you can do it. I'd conquered
the I-love-you fear years ago, but maybe I'd conquered it in a

false way. Maybe

words but detached them from
I'd said the

the meaning they conveyed - the meaning BTB imparted

when she whispered them as we danced.
'I love you,' I said, and meant it, maybe for the first time.

She stopped dancing suddenly but stayed in my arms.

'Come on, we're going.' She kissed me heavily on the lips,
the salt of her sweat, gin, vodka, tequila, garlic and lemon all
mixing into a taste of purest, 100 per cent proof Barcelona.
She dragged me off the dance floor and into the night.
Itwas a magical time - the night reluctant to end, the
morning straining to begin. The stars blurred across our
dilated pupils. Pickpockets eyed us hungrily, eager hyenas
stalking soft, slow prey. Elaborate news-stands shone like
paper palaces in the night. The flower and bird stalls on

the Ramblas and the meat, fish and vegetable stands in the
covered market were busily building colourful masterpieces
as we drowsily meandered home. The dawn arrived to cast
an unnecessary light on what remained of the night before, of
which we were a tired, tawdry part.
Sex was attempted in the smoky half-light, in a drunken

88
fumbling way that I'd bet, like myself, BTB has no detailed
memory of, simply a vague, warm awareness that it was wild
and hazardous. Fragments of thoughts and feelings floated like
seeds in the wind. While we rode on the wave of adrenalin that
only comes with a chaotic night such as this, I thought of the
passion we were mad, ceaseless sex and
rediscovering, the
desire of the early days. I remember wondering if she would be,
could be, would have me as her sole lover for ever. Whether my
love, our love, was the kind that could last a lifetime, and

whether I would be happy with this woman until the end of

time. As we collapsed on the covers of the creased Spanish
linen in a slick, bruised, satiated heap; as our synapses clashed
and clattered like bubbles bursting deep within, with the soles
of my feet prickling, as if little crystals were forming beneath
the skin, remember thinking, God, yes. Yes.
I

I woke a few hours later overwhelmingly happy. The night

before had been perfect. It had been everything I loved about

BTB, about our relationship - wild, drunken, debauched,
extravagant, carefree - single people together for a moment,
comets kissing and passing in the cosmos. I was still drunk. I

had a childlike smirk and a teenage erection - life couldn't be

better. I sank into a dream in which I was a barman who was
absolutely happy perfecting Martinis, sours and slings.
In what seemed like a matter of moments I awoke, close to
death. My head galloped, my stomach slewed, my eyes
shrivelled. I had the devil's own cock of a hangover, all fierce,
fiery anguish. I would have wept with the pain if I hadn't

converted all the water in my body into pure alcohol.

I cast a single gluey eye over BTB during a pain trough.
Eyes as deep and clear as wishing pools looked back.
'Sightseeing and shopping!' She giggled and shot out of bed
like a toddler on Christmas morning.
'Come on, Johnny,' she shouted.
'Shhhhhh,' I whispered.

89
Perspiring

It was the most nauseous of days, though I took strength

from the fact that it could have been worse. At least now
there was a hole in the day where previously a proposal was
pencilled in.

In the morning we (supposedly) sightsaw. I sight-squinted,

hiding my bruised eyes behind shot-glass sun shields. I baulked
in the Sagrada Familia among Gaudi's dizzy spires and spiral
staircases. I retched in the Gothic Quarter, crowded by the
claustrophobic ancient creaking streets and cracked flag-
stones. I chundered in Cafe de l'Opera on the Ramblas, while
BTB bolted a tortilla breakfast and a hairy Spanish coffee
that stuck to my tongue when I tried to break the clench of
my rancid hangover with a fistful of caffeine.
At lunchtime we sought out a hotly tipped tapas bar at the

harbour end of the Gothic Quarter. My beer, chorizo and

cold squid left me revived but bemused by the odd antidote.
'Hair of the dog,' BTB explained.
'Do you remember all of last night?' I asked BTB
cautiously, wondering if she too had felt the energy, search-
ing for a mutual epiphany.
'Ye-es.' Again, the caution.
'All of it?'

'I remember it was dangerous. I remember that I said it

didn't matter that you didn't have anything, if that's what you
mean.' She smiled, even though she knew we'd been foolish.

90
 'You said it was OK to . .
.' I looked around and whispered
. . . come?
'Johnny, last night I'd have said it was OK for you to tie me

up, cover me in fudge and whip me with nettles,' BTB said

loudly.
'Shhh.'
'They're Spanish.' She laughed. We looked around. No-one
was paying any attention. 'My God.' She laughed. 'Your
anchovies escaped! Let's hope they swam downstream.'
'Hey, my boys would know what to do. Christ, they've
been training long enough.'
'You'd think they'd have wised up by now,' she babbled,
'and worked out that it's either a rubber bounce-back, or
worse, the great white void of the outside world.' Our con-
versation was mischievous, and underlined how close we
were. For BTB and me, sex had always been frequent and
free, like rainstorms. With the proposal parked, I was happy
that it should remain an unfettered leisure activity.

'But was good last night?'

I

'Maybe.' She was coy.

'Stamina of an ox, issue of a bull?' I said.

'More like hamster.'

'What? Issue or stamina?'
'Both.'
'Right,' I decided to embarrass her. 'Doggy-style does it for
you, huh?' I tried, loudly, enjoying the game.
'Oh yeah. You know, it's the depth, and the control. You
need all the help you can get from me in that department.'

My intention to embarrass failed miserably.

At this point, a dignified-looking, white-haired, well-
tanned man leant over from the table beside us. 'I'm pleased
to hear sehorita and seizor are enjoying the Barcelona
nightlife,' he said in perfect English, as we looked at each
other, wondering if he meant what we thought. 'And I'm glad
you have the stamina of an ox and the issue of a bull, young

91
man. May your fulfilled sex life continue for many years to
come. I bid you good day.' He stood and left, while we sat
still, scarlet-faced and red-handed. BTB giggled nervously,

crinkling her nose.

After lunch, constitution restored, I was ready to open my
eyes and actually see some sights when BTB informed me that
tourism was over for the day and shopping would
commence. I protested.
'But—'
'Johnny.'
She won. I let her. After all, it was her weekend. She wasn't
to know, but I felt guilty for not proposing. So, to ease my
conscience, I offered BTB the present of her choice in

Barcelona. It wasn't difficult to guess what this would be,

knowing that she had a particular leather-and-straps style

fetish. Hence phrase numero dos from Manuel.

We strolled back up the Ramblas, unconsciously retracing

our drunken return from clubbing the night before. We
headed north to the main shopping districts of Barcelona
near our hotel. The market was quieter now. We sauntered
past the half-empty stalls and littered pavements arm in arm.
BTB nestled in my armpit, and I wondered at the way she
fitted so well; her head to my shoulder, her hand in my hand,

like a book-jacket or cigarettes in their packet.

I chose the moment to try the phrase I had learnt specific-

ally to delight her. Strolling up to a friendly-looking

policeman with his thick moustache and machine-gun, I said
gruffly, 'Donde estd las zapaterias?' Spanish should, in my
linguistically sparse opinion, always be spoken with a
pleuritic tone. The policeman muttered back to me gruffly,

gesticulating and pointing as if I could understand. It was

great. I nodded, pretending to follow his directions with my
best sage expression, knowing BTB would understand full
well what he was saying. I was conscious, as we stood on
the Ramblas with the policeman giving directions, of the sun

92
beating down and the market packing away their cages and
shutters, that BTB was staring at me as though I was some-
thing precious - but only to her. A gem, but one that was
really a crystal, flawed and rough-edged. A stone a jeweller
would examine and discard, but which, to BTB, was all the
more special for its roughness. 'Johnny,' she said adoringly as
we walked away, 'you learnt to say where are the shoe shops?
just for me.'

And I had.
Phrase two is, "Donde estd las zapaterias?' Repeat after me,
l
Donde estd las zapateriasf Which means, 'Where are the

shoe shops?'
Knowing this phrase is 100 per cent essential if your BTB
is a serious collector. I knew that BTB would look on starry-
eyed, devoted to the man who knew her innermost feelings
and desires - shoes. BTB loves shoes, loves clothes and loves
to shop - but only for clothes and shoes. And why not. She
looks good in most things, so I suppose she would find it

enjoyable. I think I enjoyed it once. Now it's kind of

functional - Oops, just upped another inch on the trouser
front, better buy a new pair, sort of thing.
Of course, BTB always argues that she honestly needs a
new pair of shoes. Even though she could wear a different
pair every day for the next decade, and still have two cup-
boards full left over.

More annoyingly 50 per cent of BTB's collection - the

largest private collection in Europe - looks, to the untrained
eye, exactly the friggin' same. Countless Saturday evenings
have been spent like this:

'Do you like my new shoes, Johnny f BTB will grin, high

on fulfilling her daily shoe-buying fix.

'Yes . . . yes . . . /, er . . . yes . . . hut . . . yes.'

'What, don't you like them?' BTB wafts around our house
like a catwalk model, pausing and twirling in front of

various mirrors, while Muttley scampers around her feet.

93
 'They were a bargain, Johnny, only eight hundred and fifty-

seven pounds.'
'How much?'
'Reduced from two thousand five hundred, which is a
thousand per cent discount.'
'Oh, well that's fine then, cheap at half the price. But aren't
they a replica of about fifty other pairs of loafers you own?'
'Loafers? What loafers?' BTB answers distractedly, still

flouncing in front of mirrors.

'You know, in the Loafer Closet.'
'Oh yeah, the Loafer Get off, Muttley. No, you're
Closet.
thinking of the coffee-coloured Gucci suede ones; these are
sandstone,' she protests calmly.
'No, no, not them.'
'Oh, you mean the cream nubuck ones. No, these shoes are
completely different, Johnny!'
'Yes, silly me, I forgot to put them under a microscope and
do DNA tests to ensure they're not exact replicas!'
Shopping normally bores me faster than Jimmy Hill. In

Barcelona, I tried. I tried really, really hard, but after we'd

acquired only a few shopping bags I was struggling. Hot,
hassled and laden down with pastel plastic bags whose
handles cut into your hands, we had somehow moved
quickly on from shoe to clothes shopping. By this time I'd
even begun to tire of the sole pleasure a man has when shop-
ping with his girlfriend: innocent voyeurism. Sitting in plush
velvet armchairs, facing flimsy changing-room curtains while
semi-clad women dash back and forth, curtains flapping, you
become invisible. No attention whatsoever is paid to the poor
male dragged along to shop with his other half. He pretends
to be engrossed in brochures and magazines while ener-
getically hoping for an eyeful of unprotected brassiere.
Unfortunately for me, BTB spotted my wandering eyes.

Reappearing from the changing room for the seventy-fourth

time with the words, 'Does this make my bum look big?' BTB

94
noticed I was paying her no attention at all, but was
captivated by a bum far larger and less attractive than her
own - another symptom of the grass-is-greener syndrome. I

was looking simply because the bum I was beholding was a

Spanish, brown, forbidden bum, with a bit too much wobble.
BTB's bum is most importantly,
pert, white, wobble-free, but,

available for my personal private viewing on an almost limit-

less basis. This is one of the great downfalls of man.

I hoped to make amends in the evening over a candlelit

meal at Cochinillos. After was to be the
all, originally, this

proposal venue, supposedly imbued with 'an irrepressible

romance' (according to the guidebook). It wasn't to be. Our

mutual aggravation gathered speed like a tidal wave. Thank
God I cried off, I thought as we rowed bitterly. We cultured
the most poisonous of arguments in the restaurant's 'serene

rustic ambience'. It started almost jokingly, with a dig about

my bum-watching indiscretions earlier in the day, but was
added to carefully, like ingredients in a big boiling paella,
steaming and bubbling violently.
'Johnny, saw you. You were staring as if you'd only just
I

realized you had eyes in your head!' She loved to argue; it

was an addiction.
'I wasn't,' I said, sitting helplessly, like a lobster in pot.

'You were, too, you lying tosser,' BTB said politely.

My chicken arrived. It was horse. 'OK, so I was looking at

her arse,' I said, trying a new, untried tactic, 'but only in

wonder at its worthlessness in comparison to yours.'
BTB laughed for so long that I understood why this tactic

had never been recommended by my mates.

BTB's lobster arrived. It was lobster. 'So what do you think
about porn?' she asked, hunting out an argument like a

leopard looking for the weak or wounded.

'Prawn is tastiest with ginger and oyster sauce,' I said,

blanching.
'Porn!'

95
 'What?'
'Porn!'
'A chess piece which is limited but critical.'
'Porn!'
'Porn?' I said, as if the word was alien and unknown. As if

I had never come across this particular order of letters, this

strange jumble of syntax.

'Yes, Johnny, porn, like the stuff Colin lends you.'
'Colin?' I said, continuing my flawed strategy of pretend-
ing I'd never heard particular words before.
'Yes, Colin, your gutter-press mate,' BTB said. Trish says
Colin lends you pornography.'
'Pornography?' I said, lacking conviction now, realizing the

game was up and that bluff about buff and muff won't work.
'Do you, Johnny? Do you borrow pornography from
Colin?' BTB swigged her wine, really getting into the row.
Her hair was swept back and her face glowed with the
pleasure of the kill.

Yes, I toss myself off to it when you're not around. Care to

m — me, by the way? I thought.
'Do you?' she repeated, knocking back another glass.
'No,' I lied in a weak and wounded way.
'Liar.' She chewed on my leg. I considered this and decided

I wasn't lying as I hadn't 'borrowed' porn mags from Colin,

but had accepted them as kind gifts which I had no intention

of returning . . .

T bet you keep them somewhere sad and predictable, like

under the mattress.'
. . . until now.
'My, my, Johnny. You're blushing. Did I hit the spot? Like
the little teenagers in your dirty magazines?'
I ate my horse, felt nauseous and gulped at the wine. I tried
to think how I could possibly remove the magazines from
under the mattress without BTB noticing.
Time passed. I masticated while BTB slandered me about

96
masturbation. By the time coffee came it was hopeless. She
had reduced me to little more than an uncontrollable gristly

little willy.

During the kill, I became captivated by BTB's beauty. I

wondered whether antelope considered the elegance of the

leopards that ate them. BTB shone in a row. A sun on a clear
and dazzling. Her words clipped,
winter's day, stunning, cold
leaving her mouth from a Beretta, lips spitting
like bullets

them out with an angry pout, hands pale and pointed, with
absolute control, like a ballerina, shoulders leaping, eye-
brows dancing. It was a masterpiece. And at the centre of it
all were her eyes, those hypnotic eyes, mesmerizing their prey,

the softness of the verdigris pared back, absorbed into the

cold copper below. I was immersed. I was a male praying
mantis, praying for, and joyful at, the very thought of being
eaten.
'But I love you,' I said pathetically. 'I only have eyes for
you.' Christ, desperate lines for desperate times.
way you look at women. And I've seen
'Liar! I've seen the

the way you look Maddy!' Now we were getting seriously

at
serious. The Maddy line of attack was only used on special
occasions, a bazooka in the BTB armoury. The trouble is, she
is gorgeous, I do fancy her pants off and there was the in-

famous incident we don't mention when she visited BTB for

a party at college.
'You fancy her,' she accused.
'I do not,' I said with a hefty dose of indignation. Back
when I was going to propose, rather than postpone, I'd tried

to work out what would happen and what kind of wedding

BTB would want. I wasn't sure what sort of service or
reception she'd like, but the one thing I would have bet
money on was that she would ask Maddy to be her brides-
maid, and vice versa, if the time ever came. She might even
ask Maddy to do a turn at the reception. Maddy's a pianist,

waiting tables by day and playing hotel bars and restaurants

97
by night, crooning sultrily and drawing the eyes of men like

a dancing flame. The Maddy one-nighter had followed all

three of us around for years. Of course, BTB couldn't really
complain. She and I were in no way an item back then, more
a half-planned succession of tangled duvets. But they were
best friends, her and Maddy, and below the surface the
knotted roots of tension grew.
'I don't fancy Maddy,' I lied, trying to sound dismissive
with a hollow chuckle and a 'tsk' added on the end of the
sentence for good measure.
'I've way you look at her. Your eyes light up. You
seen the
turn on that smarmy smile, and I bet the chipolata you keep
knotted in your Y- fronts stirs when Maddy's around.' BTB's
alcohol-fuelled cheeks flushed rose to match the wine.
'Don't be daft, darling.'
'And her tits.'' She whispered the word 'tits' as if it was
blasphemous. 'You're always staring at her . . . tits.' I sat
thinking. In truth, as I could well remember, Maddy did have
quite the most distracting breasts. Captivating, like tele-
visions, or what I imagine real fires were like before
technology. Chairs could be arranged around Maddy's
breasts so that people would always be pointing in the right
direction. Crowds could gather in the evenings and watch
Maddy's breasts perform in the limelight, shamelessly grab-

bing the attention of their audience. Even Maddy herself, it

seemed, would often be interrupted by them, a sentence cut

short, a song interrupted by a distracting jiggle.

BTB read my sordid mind. 'Bastard,' she said, throwing the

remainder of her Rioja over me and leaping for the door. I

hurriedly left a bundle of cash on the table and ran after her
into the oily night.
I caught up with BTB, but she refused to acknowledge me.
Spotting the same policeman I had conversed with previously, I

decided to make use of phrase numero tres, in a foolish attempt

to win BTB over again with my mastery of the local lingo.

98
 Manuel described this third phrase as a friendly colloquial-
ism and heartily suggested that I should try it out on locals in
rural Spain. On olive wrinkle-faced farmers in crumbling
brown bars, or black-cloaked, white-haired, little Spanish old
ladies, rocking gently on ancient wooden chairs in narrow
medieval back streets. Manuel went on to inform me that the
phrase could be used as a greeting, a farewell, a joke, or
simply a term of endearment.
l
Mis cojones son tan grandes como melones, y tuyos son
pequehos como los chicharos,' I said to the policeman.
The policeman punched me very hard. As consciousness
vanished, I cursed Manuel and imagined him laughing at the
bar, mixing perfect Martinis. Fading away I thought, She'll

have to look after me now. And she did. BTB sat with me in
the back of the ambulance while I was carted off to an
emergency room. Apparently I threw up a lot, but no-one
could decide whether this was due to booze or concussion.
BTB later translated. The phrase means, 'My balls are the
size of melons, and yours are the size of garden peas.'

Manuel had explained that the sentence is best said with

mucho gesticulation - big hands for melones, tiny finger and
thumb pressed together for chicharos. He said people would
love me for knowing such a funny local phrase.
'You stupid, stupid, stupid arse, Johnny.' I woke in what
looked like a tacky Brazilian soap opera. Lying on a hospital
bed in casualty while white-jacketed medical matadors
charged bull-trolleys back and forth. I was up at BTB,
staring
who provided some solace for the experimental, nouveau-
industrial music playing in my left temple. I raised my arm to
my head and noticed I was in a white robe.
'Blood and vomit,' BTB explained, shaking her head. I

knew she'd been here before, countless times. I'd made in-

eptitude and blunder an art form. She remembered the time

I'd been arrested for drunkenly digging up a sapling from a
roundabout, having forgotten to buy her a birthday present.

99
 '

She remembered missing our flight to Greece the previous

year when
I confidently drove to the wrong airport. Then

there was the time she came and collected me and Colin from
the Derby, butt-naked after we'd lost one bet too many.
'God, I'm so, so sorry. I am a bit of shit on a shoe, just like
.'
the taxi-driver said . .

'Shhh. It's OK, baby,' she stroked.

'And I fucked up everything else, just like Mr Big said I

shouldn't. And moment, that was the moment it

that was the
was all meant and I punched the por-
to fit together,
nographer, arsed Maddy and policed Colin and
—
'Shhh, baby. It's OK, you're delirious. I forgive you, for
now.'
I touched my eye and tried to brush off the flamenco
dancers who'd obviously mistaken my head for a well-sprung
floor.

'Careful, Johnny.'
'Owwww!' Christ, even through what felt like a whole roll

of bandages elastoplasted over my eye, it was agony.

'And I'm sorry about the porn.'
'But you had chicken, Johnny.' She laughed quietly.

I slipped off to sleep again, dreaming I was a fatally

wounded First World War hero, being ministered to by a

beautiful nurse, who had foolishly fallen in love with me.
Before falling asleep, I heard her tenderly whisper, 'For
God's sake, Johnny, it's just a bloody black eye. And to be
honest, you deserved it. I'm on the policeman's side; I'd have

punched you if you'd said that to me.'

I groaned theatrically.

'Ohhh, there, there, poor thing,' she whispered, kissing me

lightly on the temple.

I awoke the next day, Sunday, with my flamboyant purple,

gold and green black eye. The following day, bank holiday
Monday, we would be travelling back early in the morning.

100
 The casualty experience seemed to have restored our
balance, albeit temporarily. The Saturday-night argument
was forgotten, like so many previous drunken night-time
rows we'd had before. BTB gently nursed me through the
morning while I lapped up her sympathy. I sprawled on a
sun-lounger on the tiny white balcony of our hotel room
while BTB dabbed at my battered face with a cool flannel
that smelled of peppermint. A thin blue line of sea was just
visible in the distance, but the smell of the coast was drowned

by the city. BTB had removed my merely decorative bandage

in the morning. 'J ust a ntt l e bruising, Johnny. Nothing to

worry about.'
I checked it out in the mirror. It was an ugly purple mess. I

looked tough, with a serious don't-fuck-with-me-I've-

already-been-there face.
Eventually, BTB coaxed me into a stroll with the promise
of zero shopping and minimal sightseeing. By early after-
noon, we ended up on a bench Gaudi Park, watching the
in

Spanish walking their armies of straggly dogs, which they

encouraged to shit everywhere. It was blissful, my head
lolling in BTB's lap, the sun mixing with her fingers as they
stroked my face.

'Have you got the mobile, Johnny? I promised I'd ring

Mum today.'
A dorsal fin sliced the surface of my thoughts as she
mentioned her mother. 'Sure.' I flipped the phone open and it
beeped again. Two messages this time. I handed it over and

stood up.
'You've got messages,' she said.
'Yeah, I'll get them later. One's from you anyway, isn't it?'

'Hmm?' BTB spoke distractedly while she concentrated on

dialling. 'No, I didn't call you.'
This was vaguely puzzling but nothing serious, probably
just work calling which would have to wait until Tuesday in

the office.

101
 'One's probably the lads. They'll have just finished footy.
They're playing the Hope and Anchor this week. Or maybe
it's one of your friends trying to track you down.' We'd learnt
to share my mobile phone outside working hours for all

things social. My office seemed to appreciate that evenings,

weekends and holidays were sacred, while BTB's did not.
'Hi, Mum,' BTB, as normal, shouted into the receiver as if

it were a tin can on a string.

'I'm just off to find a loo,' I said. BTB, who was already
rattling words into the receiver at frightening speed, nodded
and waved me away regally.

Standing at the urinal, I thought about the weekend and

decided it had sort of been a success. I'd need to do some
explaining to EF&Co and the lads about my black eye. Merl
would need to be silenced about the aborted proposal, but it
had been good, all in all. Strolling back to the bench, I
watched BTB press the 'End Call' button and put the phone
down.
While I'd been away, something had changed. I tried to lie
back down on the bench and snuggle up for some sympathy,
only to find that BTB seemed to have run out of the stuff.
'Are you going to pick up your messages, Johnny? They
might be important.' BTB's voice was clipped and cold again,
as if she'd slipped back eighteen hours to the night before.
'What's up?' I asked.
'Nothing. Pick up your messages,' she insisted.
'Have you heard them?' I asked. She shot me a knowing
look and grunted huffily, turning her head away as she spoke.
I shrugged. 'They can wait. Let's head back and grab a
coffee.'

BTB reluctantly agreed, and we strolled back through the

Gothic Quarter in a confusing silence. BTB seemed to be
weighing things up. By the time we arrived at Cafe de l'Opera
in the Ramblas, she had changed her posture and was smiling
cynically at me. We slotted into the crowded Spanish bar

102
close to the window and ordered coffees. A pianist crooned
and tinkled in the corner, wearing a black shirt and blue-
lensed glasses, with a voice like velvet-coated gravel.

'All of me, why not take all of me?'

He sang in a way that seemed wise and indifferent, almost

as if he was doing it for himself. 'He's good,' I said. 'I'd love

to be able to do that.'

'Hmmmp,' grunted BTB. 'You wouldn't have the patience.'

'I would.'
'Or the persistence.'
'Would too.' I was conscious that I sounded like a child.

'And you certainly wouldn't have the skill.'

'I .'.I shut up, and mentally challenged BTB's view,

.

making a silent promise to myself. /'// show her. From now

on I'll do whatever I set my sights on - film scripts, piano
playing, nothing will stop me.
'Go on, pick up your messages, Johnny.' The phone sat

dumbly on the table.

I shrugged at her insistence, and pressed the hash button to

pick them up, smiling at BTB as she sipped her coffee and
narrowed her eyes.
'You have two messages,' came the autovoice. 'Message
one.'
'Johnny. Johnny, it's Ratty . .
.'

'It's Ratty,' I said jovially to BTB.

'. . . I hope it is nae too late. Merl says you're away to ask
the big question . .
.'

My smile turned to stone.

'What's he say?' BTB asked. I tried to think things through,

confused.
'. . . Do not fuckin' do it, Johnny. Marriage is a right load

of nonsense . .
.'

Ratty's message rang loudly in my ear. 'He says . . . er . . .

103
have you heard these messages, sweetheart?'
BTB shrugged ambiguously and turned her head away.
'. . . It's fuckin' unnatural only shaggin' one woman. Listen
to yer pal, don't do it . .
.'

I was paler than bleached paper. My nausea returned in a

sudden, heavy wave. My battered eye throbbed. Ratty was
cut short by a frantic Merlin.
'Hello, hello . . . anybody there . . . fuck, fuck . . . Ratty.'
BTB glanced at my scared eyes. Sweat blistered on my
lower lip. Stupid bastard. Stupid fucking Welsh twat, I

thought, trying badly to look calm. BTB's head turned away

again and her shoulders gently rocked. Was she laughing?
Crying? Had she heard? Did she know? I couldn't tell, I
couldn't concentrate, I couldn't believe what was happening.
I realized quickly that it was up to me to guess. I mean, she
wasn't going to admit that she'd heard about the proposal
from a sordid little Scot who thought the whole idea was
nonsense.
'Message two:'
What was I going to do? I listened to the sound of a chan-
ging room full of men clatter and grunt before . . .

'Ready? Right, one, two, three . .

.'

'Johnny's gettin' married in the morning . .

.'

The boys sang loudly. My bowels began to loosen.

'Ding-dong his life's about to end . .

.'

'Who's the other message from?' BTB's question pierced

through the singing footballers like a mace.
She must have picked the messages up back on the
bench in the park, Christ! Christ on a bloody bike!

'Johnson's proposing . .
.'

104
 Fuck, fuck, fuck . . . Every fucking body knows, fuck,
fuck . . .

'And we're supposing . .

.'

'Oh, uh . . . the lads,' I managed to stumble.

'If she says yes his life's about to end!'

Laughter, then 'Click'.

'Press hash to delete all messages.'
I pressed the button as though it were the stop switch for
an atom bomb with only nanoseconds left on the clock.
'They . . . won; they won.' I lost. 'Loo,' I mumbled, making
a sharp exit.
I tried to wash away the dilemma with cold water, but it

was stuck, irremovable. I looked at my reflection in the

mirror above the sink. My eye was a technicolour mound

mounted on my temple, and the rest of my face seemed to
have distorted oddly to account for the lump, like a latex

mask. I grabbed at the rubbery flesh and tried to push it into

shape, pull it back to what it once was, all those years ago,
when I first met BTB. Fresh-faced, young, horizon-free.
Fuck! She's just waiting. Waiting for me to say, 'Will you
mmm . .
.' and I still can't bloody say it, and she'll know I've

bottled out. Hang on, maybe she didn't hear Ratty and the

boys. Maybe she didn't pick up the messages. I tried to con-

vince myself that this made everything OK. So get a grip,

Johnny boy. I pointed aggressively at myself in the mirror. It's
gonna be just fine. I just gotta kill Merl, the fucker, then
silence Ratty and Colin and Stef and the rest of the team. . . .

And I guess they'll be in the Blue Boy now, so that's Frankie

the Abacus and . . . I guess the wives will know and . . . Fuck,
fuck, fuck, it's over. The game's up, it's all too late. I'm toast.

There's no way out. Practise, I need to practise.

105
 'Will you mmm . . . Fuck!'
'Will you mmm . . . Arrgghhh. Get a grip, Johnny.' I kept
trying in the mirror.
'Mmmm . . . me?'
'Mmmm . . . me?' I wondered if I might get away with a
mumble.
'Mmmm . . . me?' Maybe if I did it through a mouthful of
tapas.
What was I going to do? I had to ask her, but I couldn't ask
her. 'OK,' I admitted defeat to myself, 'time for plan B. Time
for the contingency proposal.' This was my only hope.
Delaying tactics - sticking my head in the sand, suddenly
fainting or feigning amnesia - all flashed through my
mind, but none of them would work. I had no choice, I had
to act.
'You OK, Johnny?' BTB asked with a sinister smile as I sat

down. She's bloody enjoying this. Enjoying me squirming

around in this slimy mess.
Gar con f I waved at the waiter. If I had to do this it would
11

be with style. My palms began to sweat. This was it. I was

about to press the big red button marked 'Do Not Push', and
from here on there'd be no turning back.
'Camarero,' BTB corrected, and the waiter magically
appeared.
'

Champagne, por fabor, camaroono,' I said firmly but

entirely incorrectly. BTB shook her head smiling.
''Cava, por favor, camarero.' She and the waiter chatted for
a few minutes in perfect Spanish. She explained that Catalan
was just a little too tricky for and anyway, everyone
her,

spoke Spanish. I didn't care, I was too distracted by the giant

butterflies that had returned to my stomach. I tried to keep
my cool, resorting instinctively to habit.
Two fours are eight. Seven fives are seventy.
Ohmigodohmigodohmigod!
The cava arrived and we supped. BTB looked at me with

106
wide eyes and a mischievous grin.

'Slangivar,' I said.

'Salud,' she said.

We raised and clinked glasses; sweat trickled down my neck.
Six twelves are fifty-four.
'What are we celebrating, Johnny?' She carried on the imp-
ish, innocent act.
Hearwegothisisit . . . Geronimoooooo!
One times one is . . . two?
'Quieres chuparme los dedos del pie? Thank you, Manuel.
Thank you, thank you for saving me from saying the 'M'
word. He had taught me a Spanish proposal to solve my
allergy.

BTB was snorting hysterically.

'What? What's the joke?' Had it all been a wind-up?
'What here? Now?' BTB asked, giggling.
'Uh ... I dunno!' Did she mean answer me or actually do
it?

'Come on, just say yes or no,' I pleaded, wanting an end to

it all.

'You just asked me if I would . .

.' BTB explained.
'Yes?' I said.
'. . . . like to . .
.' she continued.
'Yes?' I said.
'. . . suck your toes!' She laughed long and loud.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. »

'Bastard, Manuel,' I said aloud.

'Who?'
'Forget it. Listen, I'm trying to ask you to mmm . .
.'

She smiled.
'Mmmm . .
.' I kept trying.
'Mmmm . .
.' I was determined, gripping the edge of the
table.

'Say it, Johnny. Why can't you say it?'

'Mmmm . . . Mmmm . . . Oh, I dunno, it's just not in my

107
. . . my . . . er . . . my . . . er . . . thingy. You know . . . er . . .

What's that word that means knowing lots of words?'

And in that moment, in that fraction of time, that second
of ineptitude, I had won her. She collapsed, spluttering with
laughter, managing eventually to pause for breath and say,
'Vocabulary. And yes, I would love to mmmm marry you, . . .

Johnny.'
'Cameroono, mascara, mas, mascara!' I excitedly mis-
pronounced to the waiter, trying desperately to order more
champagne.

The night dissolved into a long train of golden champagne

bubbles, fizzling into our mouths, onto our tongues, into our
minds and enveloping everything that surrounded us. That
night, I was both the happiest and most terrified man in all
the world.

108
Engaged

I spent the following week in a strange, proposal-induced

coma. To warn those who haven't experienced the feeling, it

is similar in effect to falling out of an aeroplane over the

no parachute in pitch-darkness,
Atlantic at 30,000 feet with
plummeting into the middle of a freezing ocean, swimming
for thousands of miles before finding a lonely, icy-cold rock
to perch upon and await the 'big day'.
You're in a state of shock. Not the sort of shock that a nice
cup of tea or a couple of pints with the lads will sort out,
either. A deep, numb-brained confusion. You feel like a
circuit in your noddle has shorted and the same question
repeats itself over and over like a scratched CD.
'So why did I do that then?'
'So why did I do that then?'
'So why did I do that then?'
In the days that follow, you blunder about in a blurry haze,
but at certain points suffer severe moments of awareness, like

the cramps; moments of clarity, where you suddenly realize

the horrific scale and implication of the four words you have
spouted. These moments of clarity can be triggered by things
people say, things you see or do. When they come it feels as

though someone has removed a metal tray from your

stomach, the normal purpose of which is to hold up
your internal organs. With the tray missing, you feel them

109
rush towards the floor, filling up your legs and dangling
uncomfortably out of your arse. One wrong word and you've
got soggy liver in your big toe and a prickly pancreas in your
scrotum.
Anything can cause these moments and they become more
frequent as the shock wears off and your brain slowly
defrosts, like Tesco's reduced, special-offer minced beef.
Some moments have obvious triggers. Ratty is good at setting
plummeting with a question like, Och well,
i
the organs
Johnny, I suppose you've had a good life, and you picked a
fair darlin' and all, but fit're gonna dee when her rump
balloons and her titties droop like empty sacks?'
Or Colin being honest and overfrank: 'Trish says that she
shags me nowadays more for sympathy or nostalgia than
satisfaction. Says I'm like an old heavyweight after too many
comebacks: flabby, unfit and lasting less time in the ring with
every fight.''

Or my mum on the phone: 'johnny, I think the Royal

Doulton with the golden pears and silver rim is the nicest for
your list. I think it's called er the Expensive-Gaudy-
. . . . . .

Fruity-China-Arse line.''

Sprog-talk has always sent me diving to the loo. OK, I

know you aren't actually given a baby by the vicar on the

day, but everyone implies, and even seems to know, one will
come along sooner or later. I have vowed to keep my eye out
for the little crawling buggers; they're not taking me by
surprise and smothering me in soiled nappies and peach-
puree vomit.
Then there's the more obscure things, like a documentary
about natural disasters: 'The fatal power of the avalanche is

deadly for the lone skier. The slightest noise can set in motion
a chain of events from which there is no escape. Ultimately,
the skier will be engulfed in the huge hurtling weight of the
avalanche as it gathers speed. Triggered by those four seem-
ingly harmless words, "Will you mmmm . . . me?" '

110
 After Barcelona, I threw a sicky on Tuesday, and carried on
refusing to confront EF&Co for the remainder of the post-
proposal week. I feigned some unimaginative ailment, like
stomach flu, incapable of facing the office with the result of
my debut in the international video collation world.
Result: one black eye, four useless Spanish sentences that
will get you locked up, beaten up or hitched up, one fiancee.
I couldn't face the lads, either, and put off any beers and
get-togethers until the following weekend, hoping that my
swollen eye and addled brain would both regain their former
hue by then. Don't get me wrong, I hadn't changed my mind.
I mean, I'd finally asked her and I wasn't about to U-turn yet
again. But it's . . . well, it's hard to explain; it had all

happened so fast.

Do you remember sherbet-filled rice-paper flying saucers?

Well, Barcelona was like one of those, full to the brim with
pure powdered pleasure, exploding on your tongue and fill-

ing your mind with laughter. Thinking of it brought more of

a sensation to mind than a memory. Like when you jump
in a dream and just keep on going, high into the sky. Higher
and higher and then you stop. That's the feeling; that
. . .

weird, boiled adrenalin moment of in-betweenness.

But now the high was gone. Now was 'meanwhile, back in
the real world,Johnson cried'. The first person BTB rang was
Maddy: and then he asked me' - she sounded like she'd
'. . .

explode with excitement - 'you know, the question the big . . .

question.' I could hear Maddy screaming down the line from

forty feet away. 'Yes, of course you're the bridesmaid . . . Well,
I don't know about white.' They launched into an hour-long
wedding witter. 'About two hundred, I guess.' I hoped she was
estimating the age of 'No I am not pregnant
Granny Victor.
Maddy.' She giggled. was sooo romantic ... in a
'Well, it

gorgeous little cafe just off the Ramblas No, I had no idea; . . .

it was completely out of the blue.' For some reason I couldn't

quite place I spiralled further into depression.

111
 I wasn't really mentally prepared for this situation, for
being engaged. I thought I'd put the whole malarkey on hold,
thought I'd pressed the pause button, like freeze-framing a
rogue nipple on some dodgy video as a teenager. I'd tried to

extend my childhood, tried to put off another stagger

wobbly loose tooth that I was too scared
to adulthood, like a
went blurry and mad, and here I was,
to pull. But everything
back in Clapham, a husband for Chrissakes - or as good as
anyway. Husband! My God. A word used to describe people
other than myself.
Johnson Riley, film scriptwriter, superhero and husband, I

practised. It sounded knob.

Over the week, gradually trashing the clean look of the
house, I slumped further into post-proposal trauma. All I had

for company was antique pine everything, daytime TV and

Muttley, who was doing a particularly poor job of cheering
me up. In fact Muttley was sulking and skulking more than I
was. Perhaps he hadn't forgiven me for putting him in
kennels over the weekend.
We developed a slovenly routine together, Muttley and me.
BTB would wake at an illegally early hour, with a smug grin
and cat-with-cream bearing. She would bounce around the
house like an India rubber ball, singing Tigger's bouncity-
bounce song, while me and Muttley shot identical withering
looks at the too-cheerful blonde whirlwind. 'What's up, sulky
chops?' she would say.
'Mmm uh I
. .
.' I tried to excuse my sullenness without
. . .

casting doubt on the proposal.

'Let's open a nice tin of Chum - rabbit flavour, that'll

cheer you up.' She was speaking to the dog, hopefully.

Half asleep, I'd hear her natter. 'Johnny would probably
forget to feed you, wouldn't he, my little cuddle-bucket.
But we'll forgive him; he's had a traumatic time lately and
seems to have got himself trapped in the bedclothes this

week.'

112
 '

I would drift back into a dream and wake, suddenly, at the

in-between up-and-down point.
As soon as BTB had left for work, Muttley would pad
down the hall and peek into the bedroom, a hopeful look on
his beardy grey face.
'Hello, boy.' He'd take this as a 'yes' and charge into the
bedroom - out of bounds when BTB's around - wag his tail

for a polite minute or so, before flopping down and curling

up on the rug beside the bed.
Muttley was all of a year old now, but still the odd inex-
plicable puddle or stain would appear around the house. On
these occasions, Muttley would pace around the house pre-
tending to look for the pissing culprit: 'It wasn't me, must
have been someone in here . . . or maybe in the kitchen ... 7

know, Johnny, I mad bouncy blonde woman.'

reckon it's that
I'd imagined Muttley talking to me from the day he arrived.

BTB bought Muttley for me as a birthday present last year.

I think he ranks up there with the PlayStation in the chart of
presents BTB has bought me but wishes she hadn't.
PlayStation arrived several Christmases ago to shrieks of glee
from me, Stef and Colin, with whom I shared a flat at the
time.
Three weeks later, I emerged from a stinking room, strewn
with beer cans and pizza boxes. I was pale, unshaven, eyes
sunken and red, muscles wasted apart from two enormous
overdeveloped thumbs.
'Ugh,' I grunted, standing dishevelled on BTB's doorstep.
She looked scared, as if she might phone the police to rescue
her from the dangerous escaped convict at the door.
'Just off to buy a new game. Thought you might want to
come for a quick beer with me. Can't be long, though, Stef
and Col are waiti
—
'SLAM!'
BTB has never been the patient sort. A couple of weeks
later, I came home from work to find a tell-tale dust-hole

113
where the console used to live. After checking under the beer
cans and up-turning and emptying the pizza boxes, I realized
that it was gone and that I was panicking like a crack addict.
Stolen. Damn. Who to call? The police? Mulder and Scully?
- Aliens vaporize PlayStations - BTB? Of course, BTB.
'What d'ya mean you lent it to your cousin? I don't care if
he's got seven kids and has just been sacked, I want it

baaaaaack!'
I never saw it again.
So far, I've managed to keep hold of Muttley. But I've
noticed him beginning to cower when BTB gently whispers
'Battersea Dogs' Home' in his ear.

Me and Muttley have been partners in crime since the

Saturday morning he arrived. BTB had taken me somewhere
chaotic the night before to celebrate my birthday. I had a
slurred of mozzarella and ham panini in Soho, at
memory
Bar consumed as a pre-emptive anti-hangover strike.
Italia,

I'd ignored noise and movement at some horribly early time

and remained immobile under the duvet, like a boulder.

An hour or so later a lidded cardboard box was placed on
top of me. BTB stood at the end of the bed, wearing one of
her indulgent grins.Two things were strange about the box.
Firstly, moved, irregularly and noisily, and I started to
it

mentally tot up potential presents - tortoise, giant sewer rat,

the world's largest Mexican jumping bean. Secondly, for a
world-class present wrapper such as BTB, this box was a
shoddy job, with only a single blue bow tied around the out-
side. BTB would be a multiple gold-medal winner if any of

the following were Olympic sports:

Present wrapping.
Gossiping.
Networking (last count 85,002,374).
Smiling.

114
 But wrapping is her true talent. Unlike me, or Merl, or
most people I know, BTB actually derives copious amounts of
pleasure from the act of wrapping. She will happily wrap all
day and night, never tiring, but laughing, a kitten with a ball
of wool.
In the run up to Christmas it all becomes slightly excessive.

I have to subtly warn hosts at dinner parties about her

proclivity to wrap.
'Just move ornament out of arm's reach, would you,'
that
I whisper urgently to our host.
'Yes. Why?' Worried thoughts of thievery, or perhaps

severe clumsiness.
'She may wrap it from host.
up.' Surprised look
'She often wraps up indiscriminate objects at this time of
year,' I explain. 'As long as your kids don't have any

hamsters. That really was embarrassing.'

So this lurching, sparsely wrapped present on my lap was
unusual.
'Open it, open it, open it!' BTB clapped with excitement. I

didn't need to.The lid flew off and a ball of grey fluff with
too-big paws and outsized eyes leapt out of the box, landing
in a heap on my chest.
The disorientated puppy whimpered with fear, wagged its
and spun around and around before
tail tentatively settling

and looking up at me, head cocked to one side.

'It's brilliant. It's the best present I've ever had.' The puppy
slobbered on me, licking my arms and face. 'What kind of
dog is it?' I asked, looking at its gangly limbs, uneven, fluffy
fur, patched in grey and off-white, and a long muzzle that
was oddly white-bearded, even as a puppy.
'Bit of everything I think. The dogs' home picked him up

last week. What'll we call him?'

'It's a boy?'
'Think I'd let another woman under this roof?'

'What about Joe Strummer?' I tried.

115
 'Elvis?' BTB was always slightly more mainstream
musically than me.
'Hmm.' I looked at the puppy. 'He's got the sneer, but I'm
not sure the pelvic movement is up to the King.'
'Brad?'
'OK, OK, no famous names, I'm not ending up with a dog
calledBrad bloody Pitt.'
'How about Wolfie; he looks like a wolf,' BTB tried.
'A very small, soft, cute wolf. I know, I know - Muttley.'
Muttley seemed to prick up his ears and snigger like his

namesake before peeing all over my lap.

Presents can be used as a reward, a message of love or

commitment, or, as I found out, a weapon. A present finally
hauled me out of the post-proposal trauma, although not one
as fun as a PlayStation or a puppy. The other resuscitator was
Muttley, holding up a mirror, reflecting the morose, self-

centred fuckwit I'd become.

Most mornings on the lazy post-proposal week, BTB
would flap about the house like a trapped bird, turning the
Chris Balls breakfast show up full blast. BTB would mutter
ceaselessly to Muttley, who followed her around, and in my
half-asleep state was never sure whether she'd really said the
I

phrases I remembered, or if I'd imagined them. 'You know, I

think I'd rather marry you, Muttley. You're more mature,
you smell less, you're awake.' They seemed to become angrier
and louder as the days rolled through the week. 'If he thinks
I'll wander up the aisle for some pathetic child who can't

come to terms with adulthood .'

. .

Typically, me and Muttley roused ourselves at eleven or so.

We'd take a slow stroll around Battersea Park, before picking
up a video and some grazing food for an inert afternoon. I
wallowed. We wallowed. Muttley picked up on my mood
and skulked around the house, the two of us doing even the
most pleasurable things with a melancholy indifference.
I'd flick on The Godfather trilogy again, and crack open a

116
can of beer with a sad sigh, or put my feet up in the garden
in the sunshine, with a bowl of olives, a good book and a face
like a slapped arse.
Likewise, Muttley would chew a bone as if it was card-
board and sniff other dogs' backsides as if he just didn't care.
Itwas this reflected sullenness, this odd dog mimicry, that
made me realize just how pathetic I was being. The reality is
that me and Muttley are winners in Loserville. We are
emperors of the underdog world. Muttley had escaped the
dog's own version of death row and ended up with caring,
considerate owners, who, currently at least, did not respond
to his partial bladder control with a sack in the canal.
Similarly, I had bagged a winner. As a failed almost-been,
with a foie-gras liver and a dead-end job, I had somehow

managed to persuade a delectable Delilah to meet me at the

altar.

We were lucky consorts, me and Muttley. We were Butch

Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the way I'd always imagined
them as a child. In innocent youth I refused to even consider
the possibility that the two heroes were all shot to hell by
Mexican saw them shoot-
soldiers in the final scene. Instead I

ing their way to freedom, singing, 'Raindrops keep falling on

your head'. Successful failures, Muttley and me.
Sort yourself out, Johnny, I told myself. I mean, I should be
happy. In some parallel universe an alter-BTB had said she'd
rather marry a lemon than an alter-Johnny. It's not so bad;
she loves me, shestill fancies me, we've a roof over our heads

and beer in the fridge. By Friday, my personal pep talk had

sunk in and I was smiling again.
But Friday was also the day BTB finally snapped. My first,
and her last, bouncy day. She returned from work in a
fury and threw a small oblong present into my lap. I waited
for it to explode, but it didn't.
I read the tag: 'Thought you might appreciate some
organizational assistance now you have a wedding to plan.

117
Use it or die, Johnny.' Inside was an electronic organizer. I

would have needed thicker skin than Colin to fail to get the
hint.

'You have the sensitivity of a buffalo.' Her lips trembled as

she spoke. Even by my standards I'd behaved like a gold-
plated tosser. BTB had tried to Tigger her way through the
week, announcing our engagement to friends and her
colleagues at work, deciding to hold off telling the parents
until a face-to-face meeting could be engineered. Gradually,
being bubbly and lively and lovable while I was morose

became too wearing.

I had sulked. Veiled, very thinly, under the pretence of a

black eye, I had sulked like a child and moped around with
Muttley like a couple of gravediggers, scooping out mud for
our own burials. I had grieved for the loss of my freedom
without a second thought for BTB. Dismantling her happi-
ness like an adult stealing Santa from the imagination of a
child.

I repeated the words 'sorry, I was a twat' three thousand

times that evening. About halfway through she began to

actually believe me. Although it wasn't much in the way of an
apology, I persuaded BTB to let me buy her a meal at the
local Italian, Bucci's, the following night.
I love Bucci's. It's not the food, which is magnificent. It's

not the decor or ambience, which are equally flawless. It's the
service. In Bucci's, I am the Godfather. I am Don Rileone -
shown to the best table and treated with awesome respect
and deference. Better yet, Bucci's have a traditional Italian

view of courting.
Stef recounted a splendid evening of maltreatment at the
hands of Bucci's recently. A month ago, the three of us -
me, BTB and - had planned a trip to the white tiles of
Stef
Bucci's to catch up on a skiing holiday that Stef was organiz-
ing for an extended group of friends. Funnily enough, they
managed to pick one of the few nights I couldn't make. In

118
fact, they always seem to pick nights I can't make.
Bucci's were brilliantly indignant at what they thought was
definitely illegal. Stef might as well have been Judas at the
supper after the last one, when the head of the table was
vacant. The owner, Carlo, obviously recognized BTB from
our countless visits together, but thought her presence as
Stefano's companion treacherous. Carlo was having none of
it. I could just imagine him ruffling his short grey hair and
twiddling his thin moustache. I laughed as Stef told me he
was treated with total disdain. He was ignored and hidden in
a dusty corner under an arch and behind an overgrown
rubber plant. His arm became weary as he had to hold it aloft
so long for service. On five occasions he was brought the
wrong order, and at least two of these incorrect dishes con-
tained offal of some description. He said he was sure the
waiters were laughing at his shiny noggin, and reckoned they
were insinuating it was due Red wine
to a lack of masculinity.
was spilt on and soup arrived with a clat-
Stef's classy clothes

ter, slopping across the marble table-top and dripping onto

his trousers.
Eventually, they left embarrassed. Stef said he'd half
expected a black Mercedes to pull up and gun him down on
the way home, walking hastilydown Lavender Hill.
It was Saturday night with BTB and, once again, I was Don
Rileone, shaking hands with the humble, welcoming Carlo,
who showed us to the best table, flicking the wrought-iron
chairs and marble table-tops with a white cloth, impatiently
beckoning waiters to help with coats, pull chairs and offer
drinks.
We were already back on the ever-present subject of
weddings by the time a Peroni for me and a G&T for BTB
had arrived. I belched.
Every second of the day, every half-hour through the night,
every phone call, everything, it seemed, revolved around the
wedding. In only a matter of days it had become our very

119
gravity. Wedding talk gave me wind. Inwardly my stomach
bubbled as we talked about dresses (£EEK), cars (vintage
Aston?), guests (several hundred), ushers (buffoons to a
man), speeches (damn lies) and on and on. Worse than that,

tasks kept landing on my

hunks of fresh-baked
plate like
olive bread. In one conversation she added DJ, band,
photographer and video.
'I know, love, I reckon your Uncle Alfie could do all four

jobs for a bellyful of mild.' I ducked as bread whistled past

my ear, landing in the tiramisu on the dessert trolley.

'Johnny, Uncle Alfie'll be horizontal before dinner and start

stripping at the disco, just like he did at Julie's christening.'
'See, Chris Balls, David Bailey and the Chippendales all

wrapped up in one lovely bundle.'

Lately, we were preoccupied by the ongoing ignorance of
our parents and the fact that BTB had help from all of her
girlfriends but not her own mother. Maddy had already
enlisted the support of Ruth to do hair and source dress-
makers and Trish to sort make-up. Maddy said wickedly, 'If

Trish can hide her king-size hooter, she has to be a sheer

genius with the old warpaint.' Apparently, though, there's no
substitute for a mother's support.
'We can't tell them over the phone.' BTB was going in

circles.

'OK, OK, so let's go and see your mum and dad in St

Helens this weekend and tell them face to face.' Call me a

kipper, but this seemed the most sensible plan.

'What about your parents, Johnny?'
'We'll tell them over the phone, or go and see them,' I said.

'But they haven't even met each other.'

'So.' I considered this a positive. Why risk the possibility of
conflict?
'Johnny, my mum and dad are traditional. For a start, Dad
will have expected you to ask his permission, and you didn't.'

'He'd have said no,' I interrupted.

120
 'He wouldn't,' BTB said half-heartedly.
'Would.' I was emphatic. I had thought of this prior to

Barcelona. A couple of times, when my nerves got too

jiggered, I'd even considered it a possible escape route.
'Well . .
.' BTB knew this was true.

'He'd have said, "Over my dead body, yer shitebag. An' if

yer want her, we can fight." Or something.'

BTB protested while I imagined trying to ask her father's

permission:

J pictured him in the darkness of his office, taking appoint-

ments and accepting gifts from the local community. I was
next in line.

BTB's father seems to have stuffed olives into his

'Next.'
cheeks and set his mouth in a down-turned grimace. One day,
I promise myself, I will be Don, I will hold the respect of the
family in my palm like a key.
'Don Donnelli, it is I, Johnny Rileone.' The Don nods,
holds his sneer and tilts his head back, pushing his chin out
and peering down his nose at me ominously.
down, Johnny.' He wheezes his words painfully
'Sit

through a barrel chest and Grappa'd vocal chords.

'Don Donnelli, it is with respect that I come to you today
and graciously ask for the hand of your daughter. The Don '

holds his expression, outstretches his arms and slowly stands.

I cautiously walk towards him and he brings my head to his

chest gently.
'Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. ' andThe old Don sounds tearful
emotional. 'I knew your father in the old country. The
Rileone family and the Donnelli family, we go back, we have
respect. He places his hands on either side of my face, clasp-
'

ing it close to his own. 'You, Johnny, are like a son to me, and
a brother, and a leetle puppy dog. He kisses me on the fore- '

head. 'And it is because of the love and respect I have for you
. . . that I have to kill you . . . myself

121
 'And my parents haven't met Janet and Henry yet.' BTB
was still on the same subject when I gratefully returned to the
real world.

'Ugh.' Not one again. Whenever BTB discussed our

this

two sets of parents - collective noun 'an interference of

parents' - I had visions of trench warfare with bayonets and
mud.
'They'll meet on the . . . well, they'll definitely meet . . . you
know, at the . .
.'

'For God's sake, Johnny, how much practice do you need

to get over this wedding dyslexia? We are getting married.
Repeat after me, Johnny - married?
'Mmmm . .
.' I said with a constipated grunt. She laughed,
even though I frustrated her.
'Who was the lead guitarist of the Smiths?'
'Johnny Marr.'
'Just the surname.'
'Marr.'
'Say the word "weed" without the "w".'
'Eeed,' I said.

'Good boy. Now put them together.'

'EeedMarr,' I mumbled stubbornly.
'Johnny,' she cautioned, 'stop being a child.' Behind her
smiling eyes I could see the defiant Donnelly glint, reminding
me that much more nonsense would result in violence.

'Marr . . . eeed,' I said.

'Now try it out in a sentence.' I spotted Carlo passing by.

'Carlo.'
'Yes, Johnny.' Carlo bowed gracefully. He had me sussed as
a sucker for service.
'We are getting marr . . . eeed, marr-eed.'
'Marr-eed.' Carlo rolled his 'r's which made all the differ-
ence to the coherence of the word.
'Marr-eed. Married. Splendido. Questo matrimonioV he

122
shouted to his sons. 'Presto, Luca, vai a prendere lo
champagne per celebrare.' Carlo clicked his fingers excitedly
at his sons. I didn't expect this result from saying 'marr-eed'.
Carlo and his family nearly brought the restaurant to a stand-
still for half an hour while he patted me on the back, kissed
BTB on each cheek approximately ten times and fed us
complimentary champagne. I watched BTB blossom in the
attention; she watched me retract in the same light.

I enjoyed the break in planning but, yet again, we were

doing something as a direct consequence of the big 'M'. It

was as though an all-powerful God was mapping our every

move towards the day. When we surfaced for air, I tried,

unsuccessfully, to steer us towards a subject other than

weddings.
'So, it's the Blue Boy after this. All the gang are there
and—'
'What about telling the parents together at Christmas?'
'Hmm?' This sounded like a bad concoction. Christmas
and a vast interference of parents. At least it was a few
months away.
'I thought we'd do our own thing like . .
.' Look after a
spooky hotel in the mountains, go mad, chase each other
with axes - where I'd get to say 'Here's Johnny' a lot.
'Yes, that's perfect, Christmas. They'll all meet and then we
can tell them the news. Perfect.' Perfect! I thought. Since
when did perfect translate into suffering a trauma worse than
waking up to discover that you've accidentally put your
bollocks in the Moulinex?
'OK,' I said quickly, with little thought for the con-
sequences.
'Good, that's all agreed then.'
'Mmm.'
'Now what about the — ' I knew this would be more bloody
planning and had to intervene.
'Did I mention we're meeting the gang in the Blue Boy at

123
half ten?' had to keep trying to turn the talk from all-
I

invasive wedding speak to something less likely to give me

indigestion.
'Four times, Johnny. What's the matter with you, for God's
sake? It's as if you're not interested in this damn wedding.
Christ, Johnny!' BTB's eyes flickered had memories of and I

Barcelona. What was it with BTB, rows and restaurants?

.' But I started it in the first place, I wanted to say,
'But I . .

but showed rare restraint. I'd popped the question. That's all

I'm supposed to do. Job done. Now it's over to you, your
mum and my mum and your friends and whoever the hell else
comes out of the woodwork - is there a wedding fairy? -
when there's a wedding to organize.
'But I am interested,' I lied.

'You started this in the first bloody place,' she snapped.

'Err, yeah, but . .
.'

'So no bloody walking away, Johnny. You've started this

and you'll finish it.'

Fuck, I thought, pushing my whitebait around the plate so

quickly it looked like they were swimming.

124
Sonar, Sharks and Microwaves

You could guess they were together, but it wasn't obvious. In

the blue gloom of the pub the friends had segregated them-
selves in that ancient way - men at the bar, women at
the table. The Blue Boy was an average pub, modelled in the
style-free Seventies with fitted carpet, green velvet seat covers
and dark overvarnished wood.
Colin and Merlin muttered, with half an eye on a third-
division match on the TV. Ratty was jittery as he shoved coin
after coin into the fruit machine next to them, swearing
regularly. The three wore the usual mixture of jeans, shirts and

sweatshirts. Merlin, a bit bolder in colour, a bit less obvious by

brand; Colin, slightly scruffier, a tracksuit instead of jeans and
a badly hidden belly overhang beneath a checked shirt; Ratty,

always with a thought for shag potential, the smartest of the

three and the only clean-shaven one.
Beneath the surface, this pattern would continue. The two
over-settled, horizon-free men would probably not have put
on clean pants for the evening; they certainly wouldn't have
considered the aesthetics of those pants over their crustiness,
as Ratty would.
'Och, you friggin' shitebag bastard.' Ratty kicked the fruit

machine.
'Oi, Ratty,' Frankie the Abacus shouted half-heartedly
from behind the bar.

125
 'Set sixty-three years after the original, but still with the
prime directive and . .
.' Colin's hushed tone suggested a self-

awareness that he was being an anorak.

'And still on the Enterprise?'
set

'Well now, hang on there, Merlin. You see, there've been

five Enterprises. The original was number one seven zero
one, which was destroyed in . .
.' Colin patted his belly when
he spoke on a subject he knew.
'Fuck's sake, why did I no' hold the melons, fuckin' eejit.'

Ratty swore to himself, before turning to join Merlin and

Colin at the bar. 'Yer not still talkin' about Star Trek. Jesus!
Who's fer a drink?'
They nodded, holding up their glasses.
'I'll check if the girls want a top-up. Hey, d'ya think they'se

two lassies a' the back are wi' the guys playing pool?' Only
Ratty still had a fully operational sixth-sense pulling sonar.
'Who?'
'Where?'
Ratty held up his hands, palms forward, realizing his mis-
take.
'Just forget it. Go back to yer Trekkie bollocks. When's
Johnny arriving?'
'Hour or so,' Merlin mumbled.
Ratty shook his head and walked towards Ruth and Trish,
huddled together at a table nursing drinks, immersed in
whispers.
'Drinks, ladies?' Ratty always spoke to Trish's nose. 'Never
seen a more sexual nose in aw ma life,' he would say
enviously to Colin.
'I'm fine for now thanks, Ratty.' Trish shook her defiant
red sprawl of hair.
'Me, too,' said Ruth. The pair paused for the minimum
possible time to answer the question. If Ratty had been alert,

he would have noticed the similarity between the two sets of

girls - Ruth and Trish and the two schoolgirls - straddling

126
the age range. Both close, both touching and tactile, both
aware of every minute gesture, continually and unconsciously
reading each other's body language.
'Do youse ken if they'se lassies are wi' the lads playing
pool?' Ratty cut in rudely.
'Hmm?' The pair looked up, surprised, as though released
from some hypnotic trance by a click of the fingers.
'The two lassies
—
Ratty pointed, but by now it was too
'

obvious and the schoolgirls were giggling self-consciously.

'They don't look old enough to be in here, let alone .'
. .

Trish peered across the pub snootily.

Ratty had already turned and was walking back to the bar.

'Jesus! OAPs. Not old enough. Old

Friggin' couples, like
enough tae drink, tae fuck, tae tak it up the arse,' he said to
himself. 'Same again for the lads, no girlie drinks. Cheers,
Frankie.'
Frankie nodded to Ratty as he polished his glasses method-
ically.

'What the hell are those two yappin' about so intensely

anyway?' Merl pointed with his pint as he spoke.
'Oh, Christ knows. Soap operas, I think.'
'Soaps! Huh, women,' joined in Colin. 'Anyway, then, in

Voyager, they're stuck ninety years from home and . .

.' Ratty
wandered off in the direction of the pool table, passing Ruth
and Trish on the way.
'And then he said J was out of shape! Can you believe it,
Ruth? He sits on that bloody sofa like a potato every day,
waiting for the porn channels to come on at night, and moans
if I go to bed early with a book.'

'Just leave him, Trish. Come and stay with me full time.'
'What about Merl?'
'He can have Colin.' They laughed together. 'Made for each
other, they are.' Trish giggled. 'The pair of them could watch
videos, play computers games and, when they get the urge, get
a hooker or, even better, a rubber doll,' she elaborated.

127
 An ear-piercing screech of laughter made them look over,

to see Ratty sat with the two girls.

'Honestly, he could be their dad,' Ruth frowned. 'How

does he do it?'

'He's like a shark. That's it, a shark. You know, Col, relent-
less like. Always up for the kill, that's Ratty.'
'If you ask me, Merl, he's more like Muttley.'
'D'you know a shark will kill, even when they've just
eaten, just for the hell of it. Programmed in. Can't help them-
selves.' They looked over, riveted by Ratty's cocky approach.
'Just like Ratty,' Merl said.
'Or the Borg. They're relentless, and they're ugly, too,'

Colin mused. 'Although I have seen Muttley hump the

floor.'

'The thing is, Col, Ratty's technique's more sophisticated

than Muttley's. You see, unlike Muttley, but like a shark,
Ratty has finely tuned his skills, like, and heightened his

and therefore his chances of success.'

senses,
'Now hang on there, Merl, he still gets rejections - loads of
'em.'
'True, but he rarely fails to home in on a shag.'
'But that's just desperate, if all he's doing is trying it on
with any old moose.'
'No, there's method in his madness, lad. Listen, Ratty has
combined a variety of techniques. Firstly' - Merl extends his
first finger, counting - 'he uses the old-fashioned numbers

routine. Just like door-to-door double-glazing reps, he racks

up the numbers. More hits, more chances. Completely relent-

less, he is.'

Colin is captivated.
'Secondly, Ratty is acutely aware of levels. In any hunting
ground - a bar, a supermarket, a car park - Ratty instantly
discounts the upper end of the shag spectrum.'
'Right,' nodded Colin.

128
 'He knows, like a maestro, that the top ten to fifteen per
cent of the women at the hunt will be too used to offers. He
calls it the savannah syndrome.'
'Like the Renault?'
'Like lions. Lions, right, might be attracted to the most
beautiful, most elegant antelope. But those buggers are the
fastest, too, see. So, instead, they'llgo after the one with three
legs if they can, for least effort.'

'Got you. So has Ratty shagged a three-legged antelope?'

'And finally, in harmony with the first and second tech-
niques, he applies the third and final failsafe.' Merlin pauses,
conscious of Colin's raised anticipation.
'Which is?'

'Which is the swiftest possible route to the kill.'

'Eh?'
'Time, right. Time is of the essence.' He paused to under-
line the gravity of the statement. 'Time is what ticks away
before the next kill. Same as the next door if you're selling
double-glazing, see. So he closes in as quickly as possible and
asks for a shag as soon as he can.'
Ratty returned to the bar. 'Fuck,' he said, dripping with the
Hooch that covered his face and shirt.

'Good technique, is it, Merl mate?' Colin laughed.

'No luck there, Ratty lad?' Merlin looked slightly
surprised.
'I wuz a bit ambitious, I s'pose. Asked for a menajatwa.'
'A what?'
'Menajatwa. You know, Froggy-style, three in a bed non-
sense. Trouble is, these days, unless it's a wee bit different, I

cannae get it up.' Ratty returned nonchalantly to the fruit

machine, entirely unaffected by the fact that he'd just asked
two teenage girls, who might be anything from fifteen to
nineteen, for sex, together, at once.
'I know it'll be hard on him, but it's for the best,' Trish
explained.

129
 'Does he know, Trish? I mean, is he expecting this?'

'You know Colin, he hardly notices anything. He's got the

emotional awareness of a dinosaur. I think he only recently
worked out was spending more time at Mum's than with
I

him. If I it'll take a good year before it sinks in.'

divorce him,
Ruth placed a comforting hand on Trish's knee, aware of
the sadness below the surface. 'I don't know, Ruth, nobody
tells you it's like this. Nobody says how it's really going to be.

It's all fairy-tale romances, strong men, beautiful children,

golden retrievers and Agas. No-one mentions Sky Sports,
beer guts, flatulence and McDonald's. No-one tells you that
the man you marry quickly deteriorates into an ape, for-
getting the power of speech and thinking a bloody bunch of
flowers will buy him out of any problem.'
'Oh, Ruth.' Tears flow freely. 'I need a tissue.' Trish sniffs.
'Just popping to the loo.'

'She all right, Col?' Merlin watches Trish dash for the
ladies'.

'Allergy.'

'Allergy? What, to you?'

'Ha bloody ha.'
'Seriously, mate, she doesn't look good. She still spending
time at her mum's?'
'Less these days, you know. It'll be fine.'

The similarity between Colin and Merlin's marriages was

their equally thin foundation. Both couples had met and
married in the blink of an eye. Merlin proposed to his teenage
sweetheart in the long bender of a post-graduation summer,
while Colin had met Trish only seven months before they'd
- the same length of time it takes to
tied themselves together
make an episode of The Simpsons, as Colin proudly
commented.
'This column'll help. More regular income, something to
focus on.'
'Not still on this wedding countdown lark, are you?'

130
 'Merl, I tried to back down, mate, honest. But the editor,
Hargreaves, he's completely hooked on the fucking wedding
thing. I sold the bastard idea too well.'
'Well I'm having nothing to do with it. I haven't seen
Johnny since he got back, and I don't think he'll ever let me
off for fucking up his Now Stef 's gone and
proposal so badly.
dropped him from the squad and you're writing a bloody
diary of his life.' Merlin rubbed his temples.
'Saw Hargreaves yesterday. I thought I could at least get
him to change the name of the column, but before I could say
anything he'd pulled out the artwork. I mean, it's good stuff.

Over the next month he's got four cartoons of a confused

groom, no expense spared. It's a big break for me. If it works,
he'll either keep it regular or build a space into their new
culture and review section.'
'Colin Carter and culture, that's a strange combination.'
'Piss off, Skunk. Anyway, what about you? Still got the call

of the wild?'
'Hmm?'
'You know, travel, writing and all that?'
'Yeah, yeah.' Merlin gazed out of the window at rain
clouding the amber streetlight outside the pub.
'One day. One day, maybe.' His gaze lowered and focused
inside the Blue Boy, coming to rest on his wife. 'Maybe not,'

he muttered.

Maddy and Stef arrived, laughing and flushed. On the other

side of the pub, Ruth and Trish raised their eyebrows and
nodded to each other, like old women.
'Shaggin' again,' Ratty said, in a matter-of-fact way.
'What, those two?' Merl's expression revealed more than a
passing interest.
'Oh aye, no strings, it just keeps Stef's balls out o' the

barrow, like.'

131
Enraged

By the time we left Bucci's our potential row had been

defused by my a dodgy
special absolute-silence technique -
method which sometimes backfires and
at the best of times,

enrages BTB into a Vesuvius-like state. We left Bucci's on

talking terms, but tepid. In fact, not even tepid, cold. I only
hoped that the solace of friends, the warmth of a Guinness
and the homeliness of the smelly, swirly pub carpet would
smother our mutual aggravation. I needed to escape the
wedding cocoon that had grown around us in the last few
days like a musty shroud. I needed to see friends, talk trivia,
drink Guinness, forget.
The Blue Boy is our local. It's important in life to have a
local. A place you can call your own. A Guinness-soaked

comfort blanket. A haven of lively barstool banter. A bar-

man, like Frankie the Abacus, who has your regular tipple
waiting for you before you even slot yourself into the
barstool cushion moulded perfectly to the shape of your butt-
cheeks. A simple, heart-warming, smoke-filled, putrid-
smelling hideaway.
The Blue Boy is a fifty-yard stagger from our front door,
and no more than half a mile from Bucci's on Lavender Hill.
Three years ago, when BTB and me were about to move in
together - or, in Granny Victor's words, 'become disciples of
Satan, living in sin like dogs' - this was a critical factor on my

132
list of things a place must possess. BTB had her list:

Central heating.
Garden (for barbecues which I was apparently supposed to
master, just like swotty Merlin Masterchef).
Too many bedrooms (to entertain huge quantities of
family and friends every weekend).
Gas stove (all the better to cook with, my dear).
Wooden floors - because, because . . .

Minimum upkeep, no potential fixing or DIY necessary (I

inherited Dad's DIY skills, which are metaphorically
similar to the flying skills of cod).
Within a taxi ride of Jigsaw, Karen Millen (Kings Road)
and other women's' money-spending emporiums
(obviously).

And I had mine:

Local pub.
Other local pub, just in case.

On that particular Saturday night I felt somehow dis-

associated from our friends in the Blue Boy. I felt like a

spectator, a ghost.
There was a slight celebratory air. People cheered, vaguely,
when we and we quickly donned our happy masks.
arrived,
Maddy squealed and ran the length of the crowded pub to
hug BTB. They giggled together like schoolgirls for a few
seconds, and BTB confirmed a night out at the local Greek
restaurant in the week. They pretended this would simply be
a cosy private retreat where they could celebrate and plan,
but I just happened to know they both fancied Michaeles, the
head waiter - 'Like a rude Ryan Giggs that you want to
butter all over,' Maddy explained vividly.
A token champagne cork popped before the lads returned

133
hurriedly to their pints. Merlin and Ratty made great, long-
winded and elaborate apologies for telling everyone I was
proposing, and pleaded for a public pardon. A few polite
questions were asked:
'When?' Trish.
'May BTB.
thirty-first.'

'Isn't World Cup qualifiers?' Merl.

that
'No, I checked.' Me.
'Tsk.' BTB.

'Where?'
'InClapham.' (News to me.)
'How?' Ruth.
'Church, Catholic. We fancy something big.' BTB (organ-
dropping news to me).
I tried desperately to prevent my facial expression from
giving away my sudden sense of fear and confusion.
Eyebrows, lips and cheeks twitched and jumped nervously,
attempting to rearrange my face into a frightened sneer. I

stared at the whirling green carpet and concentrated on

remaining calm. Thankfully, the questions stopped, and that
was the end of it. That was the extent to which the wedding
encroached on the evening. Oh joy, I thought, waiting for the
rush of freedom to kick in. Waiting. Expecting to be over-
whelmed by our friends' underwhelmedness. But it wasn't
that simple. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shrug off
my dislocation, my in-betweenness.
Watching the gang, I began to feel that I could see beneath
the collective skin, see straining vessels, see malfunctions,
lumps and pustules forming below the surface. Perhaps it was
the proposal-induced coma I'd been in for the past week, but
I felt as though we were at the beginning of some strange
group dysfunction. In retrospect, it was all there, all evident
that night in the Blue Boy. If you looked hard, if you looked
deep into pores and pits and crannies, everything that
followed for the group was there to see.

134
 .

BTB joined Trish, Ruth and Ratty, sinking into seats

around a table in the corner. Alternately, the group planned
weddings and argued about whether people should wed -
girls - or whether marriage is as natural as cloning super-

warriors - Ratty. Ratty rabbited, firing his bigoted views

through a pointed finger, trying to goad the girls into a
flushed, red-faced fight, at which point he would smile and
destroy their attack by commenting on how beautiful he
finds feisty women. Ruth had known Ratty long enough not
to rise to the bait, and coolly dismissed his views as she
would a child's. Spurning him with practised off-handedness
while she tied her hair into a French plait, sometimes even
laughing at Ratty's desperate attempts to heat the blood.
Trish was less experienced in matters Ratty. She raged, red
curls springing vigorously in time with her expletives, eyes
alight, a twitching nose entrancing Ratty as they rowed.
Colin and Merl went back to playing pool with inspired
crapness. Maddy returned to Stef and flirted outrageously,
under the pretence of attempting to win money from the
triviamachine - known as Unconquerable.
I watched BTB slot back in, as if Barcelona had been some

weird time pause and, back in reality, nothing had changed,

while I felt like Superman in Bizarro World, where everything
is slightly out of kilter. I couldn't believe that the same thing
that had made me barf and sweat and lurch was as incon-
sequential as this. To our friends, it was simply a five-minute
'cheers', a glass of champagne and something for Ratty to
have a row about.
This was what I needed. I needed anonymity. I needed to
talk about anything but m—
downed my warm champagne, stifled a retch, looked at
I

the company options and chose the pool table and trivia
machine choice at the back of the pub. Maddy, Stef, Colin
and Merl all looked as though they would be as likely to talk

weddings as Swahili.

135
 I paused at the bar for a more drinkable drink, and smiled
while I considered the benefits of having a local, being a
local, playing for the pub team and knowing the landlord.
'Aye, aye, Frankie, the usual, mate.' I nodded. He strolled

over slowly, ignored me and served an old wrinkled bloke

standing next to me at the bar.

'There you go, Harry.' Then he turned to me.

'Sorry, young man ... a pint of the usual? That'll be . . .

>'
er
'Guinness.' I sighed.
'Guinness. Right you are. Erm . . . er . . .
?' He searched for
my name.
'Johnny,' I grumbled. Three years, three fucking years,
every weekend and at least two nights a week, and fucking
Frankie still didn't know who I was.

'Winner stays on?' I gatecrashed the pool table as Colin

accidentally snookered himself behind one of Merlin's balls.
'Fuck!'
'Ha ha, Col boy, still thinking ahead as ever.' Merl cleaned
up his remaining balls and slotted the black in the top corner
with a flippant, carefree stroke, gloating while Colin
frowned.
'I had you, I should have won. I'd bloody beaten you fair

and—'
'Next,' Merlin called, with fake boredom, throwing his cue
casually onto the baize.
'I owe you a beating for that loose tongue.' I piled in the
coins and pushed the metal slot, patiently waiting for
the pool balls to trundle.
Colin ordered drinks at the bar.
'Hi, Col,same again for you and Merlin?' said Frankie.
'Yeah. Oh, plus a Guinness.'
'Right you are, Col,' said Frankie. Bollocks, I thought.
While Colin jingled the change in his tracksuit pocket and

136
clinked and fussed at the bar, Merlin lowered his voice like a
conspirator: 'I'm sorry, Johnny boy,' Merlin mumbled, 'I feel
like a right wazzock, telling Ratty, you know.' Merlin flushed
beneath his weekend bristle and kept his eyes down deep in
the baize.
'I just wasn't ... I didn't ... I don't,' he stuttered.

'Forget it, Merl,' I said, trying to provide an easy exit. 'Just

remember you owe me one, big time. No fucking around on

the stag do and I get the right of veto when you do your
speech.'
'Deal.'

We played, we chalked, we potted. Colin drifted over to

the trivia machine left of the pool table, next to the bar. He
slotted hisbody awkwardly in between Stef and Maddy, a fat
thumb between two lips.
'Why don't you go sit with Trish, Sofa boy?' goaded Stef.
'Er, I don't actually think she wants me to. Not exactly

flavour of the month.'

Maddy saw opaque eyes a glimmer of
that behind Colin's
melancholy As anchor woman in the battle with
stirred.

Unconquerable, she smiled at Colin and focused her attention

on making him feel welcome.
'OK, Colin, we're bound to beat this bloody machine now
you're here.'
'You told lover boy about your column yet, Col?' Stef was
conveniently tactless.
'Shh.' Colin frantically gestured a cutting motion across his

throat.
'So you haven't told him yet?' Stef grinned wickedly as
Colin shook his head.
'Just give us a warning, would you, mate. Don't want any
blood on you know.'
this shirt,

'Shh, boys, here comes the question: "What proportion of

murders are committed by someone known to the victim?"
'Whatever it is, it's about to go up when you tell Johnny.'

137
 Stef chuckled and Colin sighed, adding, 'That's if Trish
doesn't get in there first.'

'It wasn't just plain stupidity, you know, Johnny.' At the

table, Merlin spoke in a hushed whisper, without context.
'Eh?'
'Telling Ratty. I wasn't just being a twat; it was more com-
plicated than that.' I laughed loudly and Merlin frowned.
'Merl, don't play the post-rationalizing game with me.'
Merlin looked hurt.
'No, shh, listen.' He burrowed into his pocket for a Silk
Cut. T had to ask someone, Johnny. I mean, I know Ratty's
not exactly even, or balanced, but he . . . well, I . .
.'

'What, Merl? What's up, mate?' had been chalking my I

cue-tip for minutes, and Merlin had been lining up the same
shot for an equally long period of time. We were on hold,
freeze-framed. Something fundamental was attempting to
free itself from Merl's emotionally static brain. A fly wearily,
but eventually, tearing itself free from a sticky amber almost-

grave.
He breathed deeply and looked up. 'Are you sure?' he said,
dark eyes fixing my gaze, pulling away the tray holding up
my innards.
I paled. I staggered. My best mate, my best man. The grand
wizard who'd magicked us together in the first place with
amateur alchemy.
'Are you sure about this marriage malarkey, Johnny boy?'
he whispered.
T . .
.' I gagged. T . .
.' I couldn't answer. I threw Guinness
down my throat trying to clear blocked passages. 'Merl . . .

I,' I stuttered weakly, no conception of where my sentence or

thoughts were going. Conversely, Merlin seemed to have
become calm and certain.
'Because I'm not, Johnny.' He looked over to the far corner
of the Blue Boy, watching his wife, animated and happy in his

138
absence. 'I'm not,' he repeated. 'Everything fades,' he said
profoundly. 'I should be up a fuckin' mountain in Nepal, or
swimming with luminous eels in Papua New Guinea. But

here I am, earning enough to keep the mortgage ticking over,

commuting every day to write tacky brochure reviews of
places I've never been. Everything fades, dreams included.
Life's like a fuckin' boil wash.'
'
'
"What percentage of marriages today end in divorce?"
Maddy reeled the question off awkwardly as Colin sighed.
'All. Except the ones that end up buried under the patio, I

expect.'
I listened silently to Merl's rare monologue, wondering
how things had become so stale between him and Ruth with-
out me knowing. I remembered him telling me how they had
met - on an 18-30 holiday when he was seventeen and had
lied about his age on the form. It was his and his mate Barry's

first holiday abroad. They'd saved for months, working

nights in a Birds Eye frozen-pea plant. Ruth's pigtails had

jutted out from the head-rest in front of Merl on the coach
from and he'd recognized them straight away as
the airport,
belonging to the girl he'd fancied for years down at Snippets

on the high street. He was chained to Ruth from the moment

they arrived in Costa Crappa. While Barry shagged every-
thing that moved for a fortnight, Merl was smitten by
teatime, and had a promise of a shag back in Cardiff a fort-
night later - just as long as he behaved himself in Spain.
'You buy a new shirt, like, an' it becomes your favourite
shirt.' He whacked the ball and the target thumped off a

cushion and flew cleanly into the corner pocket. 'You love it,

you wear it. You know, you wear it as often as possible.'

Another ball cut delicately into a middle pocket. He could see
all the angles like a geometric map. 'It fades, but you love it

all the more for the comfort. It knows your body, your moods
and moves. It's forgiving.' His last ball dribbled slowly into
the top corner, leaving only the black. 'Then one day, Johnny

139
boy, one day it falls apart at the seams.' He tapped a corner
with his cue-tip. I stood in silence, holding an unsipped pint
in one hand and a cigarette turned to ash in the other. The
black rattled in the pocket, but stayed up stubbornly.
'Bollocks!'
I looked at his face. It had altered since the last time I'd
looked properly. The pale skin had greyed and given recently.
He seemed somehow smaller than I remembered him. A
missed black hurt slightly more than it should.
'Bollocks,' he said again, wearily.
'Merl, what's up?' I asked quietly as I lined up a shot. He
shook his head, turned away, cutting me off, joining the trivia

team.
'Loser!' Colin shouted, missing the atmosphere as he
would a bus.
Merlin shuffled over to Unconquerable.
'Thank God, a real man,' Maddy cooed loudly, slipping her
arm through Merlin's. Shining in the clutch of men, alive in

the innuendo of male company, Maddy seemed to instantly

fill Merlin's grey face with colour.
Colin, equally, was out of character. He, too, lowered his

voice to create the illusion of a private, quiet chat. 'So,

Johnny, I need to check something with you, buddy.' In
Colin's rhino-skin world this was extreme sensitivity. 'You
know how I've always wanted a column?'
I nodded. I'd known
this for years, and had truly hoped it

would come him some time. Like Colin himself, we all

off for
knew he needed some sort of purpose to keep him on the
rails, or more aptly, off the sofa. Something to recreate

the energy that had enticed Trish away from Eric, her banker
fiance, all those years ago. Back then, after Scunthorpe, Colin
was unstoppable at work and play, scooping and clubbing,
door-stepping and dancing. Back then, he'd wooed Trish with
poems of love and infatuation, but time had crumpled his
passion like wet paper.

140
 Over the years, there'd been talk of film scripts
and screen-
plays, novels, fiction, faction and documentaries; each fad
passing as fields through a train window. Colin was a hack.
Any imagination he'd ever had had been filed away, subbed
to death. A column would be perfect, but it was so hard to
break into the cliquey circles that controlled them.
'Well, I've been offered one. Well, sort of.' Colin, normally
the shameless braggart, spoke with uncharacteristic
humbleness.
'Wow, that's bloody brilliant, mate.' Colin gestured to me
to lower my voice as I loudly congratulated him, shaking his
hand.
'Shh, shh.' Shushing me at the pool table seemed a
strangely popular sport tonight. We carried on playing.
'Who for?' I never imagined getting such good news from
King big-head Colin would be so tough.
'The Mail on Sunday. It's just holiday cover but, you know,
if it goes well, if it works . .
.'

'Great. That's great, really. So what did you want to

check?'
'Well, it'snothing really, but you know how columns have
an angle?' He wandered over to the newspaper rack by the
bar and pulled down a couple of papers to illustrate his point.
'This guy, he's an alcoholic, on The column's called
step six.
"There's a Bear in the Room". It's an AA code - good title,
eh? Makes good reading, too, but it can be a bit depressing
when he fucks up. Last week he stole his son's piggy bank for
a bottle of vodka.' I nodded, wondering where we were
headed. 'And this woman. I hate this woman. Her husband
has left her and she just whinges about it bitterly, week after
bloody week.'
'So?'
'So you gotta have an angle, Johnny, and a good title.'

'So what's yours?'

'Well, here's the thing. I mentioned a title and subject - off

141
the top of my head, you know - but the bloody editor loves
the fuckin' thing and I can't change his mind. Course, it

doesn't need to be the truth, so I . . . well, I'm using a

pseudonym.'
'A pseudonym.' I laughed. 'You pretentious git. I know, I
know, why don't you call yourself Cardinal Colin Cock-
Spuckle, the confessions of a serial wanking priest?'
'No, you don't understand . .
.'

'Or Colin Cack's Crack Column, world-famous explorer

Colin Cack leads globe's first expedition up his own back
passage?'
'It's called "The Life of Riley".' Colin was deadpan.
'
"The Life of Riley"?' I laughed nervously. 'That's a good
one.'
Colin wasn't laughing. He shrugged and shuffled.
'The Life of fucking Riley!'
'Yeah.'
'What's it about?' I clenched my cue like a javelin. Colin
began to back away.
'It's blow-by-blow account of getting hitched from a
a
bloke's-eye view.' Colin rushed out the words - obviously
taken straight from the strap line in the column - and dashed
for the door. The trivia team looked on calmly, their unfazed
faces showing that they had expected this to happen. My cue
clattered into the door frame and splintered.
'Oi!' shouted Frankie. It took some heavyweight flirting

and fluttering from Maddy, and fifteen quid from Merl,

to calm Frankie down. Colin failed to reappear for the
remainder of the evening, like a coward.
Eventually Trish followed him home, apologizing behind
him. 'I'm sure it won't be too bad,' she said, with zero con-
viction, cheeks blazing. 'Probably no likeness to you at all,

Johnny. Silly bastard. At this rate he'll have to write a column

about a bloke's-eye view of divorce.'
Trish left as people laughed without confidence.

142
 Stef and Maddy tried to sneak off without saying good-
byes, so I decided to ruin their tryst and draw attention to
their departure.
'Bye-bye, Stefano,' I shouted. He pulled a pissed-off face.
'Seeyou at football tomorrow,' I called. Stef rubbed his bald
head and glanced at Ratty, who was still sitting with Ruth
and BTB, and then at Merl. Both men studiously ignored
him.
'Erm, actually, Johnny, you're not playing.'
'What?' This was rapidly becoming the worst night out in
living memory.
'We've got a full squad this season. Had to file the names
last weekend when you weren't around.'
'Thanks, Stef.'

'Sorry, mate, thought you had other things planned this

season. Maybe someone will drop out.'

He left with Maddy dangling drunkenly on his arm. At the

door, she suddenly pulled back and shouted, 'See you at my
place next Tuesday, Johnny.'
Bitch, I was Maddy's warped way of causing
thought. This
chaos. With one sentence she'd made Stef jealous, Ratty and
Ruth curious, and BTB suspicious. After the Spanish-bottom
incident, I was already on borrowed time, but the ancient
history of Maddy and my drunk one-nighter stung BTB even
now.
But Maddy was drunk and I wasn't about to blow cover in

the Blue Boy and open myself up to ridicule from the lads for
having piano lessons. Nor was I about to fuck up the surprise
for BTB.
BTB looked hurt. She and Ruth whispered for a while,
clocked Ratty, Merl and me on a non-stop mission to
oblivion, and decided to leave us to it and go. We elected
Ratty, as most coherent member of the group, to persuade
Frankie to have a lock-in. Amazingly, he succeeded. We
reckoned Ratty either paid Frankie, or offered him some sort

143
of deviant S&M-orientated sexual favour.
l
Go on, Frankie,
I'll tickle your testes with nettles if you do.'
'Right, a toast to the nearly-weds.' Merlin raised a glass in
the stale aftermath of a Saturday night.
'I'm no' fuckin' toastin' that,' Ratty grumbled. 'Just
another wake for a single man.'
'Ratty, for fuck's sake, lad, not everyone needs to be like
you.' Merlin's defence was weak.
'Dis'nae work. Marriage dis'nae work. Eh, Frankie, what's
the odds?'
Frankie stood, methodically drying glasses. He raised thick
grey eyebrows at the question, pushed black plastic
rectangular specs up his nose and brushed back long,
thinning, grey hair. We sipped our whiskies as Frankie
stroked his chin.
'Hello, Frankie? Anybody in there?'
'He's thinking, Merl.' It was well known to the locals that

Frankie was a bit of a sage. 'Frankie the human abacus', they

called him. He used a technique whereby he would attempt
to calculate answers to posed questions by adding and sub-
tracting the confessions of the locals at the Blue Boy.
Frankie muttered, 'An' Phil's wife pissed off with that
Dutch bloke. Arty's still going strong with his wife, but he
tries it on with Jean. Does it count if they're faithful, even
though they try not to be?' he asked.
'Yes,' I answered quickly, anything to up my chances.
'No. Does it fuck. 'At's like any guy could wander around
with his troosers round his ankles but end up classed
"happily married" 'cos he's too laupin' to get a shag.'
'Sixty per cent,' announced Frankie proudly.
'Success rate. Well, that's OK.'
'Failure. Sixty per cent likelihood to fail.'

'Oh,' I said.
'Can we talk about something else?' Merlin spoke wearily.
'You'll be shagging Maddy night 'afore the wedding.

144
You're probably shaggin' her now, doin' tag with Ronaldo
like those wrestlin' teams in spangly leotards.' Ratty's
comments were body blows to the ribcage.
Frankie looked up, wondering who the accusations were
aimed at. I shook my head, amazed at the rancidity of Ratty's
mind.
'No? So what's this "See you at my place, Johnny" all

about?' Ratty mimicked Maddy's candy-coated voice.

'Nothing.'
'Aye, fer sure.'
'Yeah, what was that about?' Even the ever-supportive
Merl turned on me.
'Nothing.' They all looked suspicious. Frankie suddenly
stopped drying the glasses, like a Mexican stand-off.
'Nothing. She's helping me with something . . . honest.'
'Sperm-count reduction?'
'Fucking hell, Ratty, why's everything have to boil down to
sex with you?'
'Eh?' Ratty looked bemused. The question simply did not
compute for him.
I tried to deflect the attention. 'Come on, Frankie, back me
up here. We can be faithful, can't we? Men can be faithful.
What are the odds?'
'Faithful?' he pondered and returned to rubbing his glasses.
'My mum and dad are still together.' I built my argument
unconvincingly.
I could see no hope of winning the row and tried to change
the subject instead.
'Listen, guess who I met on the way to Barcelona?'
'Ronaldo?' said Merlin.
'That poncey flamingo dancer who looks like a girl?' said

Ratty.
'Lord Norbert Camberly.' I spoke his name solemnly, with
the gravity and weight required.
'Who?' said Merlin.

145
 'Fat Geordie. Films. Size of a planet.' Ratty's description
was simple but sufficient.

'Sat next to me . . . Scared of flying, you know?'

'Hmm, I would be if I was that size, probably should have
gone in the hold for ballast.'
'Would he no' explode in the hold?' We all imagined the
vast Norbert Camberly exploding in a plane.

'Anyway, he asked me to send him my script,' I

exaggerated.
'Which one'sthis, now?' asked Merlin.

'Mr Saturday Night.' The only one.

'The pub landlord in Shrewsbury?' I'd given a copy to
Merlin.
'That's the one.'
'You read it?' Ratty directed the question to Merlin.
'Yup.'
'Good?'
'Er, needs work, but it's OK.'
'You mean it's shite?'

'No, no. It's . . . it's good.' Merlin turned to me and a little

flame of energy suddenly lit. 'That's great, though, Johnny

boy. Good for you, a contact. Make sure you send it. Don't
waste a chance like that; gotta take the chances in life when
they come.' Merlin wittered as the alcohol finally beat his
blood in a battle with sobriety.
'Eh-hmm.' Frankie coughed loudly. He had stopped drying
glasses again and was resting both hands on the counter,
attempting to look authoritative. 'Football, then cigarettes,
then beers, then wives . . . just ahead of religion.'

'What?' I said.

'You asked if men could be faithful, so worked out a few

I

things as well as wives, you know, to give you a bit of context.'

'Football was bottom?' It was a hopeless clutch at straws,
but I had to try.

'Top! Men are most faithful to their team, rarely change

146
their cigarette brands, do change their beers slightly more
often, but less often than their wives.'
'Men are more faithful to the beer they drink than their
wives?' confirmed Merlin.
'That's right, but they do rank more highly than God.'
'What, wives?'
'Yes. And now, gentlemen, on that note, I'll politely request
that you leave the premises, as Jean's upstairs waiting for me
in her silks.'

'Silks?' repeated Ratty, a hint of spittle vibrating in the

corner of his mouth. Frankie's wife, Jean, was built like a
Pug.
'So how long have you been with Jean?' I still searched for
hope.
'Twenty-six years.'
'Faithful?' I asked and winced, expecting the worst.
'Loyal as a dog.' A chance, I thought, a slim chance. A
Jean-and-Frankie-type chance.
'What, like sexy Underwear, silks?' Ratty was somewhere
else in the sordid recesses of his mind.
'Yes, well, for me anyway. It's the Fulham away strip.

Really gets me going, you know. Better than that Viagra

stuff.'

We left, dragging Ratty behind us, drooling uncontrollably

and threatening to gatecrash Frankie and Jean's vigorous
lovemaking with another menajatwa offer.
Fifty yards isn't far, but it's amazing how many times you
can change your mind in that distance. In between the Blue
Boy and my front door I ricocheted between a whole series of
opposites, as well as a couple of walls. I bounced un-
controllably between naively optimistic to wildly cynical,
from loyal as a pug to fickle as Ratty, blissfully betrothed to
brutally condemned. It didn't really matter, by the time I'd
fumbled haplessly with the keys, dropped them, fallen

through the front door, fallen up the stairs and into bed, I'd

147
forgotten all previous thoughts and contradictions and was
left with only the inevitable:
'Ahhhreaalllllyluvvwyouu.'
'Ssh, Johnny, you moron.'

148
Muttley's Satiated Smile

'Kill, kill!' shouted Johnny in the cold November sunshine.

'Get him off me. Get him off!' Johnny chased Muttley, who
chased Colin across the muddy pitch as the ref tried to
intervene.
'Manager pitch infringement and dog and er
. . .
.' The . .

ref blew his whistle vaguely and fumbled with his notebook.
It was the Blue Boys' third game without Johnny, with no
noticeable decline in standards.
The mud-streaked players stopped to watch a spectacle
infinitely more entertaining than their own feeble footy
efforts. They steamed and shivered, huddling together, pass-

ing bottles of water and tossing comments across the field.

Colin half ran and half hopped across the field, keeping a
good distance from Johnny, who was wearing a skiing jacket
over blue-checked pyjama trousers. Muttley was attached to
Colin's leg like a limpet.
'Kill. Kill him, Muttley!' Johnny brandished a rolled-up
Mail on Sunday containing the first 'Life of Riley' column.
The Blue Boy players began to take sides and lay bets. 'Run
for it, Cloughy,' shouted Stef.

'Get him, Muttley,' cheered Merlin. 'Fiver on the dog. Any

takers?' Muttley had grasped the wrong end of the stick and
was desperately humping Colin's leg.
"At'll be the best shag Colin's had in a wee while.' Ratty

149
sniggered, already puffing on a cigarette, slumping down in
the centre circle.
'Think we should call him off?' asked Stef, impatient to
restart.

'You fucking cock-sucker, Colin. What's this shit?' Johnny

waved the newspaper, gaining on him.
'Call off who, Stef? Johnny or Muttley?' Merlin had
wandered up from the goal line to join Stef and the rest of the
lads enjoying the show. It was the perfect vantage point, and
they swivelled in unison as Johnny, Colin and Muttley
charged around the touchline. 'Ah, the cat's here.' Stef threw
the ball at Merlin, who kept his arms crossed and his hands
pressed deep into his armpits against the cold.
'Fuck off, Ronaldo. The ground's too hard to dive.' The
ball bounced off Merlin's chest and rolled back to Stefano.
'An' you're too soft, Skunk, ya big jessy.' Smoke merged
with the cold air to cover Ratty in gold-tinted billows.
'Not exactly been his best day ever, has it?' Stef tossed the
ball in his hands as he talked.
The voices of the trio carried easily across the pitch.
'What? It's nothing, Johnny, just a column. Call Muttley off,

Johnny. God, you wouldn't know it was you. Call him off.'
Colin waggled his leg furiously, now behind the Thames-end
goal at the far end of the field.

'Whose worst day? Johnny boy's?' Merlin tugged his gloves

off with his armpits as he spoke and rubbed his hands
together for warmth.
'No, Col's. Trish moved out this morning.' Stefano said this
without emotion, sniffed loudly and spat into the mud. was
It

almost inevitable, the final step of a journey that Trish had

begun long ago.
'Oh.' Merl, likewise, had little sadness or surprise left in

him.
From behind the goal in the distance, they heard, 'He's
gonna mess up my bloody coat.'

150
 'Piss on your frigging coat, Colin. Explain this worthless
piece of shit.'
'You're taking it well considering, Merl mate.' Stef stopped
spinning the ball, turning to face Merlin.
'Considering what?'
'Trish. You know, moving in with you and Ruth.'
'You're fuckin' 'avin me on, Ronaldo.'
'Oops,' Stef said quietly.
The team fell silent and Merlin kicked the ground like a

schoolboy. 'Pass us a fag, Ratty.' Ratty stuck his hand inside

his shorts unpleasantly, digging the packet out.
The threesome were now getting closer again, coming up
to the opposite touchline, still shouting, 'It's not really you,
Johnny. Don't be ridiculous. You wouldn't know. Nobody
would know. There are only a few similarities.'
'It's called "The Life of fucking Riley", Colin, you bastard!'
'THWACK!'
Finally, Johnny had managed to get within arm's reach of
Colin and swung the paper in a powerful forehand
volley. Colin cowered and Muttley humped his heart out.

'Look at the wee bugger go.' A hint of admiration crept

into Ratty's voice.
'Wouldn't bloody know! He's called Riley, he lives in
Clapham, he works for a video company, he's the same
bloody height as me, for Chrissakes.'
'THWACK!'
'He supports the same team as me, drinks in the same pubs,
eats at the same restaurants.'
'THWACK!'
'He's getting hitched on the same frigging day as me, in the
same place, he likes the same music, drives the same car, even
wears the same pants that came free with four-packs of
Boddingtons.'
'But—'
'And, according to you, the only woman who would
151
 '

haveme would be blind, deaf and very, very, very dumb.'

'THWACK!' They were nearing a full circuit now.
'Johnny, it's not you - obviously.'
'And, supposedly, we haven't had sex since I proposed.'
'But that's tr
—
'THWACK!'
Back where they'd started, Muttley stopped humping
The surprise made the two men look down.
abruptly.
'I think he's come,' said Johnny.
Colin stared miserably at the sticky mess on his precious
camel coat, while Muttley swaggered away with a satiated
smile.
The ref restarted the game with a flourish. 'Show's over,
folks. Move along there. There's nothing to see here.'

152
Ring Rage

I stepped into a burning ring o' fire,

Iwent down, down, down and the flames went higher,

The ring of fi-re,

The ring of fire . . .

Muttley was singing in the back of the Audi. Taking the piss,

as usual. Well, actually he wasn't, was the radio, the it

motion of the car and him chewing on a chewy shoe. He just

looked like he was singing the song, which harshly summed
up my situation. I winced and clenched my wallet and
buttocks together as best I could.
BTB turned the music down as we slipped through south
London like a raindrop on a window pane. Not for me, you
understand, but because it was interfering with the hands-
free phone chat she was having with Trish. 'Oh, I know, Trish
. .Oh, you poor darling
. Well, his mother would say . . .

Yes, well actually, no .' BTB looked

that, wouldn't she . . . . .

me up and down. '. No, he's not quite that bad

. . He's . . .

here. We're on the way to buy the rings . . . Yup, the full

works . .
.'

As we followed the flow of the Thames, I tried to cut out

BTB's chat, mainly because I was filling in Trish's side of the
conversation, and didn't like what I heard. To silence her, and
take my mind off the little band of gold at the end of the

153
 '

road, I fantasized my way through south London's land-

marks.
As the upturned table of Battersea Power Station
reluctantly sank behind a bland glass tower, we passed
through the concrete mess of Vauxhall before MI5's Gothic
gateau HQ
hove into view. Banks of hidden security cameras
would be recording our approach. Inside, I suspected, would
be one of the many alter-egos of my mother-in-law-to-be.
'Ahhh, Agent Johnson seems to have resurfaced after
Operation Ringpiece. Have him gutted; he's not good enough
for my . .
.'

First Big Ben, in its ITN splendour, and then the rest of the
Houses of Parliament, slid into a patriotic picture-postcard
view. The intricate stonework and tiny mock-Gothic
windows toyed with your perspective and made the buildings
seem even more ludicrously grandiose than they really were;
a bit like the puffer-fish MPs inside.

'Order, order, order,' shouted Madam Speaker, BTB's mother.

'Does the prime minister deny Agent Johnson accepted a
diamond-encrusted gold ring as a bribe?' Gerry Donnelly
made a disarmingly good MP.
'Er . .
.' said my dad, the baffled PM. Jeers, shouting and
booing rose from the floor like rattled cattle after gunfire.

Just before Waterloo's weird, prawn-shell-topped Euro-

hub, an ambulance screeched past us and sharp-turned into
the glass and concrete of St Thomas's Hospital.
'Scalpel, Nurse Donnelly.' BTB's mum holds up a machete

for the blood-spattered Welsh surgeon. Unnervingly, it suits

her.

'Nurse, this is a delicate operation, see.' Merl was an un-

convincing doctor. 'Johnny boy's gone an' lost control of his
sphincter and we gotta replace it with this.' He held the
twenty-four-carat-gold, diamond-encrusted anal ring before
dropping it on the floor. 'Oh, shitebags.

154
I shook away my daymares as we parked on a meter next to
Gabriel's Wharf. 'Why here again, petal?' I asked BTB.

'Well, Abby at the office bought hers here' - EEEEEK,

Abby the sloane with the husband who brokes nations for a
living - 'and it's I thought you
gorgeous, and apart from that,
might want to buy me dinner to celebrate afterwards.' She
nodded in the direction of a blue-awninged bar, plastered

pleasingly with the word 'Hoegaarden'.

'Hmm, sounds good.' I licked my lips at the thought of a
cold beer. 'How about before we shop?'
'The table's not booked for an hour, Johnny.' I puzzled,
peering at the empty bar, which didn't look like the kind of
place you needed to book. With a fright, I saw the Oxo
Tower rising up behind the happy Hoegaarden bar, a vast
steel boil lance. Bloody Abby, bloody little Mrs rich tits and

her Chesterfield of a husband.

Gabriel's Wharf was a quarter-mile square of eclecticness

in thedrab grey wash of south London. Wherever you cast

your eye in this part of London, things were just not quite
right somehow. Soulless building sites, equally empty
Eighties-designed new developments, or brand-new, vacuous,
ultra-chic glass and wire. But nothing human, or lived-in,

apart from Gabriel's Wharf.

Children played on hand-carved rocking animals in the
middle of the square - a duck, a hippo and an alligator. An
odd mix of bemused tourists, skate-boarding kids, wealthy
shoppers and a knot of three or four homeless people sharing
a can of Tennent's Super were scattered across the colourful
square. Like rich velvet tassels that bring a rug to life, the
shops fringed the edges.
was pleasantly surprised. Nowhere could I see the Abby-
I

style glitzorama I was expecting. Thinking about it, my Abby

view was out-dated, formed in the big-haired, gold-dripping

Eighties. I had to admit that nowadays, while still annoyingly

155
sloaney, and still with a tightly stuffed sofa for a husband, she
had definitely become 'more Prada than Gucci, darling', as

she would say. In fact, asking BTB to describe Abby's ring

gave me hope. She had used words like 'simple' and 'mini-

malist', as opposed to 'opulent' or 'mountainous'. I calmed

myself down, remembering BTB's description of Trish's
engagement ring as 'an ice rink in a gold mine'.
BTB led us to an innocent-looking shop, with a curvy
yellow hand-painted sign above the door, giving it a craft-fair
feel. A
few warning signs were present which should have
tipped me off: the window display was beautiful and sus-
piciously price-tag free, there was a buzzer on the door and
only room for two in the shop.

Forty minutes later I'd still seen no prices. BTB and the
happy-clappy, hippyish assistant had developed a shortlist of
ten or so engagement rings, ranging from 'scary' to 'simple',
which they'd up on the counter. By now we had learned
lined
everything there was to know about diamonds and gold and
carats and clarity and cut and mounting. My credit card
cowered in my pocket. Worse still, behind the engagement
rings, a series of potential wedding rings were lined up to
match BTB's chosen ring. And even worse than that was . . .

just about to come.

'And will sir be wanting a matching wedding ring?' The
assistant grinned inanely, like some lobotomized religious-
cult devotee. BTB was already smiling in that assured
of-course-you-want-one-don't-you-my-darling-lovey-wovey-
Johnny-pants way.
'Er . .
.' I remembered agreeing to this, accidentally, some
time ago. 'I ... er . .
.' I could try 'allergy' or 'manual
labourer'. You know, 'Might slice my finger off if the ring
gets caught in the corn-chaffer down on the farm,' but these
were both bare-faced lies.

'Yes, of course,' I said. It was just a ring, after all. The

happy-clappy hippy passed me one to try on.

156
 Holy fuck! I thought, trying not to scream. There goes the
metal tray.

'I've changed my mind ... I don't think it . . . er, suits me.'

I was pale and slick, wide-eyed and staring at the married
man in the mirror with a ring on.
'Johnny, what's wrong with you? You said you wanted
one.'
I made a high-pitched nervous whimpering noise and
panicked, trying to pull the ring off my finger.

Nobody tips you off about this. Nobody tells you to watch
out for the moment you put a ring on, when suddenly you
realize what you thought was a harmless, quaint
that
tradition has clear and brutal motives. It must be similar to
the moment when kids connect a bacon sandwich with the
cute cuddly porkers they see in cartoons and Disney films.
'It suits you,' said BTB, looking suspiciously like a gaoler.

'I feel like a pigeon.'

'A what?'
'A pigeon,' I said.

'That's nice. Why?'

'Tagged, you know. Like when they tag birds and clip their
wings. Well, I feel . .
.' I noticed BTB's dagger eyes and the
happy-hippy's awkwardness, and bit my tongue.

'I've never been so embarrassed, Johnny.' We sat in the clinical

sheen of the Oxo Tower restaurant, my now flaccid credit card

feeling hopelessly inadequate and incapable of rising to the

challenge of the bound-to-be-vast food bill. Abby's ring might

have been simple but, apparently, simple doesn't come cheap.
BTB had on a plain rose-gold band with a single
finally settled

sunken diamond. I was presented with the bill, offered a part

exchange for one of my organs - kidneys, heart, liver - and
thanked God that she had steered clear of the chunky platinum
ring with diamond cluster option.
'Sorry, it just came out.' Pigeon was the least of it. Pigeon

157
 '

was the nice image that sprang to mind. The other image,
with the bounty-hunting lesbians on Harleys, would really
have upset her: Tripped by flailing bolas and slotted into a
waiting body bag. 'Bagged and tagged, ladies,' they hollered.
'Bagged and tagged? I vowed to keep the leather-clad
lesbians locked away my imagination.
in

I looked down at my lap and slipped the napkin that

covered my hand away. There it was, aaaarghhh! BTB and
the hippy-git girl had conspired against me in the shop
and fought off my complaints about the ring not suiting me,
not fitting me and just not being me (barrel scraping). I had
been forced into a 'sizing' ring, which I was to wear, like an
electronic tag, for a week or so to see how it felt (like I

couldn't fly).

'Let's see, Johnny.' I picked my left arm up with my right

arm and flopped it on the table.

'It looks lovely, darling.' I looked down at the alien hand.

'Would sir and madam more time?'
like

'Er . .
.' Do you have main courses for less than twenty
pounds a pop? I wondered.
'We 'ave some specials. As a starter, a ring of squid in chilli
oil with a salad of rocket and shavings of red pine from

Canada, and, as a main course, we 'ave the warm breast of

wood pigeon, bought live and frightened to death this morn-
ing, served on a bed of risotto rice in a piquant sauce which

is pensive.
I sighed. We ordered.
'It's all connected, you know, Johnny. You can't keep on
sticking your head in the ground.'

'What? What's all connected?' Already in the bad-books,

credit card still smarting.
'Not wanting to wear a ring, not being able to say
"marry". You're just not being honest, Johnny.'
'I am.'
'Why can't you say "married"?'

158
 'Marr-eed,' I said.

'Why don't you want to wear a ring? Because it's a sign?

Because it means you're taken, Johnny? Is that it?'
.'
'I . . . er . .

'Not so easy to pick up slappers, Johnny?'

'No . . . I . . . how could you think . .
.'

'Well, where the hell were you last Thursday? Tell me that.

'Cos you weren't with Merl or Colin or Ratty.' I wondered

whether to gamble on Stef, or whether it was a trick.
'Nowhere.' Duff answer. Her fingers drummed the table,
waiting for a better one.
'You know, just out after work.' Strictly speaking, not
quite a lie.

'Oh.'
'What do you mean, "Oh"?'
'I mean, oh how bloody convenient, Johnny. I mean, how

come it's always work? Or something vague and non-specific,

Johnny. How come?'
I could see her mind racing, see connections, sums and
equations reeling. She decided not to finish, not to make the
final assumption. No X + Y = fuck you, Johnny, for BTB.
Perhaps the evidence wasn't there, perhaps she doubted her
logic and her suspicions were unfounded, perhaps it didn't
matter and I'd already lost the game. All this because of my
reaction to a measly little band of gold.
Messing with my squid, I considered my position. I was
being pathetic, baulking at a badge. A badge that I should
wear with honour, just like I did as a teenage Madness fan,

when that little black-and-white badge took pride of place on

my Harrington jacket. Like the sad red star on my
little sec-

ond-hand leather at university, which epitomized my

stubborn idealism. Yet here I was, incapable of such a small,
simple gesture as 'I am married', T am in love'. I felt these
things but, as usual, couldn't say them. Not out loud. Not
here in the restaurant.

159
 '

How can you explain such irrational things? I mean, I

wasn't questioning me and BTB through fear of the ring, it

was just a shock. Nobody warned me. Nobody said the ring
was more than just a ring. But it is. You might as well tattoo
'Me and BTB For Ever' on your forehead. And, yes, I loved
her, yes, I wanted it to be for ever, but your mind races . . .

away with you.

Here I was, in the Oxo Tower, wearing a silver sizing ring.
So self-centred and self-conscious that I thought everyone
was looking, that everyone could tell.
'Hello, married sir, here's your pigeon. Would husband sir
like to see the dessert menu, or will hen-pecking wife be

ordering everything?' said the waiter.

'Heeellllooo, sir, your drinks.' Stunning, flirtatious
waitress. 'Oh, I see you're tagged and bagged. Too bad, I was
going to offer you no-strings sex behind the coat-stand over
there.

Of course, the reality is that nobody cares. Nobody givesa-

fuck. Nobody, apart from you, that is. And you should be
proud. Proud like a Madness badge, like a red star. Proud like
a Fulham scarf, proud like a wedding ring.

. . . And it burns, burns, burns and the flames went

higher,
The ring of fi-re
The ring of fire . . .

160
Deranged

BTB and I arrived on Christmas Eve, sliding down the M3 to

Cornwall, another rain-slicked metal slug stuck in Christmas
traffic, escaping droning London. Cars crammed with
over-Christmased parents and TV-ad hyperstressed kids,
worrying that Father Christmas will fail to meet their hopes
and greed.
BTB's engagement ring throbbed in my pocket like
uranium, hidden from the gaze of our unaware families.
Even the ever-cheery Santa's little helper BTB was dreading
this Christmas. We had created a gruesomely stressful expe-

rience, an accidental assault course. Not only was it the first

meeting of the families, not only was it Christmas, with all of

its traditional tripwires and beartraps, but, as the fairy top-
ping to this doomed Christmas tree of fun, we had decided to
announce our engagement.
It had Welsh Guards decided
to be the worst plan since the
to defend Rorke's Drift against 17 million attacking Zulu
warriors with fourteen soldiers - most of whom had one leg
or TB or were mad as minks in a cage.

Everything had started well enough. For at least a few

minutes we were all quite civil. BTB was greeted like the
long-lost daughter she was to become. Granny Victor was
sedated and non-violent. Dad was charming, giving BTB the
same guided tour she'd had several times before of the

161
 '

converted farmhouse that had been the Riley family home for
twenty years. Mum was the perfect hostess, fussing over BTB
with mugs of steaming coffee, running baths, telling her
stories about the history of the village and the friendly ghosts

and spirits she sees around the house. 'Happy spirits, my

dear. Friends from another age, returned for a visit to their

happy home.'
BTB laughed graciously, slipping me a does-she-need-
medicine look, while Mum busily rummaged through great
piles of old black-and-white photos, via which she told the
family history in a puzzling muddle of sequence, event, name
and place.
'And that's Great Aunt Edith. Now she was really fat. I
think she was the one who fell into a ditch and died because
she couldn't get out.'
BTB looked startled, and a little nauseous, as they sat on a
rug in front of a log fire. BTB idly stroked Muttley, whom I'd

been allowed to bring on the strict promise that he would

behave more like a dog than an incontinent flea-bitten rug.

Muttley, in turn, was watched with distrust from the mantel

by Wedgwood, Granny Victor's ancient, malicious, bony blue
cat.

'And this is Uncle Douglas - the one wearing the boater -

he has a metal plate in his forehead,' Mum said, as though
the plate was a complete inventory of Uncle Douglas's con-
tribution to life. 'He's with Granny Victor.' Granny Victor
huffed disapprovingly from her chair. 'That's Johnny, holding
her hand. She doted on Johnny, like a second mother
—
'Johnny-bloody-bladder-pants!' Granny Victor hollered.
I smiled, remembering the stories she used to tell me, the
long sea-walks and beach expeditions she'd lead me on as a
curious child. Before. When she was lucid and wise. Before.
When she was young, with a lead-free mind.
I played chess with Dad; mostly in silence. It was the
perfect environment for Dad. Freed from conversation by

162
the game, he could mutter the odd polite nicety without
tripping over anything complex or emotional.
'How's the old film thing going then, Johnson?' Dad, like
me, was poor on the detail. His strengths lay in the shambolic
clutter of academia - an eccentric wit, an encyclopedic
knowledge and an endearing charm.
'Fine, fine.' It was pointless elaborating and burdening Dad
with specifics that would struggle to find shelf space in his
overcrowded mind. I heard BTB 'tsk' in the background,
aware that everything was far from fine at EF&Co. Mr Big
filled my thoughts like a too-long limo, but now was not the
time to unburden my bruised dreams on the family.
'Yours?' I returned, realizing chess was also the perfect
environment for me.
'Oh excellent, excellent. Have you seen the new journal?'
Dad had retired a year ago from a research position in a
biotechnics company. Now he edited an international
academic journal, entitled Basidiomycete Genealogy and
Genotypicity. Dad was cited on the inside cover - Dr Henry
R. Riley - R for Roysten - Ph.D, M.Sc, M.I. Biochem.
Contributing Editor. Dad had devoted his entire life to the

study of genetics in mushrooms and related fungi. His life-

time achievement was widely known and well-rewarded. Dr
Henry Roysten Riley had isolated the gene which determines
the buttoniness of button mushrooms. You will have noticed
in recent years that button mushrooms in supermarkets have

become more and more buttony. Well, you have Dr Riley to

thank for the buttoniness of the mushrooms you chop into
pastas or toss into salads. I nodded at the journal and
muttered encouraging words.
'Fix that central-heating problem you had?' he asked after
moving his knight into a queen-rook pin that really pissed me
off. I'd inherited Dad's ineptitude with all things domestic
and practical, although we both made a pretence of under-
standing such things. Dad lives life through a spectroscope,

163
where unseen minutiae matter, but larger things, seen
through normal eyes, like bills, DIY and wives, are un-
manageably large.

'Yes it was the pump; it was dirty,' I BTB

said uncertainly.

was too involved in Mum's monochrome to question my

knowledge of our heating system. In reality, BTB had fixed

the heating herself, with a spanner, a book and phone in-

structions from Paddy, one of her brothers.

'And is Merlin well?' Dad had warmed to Merlin when
he'd discovered they had a shared passion for mushrooms. 'I

sent the lad a bag of the latest Lentinus edodes. Damn tasty

lot, too. Did he like them?'

'Yes,' I lied. Merlin's fake mushroom hobby sprang solely

from a passion for the magic sort, and he'd quickly realized
the value of cultivating the subject. As a student, he'd
managed to bamboozle Dad into sending him a cling-film

bag full of severe mythical hallucinogenic mushrooms called

Mexican Bastards. Merlin missed an entire term.

'Good, good. Nice lad that Merlin.' Muttley distracted us

from our chess as he loudly snuffled and snorted, licking his
balls.

'My advice would be to have him neutered,' said Dad off-

handedly.
Muttley whimpered and moved on to licking his arse.

Elsewhere, I pictured Merlin crossing his legs.

It looked like a normal, happy family scene. I warmed to
the idea of telling the families and celebrating our engage-
ment. I began to imagine an idyllic Christmas. Good food,
good wine, good humour. I pictured the two families after
our announcement, merging and mixing together easily, like

ingredients in a Christmas cake. Mothers making mince pies

in the kitchen, helping BTB plan wedding-type things. Dads
drinking brandy and smoking cigars together, standing in
front of the fire; talking politics, the importance of family
and regular bowel movements. Me sitting with a smiling

164
Granny Victor recounting stories of her and Grandpa Jonah
(who died of gout the year before I was born).
In the late afternoon, I walked BTB around Cawsand several
times with Muttley in tow, pissing promiscuously on the
crumbling sandstone cottages that tumbled towards the sea.

It was dreary and Grey seas and skies, grey eyes

drizzling.

and minds. Our white-Christmas hopes looked muted and

improbable. Muttley, as ever, caught the mood and padded
around nervously on the beach off the leash, keeping his dis-
tance from BTB and me. Normally, a visit to Cawsand and a
trip down was the doggy version of a dose of speed
the beach
for Muttley. He would loopily lope, chasing sandflies, fight-
ing seaweed monsters and biting the heads off the white
horses that charged towards him. A game of ducks and
drakes was usually ecstasy for Muttley, hopelessly chasing
pebbles bouncing between the waves. Today, on Christmas
Eve, Muttley knew the mood was bleak and kept beyond a
safety zone he'd drawn around BTB and me, choosing
instead the company of a dead seagull or some sheep shit to
roll around in.

'It'll be fine, Johnny.' BTB's eyes had absorbed the dreich

Atlantic melancholy. She gripped my hand tightly. Through
sheepskin mitts, borrowed from Mum, could feel the re-
I

assurance of her small hands. 'Don't worry, it'll all be fine.'

She reached up and kissed me gently on the cheek. A teacher

reassuring a pupil on their first school day, a mother and
child freshly back from being almost lost. A ruddy, ruffled
Granny Victor wrapping me in her pink lamb's wool cardi,
while I dripped, exhausted, on the beach, having nearly
drowned after swimming out too far.
How was it that someone as small and fragile as BTB had
become the guardian, the adult? When would I take that
responsibility? When would I lift the weight of our little
world from BTB's shoulders? Now? Once happily m d? As —
a result of a sprog or similar shock treatment?

165
 Or was this just another Johnson Riley flaw? Was I

destined to remain a shorts-wearing, mud-spattered child?

School-cap squint, replica Spitfire in hand, charging around
the house and garden, beach and park, re-enacting the Battle
of Britain. 'ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK' of the machine-
guns, fists clenched, thumbs pumping imaginary triggers.

Arms outstretched for the 'NNNNEEEEEOOOWWW' of

dive-bombing planes. 'KA-BOOM!' as a piece of Spitfire

driftwood smashed into the Nazi sandcastle.

Would this be for ever me?
BTB looked back at me, smiling. Almost, I hoped, accept-
ing me for what I was, a small boy playing on a beach. I

struggled to raise myself higher.

I watched BTB lean into the buffeting, wind and salty
wrapped myself around her, hoping I felt strong and pro-
tective. I had a sense of timelessness standing on the same

beach that I'd stood upon so often as a child. The view felt
familiar and eternal. I thought back to the countless walks
and wanders I'd had on the beach as a careering child or
sullen teenager. Stolen cigarettes and miniature whisky
bottles whipped from Dad's dresser after his travels abroad,
moping and sloping after slights in the schoolyard from pals
and first loves.
The very smells and rushing noise of the place, the sense of
salt stretching your skin, all reminded me of mulling. Mulling
over what would become of me, where I would end up. So
how right it felt, in this place, to know I would wonder no
more.
For here, I my arms against the cold,
realized, nestled in
was my future. From now on, for ever, there would be no
more mulling, no pondering and wondering. She would be
all. Childhood fantasies tumbled towards insignificance.
'Beaches remind me of childhood,' I said, staring out to
sea. I held a vivid image of Granny Victor, crouching on the
shoreline, her greying hair, still holding a hint of strawberry,

166
flicking across her face in the wind. She would painstakingly
select coloured pebbles for me to give to Mum or Dad on
their return from work or travels or holidays.

'Me, too.'
'What?' Mind elsewhere.
'Beaches remind me of childhood, too, Johnny.'
'Really?' I'd forgotten that BTB had an existence before
me. I couldn't picture her as a child. I couldn't picture BTB
before me.
'Johnny, you're not the only one you know. I feel just as un-
certain and scared as you.'
'You do?'
'Johnny, you've moped around all day. I know what's in
your head. You think that you're the victim, that you're the
only one who's suddenly been asked to grow up and become
an adult.'

'I do?' I said unhelpfully.

'What about me?' she asked.
'What?'
'I didn't ask you to ask me to marry you.'
'I . .
.' Couldn't get my head around this.

'That was one of the few things in life you've managed to

come up with on your own.'
'You could have said no,' I jabbed back.
'Really?'
'Yes, really.'
BTB nodded sarcastically at my comment and stared out to
sea. We were silent for a few seconds, only the rush of the
waves surrounded us. I licked the salt from my lips.
'Would you really have said no?' I whimpered.
BTB laughed and shook her head. You could tell she was
trying to shake her thoughts away.
'Don't be silly, Johnny, just remember that there's two of us
in shock, and the two of us have got to present a unified front
over the next twenty-four hours, or we'll be hung, drawn and

167
quartered. So snap out of it.' She smiled and gave my hand
an encouraging clinch. 'Alternatively, we could still change
our minds, you know.' As she spoke, I wondered whether
'we' didn't mean 'us' but 'her'.

'Do you want to go through with this, Johnny?' Was

really

she asking whether I had changed my mind?

'Are you still sure?' Had I changed my mind?
'Yes.'

'You would be truthful wouldn't you?'

Why did she keep chiselling and chipping away? I couldn't
help but hold the questions back to her in a mirror. Didn't she
believe me? Am I telling the truth? Is she?

'Yes,' I said again, failing to do justice to my somersaulting

mind. BTB looked puzzled, glowering hard at me, as if she
were an X-ray machine. Trying to work me out, trying to find
the facts, unsatisfied with her suspicious, superficial view.
'I don't know, Johnny. Are you really?' With those words
she drifted out of my arms and into the wind, smoke wisping
between my fingertips.

In the evening, BTB wrapped everybody's presents beauti-

fully, and anything else that wasn't mobile - Muttley just
escaped - and Mum prepared a honey-roast-ham dinner and
popped next door borrow some mustard.
to
I took the chance to carry out one of the great Riley
Christmas traditions, and trotted off to disturb Dad, hiding
under mildewed newspapers and corner-curled mushroom
journals, in his study. This was my annual mission im-
possible: 'Operation Christmas Fairy'.
In the Seventies, when my age was still a single figure,
before settling in Cawsand, the family had moved frequently
to keep pace with Dad's sparkling fungal career. But whatever
the house, Dad's studies were always other-worldly, on the
outer reaches, in the basement bowels, dusty attics or isolated
outhouses. Always on the fringes of the family, they would

168
take on the semblance of a separate place, a different, agaric
world on the edge of our own. In his study, Dad was not in,
he was out of contact, incommunicado. I suppose, with a
brat like me scampering over him like a gerbil, this was
absolutely necessary. But I often wondered if it wasn't also a
hideaway, a den that sheltered him from the cold world of
conflict and expressed feeling, in the warmth of mushrooms
and academia.
Tramping up the stairs this Christmas brought back
memories of breaching his study borders as a child, like
Vietnam-vet flashbacks - doors slamming, shouting and
cursing, and running away with the taste of my heartbeat
throbbing in my mouth. Even now, as a grown man with a
nearly-wife, I could feel my hackles rise as I approached the
final flight of stairs. I tramped loudly, trying to provide Dad
with advance warning of my approach.
As a child, it was always
was a forbidden paradise, which I

tempted to taste. Sometimes my courage would drain away

and I'd run and hide. On other occasions, I'd overcome my
fears, tunnel in and spend happy hours in a playground of

crumpled paper, curios, documents, leather-bound books,

maps made meaningless by time and a bewildering array of
strange objects.
Once, I remembered, I'd miscalculated badly. Creeping
past the kitchen, where Granny Victor chopped rhubarb to
the sound of Abba on the radio, I was so
singing 'Waterloo'
certain that the study was empty, so sure that Dad was out
somewhere, that I didn't even bother with the safety-net
token 'knock-knock'. My very motion, my every move,
betrayed my motives. Clearly trespassing, I snuck, crept and
tiptoed.
'WHAT ARE YOU DOING, JOHNSON!' Dad's younger
voice boomed as he shouted, rising from his desk, towering
above me, silhouetted against the window. I jumped out of
my skin.

169
 'ANSWER ME BOY!' I was witless and shaking. Unable to
speak, I opened the door and charged down the corridor. I

knew what would follow next.

'GET BACK HERE, JOHNSON! I'LL HAVE YOUR
GUTS FOR GARTERS!' he shouted from the threshold of his
other-world. Dad had the best repertoire of Victorian cusses
I've ever heard.

'Stone the crows, I'll pickle that child,' he muttered, as he

charged around the house after me.
'Knock-knock'. conquered the childhood
I finally

memories seeping into my mind and resumed my mission.

'Hello?' Dad's voice was rich, calm and warm. His youth-
ful temper worn down by the wind.
'It's Johnny.'
'Come in, Johnson.' The scene was familiar. Dad in tweed
and tie - always dressing for Time had softened him,
his desk.

like a malt. The texture of the tweed over the years seemed to

have entered his skin and calmed his soul. Looking at him
now, this seemed to be his time, his zenith. If we all have a
pivot at which our lives and minds are most balanced, where
before and after could not be better, then this was Dad's time.
He sat peacefully at his desk, grand and dignified, grey-
haired and bold eyebrowed. He was mellow, no longer angry;
pensive, no longer rushing.
'Hi.'

'Hello.' We both knew why I was here. This had been my

burden since was ten.
I

'So, have you bought Mum a present, then?' Dad was

hopelessly forgetful and stereotypically scatty when it came
to present-buying. The rule was that, for anniversaries, birth-

days and Christmases, a day or so before D-Day, I would

have to remind Dad - possibly pestering him three or four
times a day - and, more often than not, I'd have to buy the
present for him. This time, I'd even brought a couple of
spares with me, just in case.

170
 Over time, this had become so accepted that I felt unavoid-
ably linked to Dad's present performance. Mum, while never
entirely forgiving of Henry's absolute ineptitude, knew that
when she'd said 'yes' to his proposal, she was committing
herself to life with 'a man with an eye for a mushroom under
a microscope', and she seemed to accept this. But over the
years it her. Over time she had begun to talk of
had wearied
missed opportunities and hoped-for other lives. Her fantasies
teetered on the brink of reality.
'Yes, of course. What do you take me for?' Dad huffed.
This, too, was familiar territory. Dad's snooty how-could-
you-think-such-a-thing response had been perfected over the
years, even though, in the main, he usually hadn't bought
anything.
'You have?'
'Yes, of course. Bought it ages ago.'
'Really?'
'Yes, Johnson, really.' This was more stubborn than usual.
'Really?' I kept trying.
'Yes, that's it over there.' He pointed to an impressive-
looking box in the corner, balancing on a pile of books and
half-buried under copies of National Geographic. I smiled
when I noticed Dad hadn't outgrown another of his enduring
habits: he had wrapped the box in last year's paper. I don't
think this habit was born out of any sense of economy, or
tight-fistedness, it was simply his way of compensating for the

fact that he knew, a year later, he would forget to buy wrap-

ping paper again, and having a hoard of last year's slightly

crumpled, slightly faded stock was better than nothing.

I examined the box. For Dad, it was a large and sus-
piciously well-planned present. Perhaps his mellowed
tweediness had not only soothed his nature but reconnected
a few loose cranial wires, too?
'What is it?'

'It's perfume.'

171
 'Perfume?' I 'What kind?' I envisaged a vat
said anxiously.
of rancid out-of-date Yardley, palmed off by a nasty, stained
door-to-door salesman, like Clark, the ever-tanned
neighbour.
'Her favourite,' he said proudly.
'Favourite?' Mum's favourite and Dad's favourite would
not necessarily collide.
'You know, Crabtree and Evelyn's Lavender.' I was
impressed.
'Oh,' I said. Although this was a great achievement for
Dad, I felt a slight sense of loss. It was coming home to
like

Muttley and saying, 'Walkies,' expecting him to leap about

and pee on the and instead hearing, 'I've been, I can
floor,

look after myself, thanks, mate. Walk yourself.' Dad had

raised himself a rung up a ladder I'd always thought out of
his reach. It was sad, but it was also relevant to my situation.

It suggested that, perhaps, even I could grow up. Perhaps,

one day, I could pay a bill or organize a direct debit for BTB
and me.
But mainly I was sad. Like stockings on the bedpost, this

was a tradition I had thought would always be there. I

wondered what strange traditions, habits and eccentricities
would grow out of BTB and me and our family. . . .

'Mum seems a bit stressed-out, Dad.'

Dad shuffled his papers and twiddled a pen.
'Christmas, Johnson. Busy and all that. Lots to do. Sure
she's fine.' He picked up a black-and-white framed photo of
his father, who'd died two years ago. Grandpa was dressed
in his RAF uniform, looking dashing and film-starry.
'Shame Dad's not here.' Was he changing the subject, or
was this all connected? Dad felt loss severely, but internalized
everything. He up over time, out of sight.
let the pain build
'We all miss Grandpa, Dad.' I wanted to give him a hug,
find out more about him and Mum, about grief and
Grandpa, but extracting it was harder than sniffing out a

172
truffle. wanted desperately to ask him about the leap that
I

me and BTB were about to make, the Butch and Sundance

cliff- jump at Christmas dinner. But the stiff upper lip was in

the way, as it always seemed to be in my family. The stiff

upper lip that was represented by Grandpa and his uniform.
The stiff upper lip that had caused the emotional paralysis of
generations of men, and was still going strong today. War
had meant that Dad's dad, and to an extent Dad himself,
could never fully grieve loss; for loss was so great, so total,
during war, that if every man had stopped and paused and
broken down, then everything would have stopped. For him
and Grandpa, emotional paralysis was almost necessary. It
was, I thought, as we headed back to dinner, a tradition I
could do without, while the honey-roast ham, seasoned with
heated debates and rambling stories, was a tradition I held
altogethermore fondly. I found myself thinking what a proud
and glowing grandpa he might make.

'Johnny, Johnny, what's wrong? Wake up, Johnny.' BTB

prodded me violently with spear-like nails in the breaking
Christmas morning dawn. I retreated under the sheets and
into the dark warmth of the duvet.
In my dream it was also dawn. The sun bad begun its slow
crawl across the big skies covering the Natal valley, further

scorching the dry brown earth of Riley's Drift - the last out-
post and wedding venue for the South Wales Borderers,
B Company, 2nd Battalion.
In the distance, we could hear the drone of yet more
warrior guests, beating their spears on their cow-hide shields,
like a distant steam train, as they prepared for yet another
attack. The ushers tried to look calm and dignified in their

red uniforms.
'Cant believe you've got us in this bleedin get-up,'

complained Colin. 'What's wrong with bloody morning

suits?'

173
 ' '

'Do roll-call Sergeant Major Merlin,' I said, dusting down

my tunic and fixing my helmet. Merlin stuck his chest out,
sergeant-like, as best he could. He wore a flamboyant
moustache, like a stoat lounging on his lower lip.

'Yes sir, Lieutenant Riley, sir. Fall in, men, officer on

parade,' he shouted. The two surviving soldiers lined up.

'Jones, Private, seven one three,' shouted Sergeant Major

Merlin.
'Sir,' said Private Colin, hopping awkwardly on his one
remaining leg, using a rifle as a crutch. 'How come we're
friggin' privates and Johnny gets to be Michael bloomin'
Cainef he whispered to Ratty on his left.

'Jones, Private, seven one four.

'Aye, but I'm no' a fuckin Welshman, you understand,'

said Private Ratty.
'Shut it, Jones, and polish your dirty helmet, you slovenly
soldier.

'Actually, Sergeant, I was hoping tae get one of the brides-

maids to do that. '
Ratty grinned peri •crtedly.
Merlin ignored him. 'All present and correct, Lieutenant
'

Riley, sir.

/ picked my way through the debris of the reception and

sat on some dead Zulus in what remained of the blackened

skeleton of the chapel. Lieutenant Stefano Chard of the

Royal Engineers joined me, battle-grilled. He was bleeding
heavily from the stump of his left arm, amputated at the
elbow.
'So, you saw your first action, Riley.' Stefano's Stanley

Baker sideburns and mop-top were obviously false.

'Yes,' I said, wondering why Stef always had to be in

charge of everything.
'How do you feel, now you're married f he asked.
'Sick! Is that normal? Is that how everyone feels?' I stared
into the distance with hard-boiled eyes, unfocused, innocence
lost.

174
 1 don't know, I'm single.' Stef still had the energy to sound
arrogant.
7 didn't know.'
7 told you, Riley, I came here to build a bridge, not get

hitched, like you, you daft twat.'

Suddenly the horizon wobbled, and a wave of warrior guests
unfurled across the vista, like cards dealt from a pack. 'My God,
look, there's thousands of the bastards.' My voice wavered.
'Sing, boys. Sing like mad Welsh choristers,' shouted
Sergeant Merlin, leading the song. 'Come an' have a go if you

think you're hard enough!' he sang.

Richard Burton's rich voiceover rolled across the parched
valley with the credits. 'In the entire history of the Victoria
Cross, only 1,344 medals have been awarded for bravery and
valour above and beyond the call of duty .and only five at
. .

a wedding service

On Christmas morning, the house slipped into an ominous

wait, like a cloaking sea mist. After breakfast, everyone sat
around, twiddling and tinkering, making banal small talk.
Five minutes before the Donnellys arrived, Wedgwood rose
from his velvet cushion and slunk across the room, sound-
lessly slipping through the ajar door. A second later the

backdoor cat flap snapped.

Wedgwood was an early-warning system for incidents, his
feline senses honed not to the crude human or canine sensory
planes of noise or smell, but to atmospheres and happenings.
A barometer of events.
Five minutes later, Muttley stirred. His ears pricked up and
he began coughing way, which made him
to bark in a feeble
sound like a dog with laryngitis. The crunch of car tyres on
gravel gave the arrival away to the rest of us. BTB rushed to
the door, and I followed behind. In our wake, chaos ensued.
Til put the kettle on,' said Mum.
'I'll light the fire,' said Dad.

175
 '

'Kippers please,' shouted Granny Victor loudly, dis-

orientated as she woke from her morning nap.

'Come and meet them first.' I tried to calm the family
down.
'Of course, of course,' they muttered, as if they had
temporarily forgotten the rules.
'Poached,' shoutedGranny Victor from the lounge, while
BTB, me, Mum and Dad lined up on the front doorstep,
doing our best impression of a happy family. It felt like an
awful, stage-managed PR facade for some politician who'd
been caught with his dick in a donkey and needed the support
of his family as an emotional Arab strap.
The big Donnelly car seemed to crunch across the gravel
for ever. Even though I'd seen the car countless times before,
it never failed to frighten me, and I looked sideways to see
Mum and Dad rearing as it invaded the driveway, dwarfing
Dad's rusting Volvo. It was the kind of car that a modern-day
Grim Reaper might drive. I suppose, these days, he'd swap
his sickle for a sawn-off shotgun (which he'd probably find
in the boot where the spare tyre should be).

It was a Range Rover with shot-glass

liquid-black
windows. Gerry Donnelly's pride and joy.
'Anybody know a drug baron?' Dad muttered under his
breath, nervous wit surfacing.
Muttley slipped between our legs and sped round to the far
side of the car, out of sight, where I just knew he would be
on the Reaper-mobile, or, worst of all,
either shitting, pissing
humping Gerry Donnelly's leg in welcome. As the driver's

door opened and shut, the dog howled and tumbled head
over tail into a rhododendron bush. Gerry Donnelly didn't
know he had an audience.
'Damn ferkin' dog,' he muttered, emerging from the place
where Muttley had been.
'Why in the name of God would you want to live in a
Godfersak
—
176
 'Hello, Dad.' BTB rescued his sentence.
'JESUS!' He jumped. 'Daughter.' Mr Donnelly was dressed
in a dark suit and tie. Small and wiry, he had a charisma
contrary to his physique. In a second, his demeanour changed
and a sparkling white-toothed smile shot across his
weathered face like lightning. He opened his arms and she
ran from mine.
Gerry looked like an ex-flyweight boxer, with muscles in
unnerving places - forearms, jaw, eyes. He ran a large family,
which in turn ran a large number of businesses that required
muscles in unnerving places. The family and the business
were one and same, with only BTB, as daughter, escaping.
Jack, Paddy and Seamus, the three brothers, along with
countless uncles, ran various Merseyside businesses, includ-
ing, Donnelly's Builders and Decorators, Donnelly's Scrap
and Donnelly's Landscape Gardening. The last, a recent
arrival to the empire, had been set up by Seamus - the
uniquely gentle, slightly effete, youngest Donnelly brother.
Gerry, as father of the clan, would be presumed to be the
master of all things family. This was nearly, but not quite,
true. After hugging his daughter, Mr Donnelly walked to the
passenger door and opened it, like a private guard, holding
his arm out for Mrs Donnelly to take when she chose to step

down. A tiny, white-haired woman, dressed in black, blinked

out innocently from the dark car. Mrs Donnelly stepped
down gingerly from the Range Rover.
She had an odd conundrum of characteristics, which
travelledup and down the spiralling helices of the women in
the Donnelly clan. Mrs Donnelly was serene, yet one look
would bring her burly sons to their knees. She was quietly
loud, gently brutal, tiny but colossal. A judder ran down
my spine as I recognized the future BTB in her mother. In

the curls of her hairand jade flecks of her eyes, I could

see the same stubbornness, the same look of total calm
control that was at once real, but also disguised emotion,

177
like false eyes on an angel fish.

From an early point in my relationship with her daughter,

Ibegan to associate the Jaws theme tune with Mrs Donnelly.
She always looked at me as though I was the insignificant
bait, not the hook. I didn't fancy revealing myself as the
threat, the shark-hunter. I wasn't ready, the hull was too
leaky and the sea too rough. But the boat was chartered - we
were announcing our engagement in a matter of hours over
turkey and sprouts.
Welcomes were stilted and uncertain, like a baby's first

steps. Everyone weighed each other up cautiously. Within

seconds, odd connections began to form and a fuzzy image of
people enjoying themselves appeared.
Granny Victor was having a saner moment
In the lounge,
and Mum and Dad had flipped into host and hostess auto-
pilot. The connections were odd because they were

unexpected. Gerry's mischievous blue eyes and silver tongue

were bringing out the teenage, tittering girl in Mum - some-
thing I'd never seen before. His rough, tough, lovable-rogue
character was almost the exact opposite to her husband,
which must have been the appeal.
'My, what a grand place you have, Janet, and how could
such a scruff of a boy have a beautiful mother like yerself?'

Gerry sparkled while his wife 'tutted' and 'tsked' as she

settled herself in an armchair, next to Granny Victor's
ancient, creaking rocking chair. The cat, having weighed the
guests up from a distance, returned to his mistress silently.
'Well, Mr Donnelly,' Mum answered.
'Gerald, please.'
'Gerald! Gerry not good enough now?' muttered Mrs
Donnelly to herself, shaking her head.
'Well, Gerald, he obviously takes after his father,' Mum
smiled.
'Thank you, dear,' Henry cut in. 'Drinks anyone? Tea,
.'
coffee . .

178
 'Whisky will be fine there, Henry.' Triggering another
frown from Mrs Donnelly, who was as dedicated to temper-
ance as her husband was to drinking.
'Whisky . . . er . . . yes, of course, whisky. What a good
Dad failed to disguise his surprise at this
idea for Christmas.'
request.He looked at his watch with confusion, wondering if
we had somehow slipped past the lunchtime law that he lived
by,even on Christmas Day.
'Hmph, drought in this part of the world, then?' Gerry
drank the thimbleful of Singleton in one. Gerry could drink
whisky by the good impersonation of sobriety after
pint, do a
a bottle, but, once past the bottle mark, became a serious
hellraiser. Henry felt obliged to do the same, like a couple of

cowboys in the Wild West.

'Bleuch! Mother of Jesus, what's this awful pish yer feedin'
me here, Henry?'
Dad fretted. 'Well . . . well, it's a rather good single malt,
to be honest.' Dad also didn't know that Gerry liked a basic
blend. Bells, Grouse, J&B, Johnny Walker. Nothing acquired,
nothing complex. Something you could drink hard, fast and
often.
'None of yer fancy fine bouquets and after-note, high-
falutin shite, young Jonathon,' he'd once said to me after I

bought him a bottle of Laphroaig for his birthday.

Wedgwood, a famously unfriendly cat, behaved in an

unprecedented way, jumping on to Mary Donnelly's lap and
purring like a kitten. Granny Victor, of course, took this as
the right royal recommendation that it was, and decided that
she and Mary were of the same mould. They wittered quietly
to each other, and I strained my ears, attempting to eaves-

drop. I caught only odd words and phrases: 'rations',

'worked our fingers to the bone', 'good Christians', 'don't

know how lucky they are', 'wrapped in cotton wool'. They
seemed to be comparing moral positions and childhood hard-
ships in the same way as teenage boys compare motorbikes or

179
female conquests. More worryingly I'm sure I heard 'never
make a man of that boy', 'lazy as sin' and 'not good enough
formy daughter'. I panicked, the Jaws theme racing through
my mind. Then I realized that I couldn't attach the voices to the
phrases and concluded, with relief, that they were as likely to
come from Granny Victor about Henry, as from Mary
Donnelly about me. I laughed at the consistency of the world.
Three tumblerfuls later, Dad was slurring while Gerry had
just warmed up his tonsils. The pre-dinner present-giving was
already in full flow.
'It's a . . . pair of socks . . . with Mickey Mouse, no, no
Minnie Mouse, on them. Well, that's just great. Thank you,
Grandma.' I wandered over to Granny Victor in the time-
honoured tradition and pecked her on the cheek. Already, my
jaw ached from the effort of maintaining a false thanks-
that's-just-what-I-wanted grimace.
I suppose nothing defines the nature of individual families
better than festivals and ceremony. Christmases, birthdays,
anniversaries, births, deaths and . . . weddings. This succes-
sion of ceremonies, lined up across the generations, row upon
row in a life. Happy, sad, cele-
wonderful procession of
bratory, tragic. These are the defining moments, not the
minutiae, or the detail of the daily grind. Try to remember an
insignificant or uneventful day with your family, and com-
pare that to the clarity of your sister's wedding, your
grandfather's funeral, the birth of your daughter. These are
the moments that make a family, that make a life.

Families are fermented over years, over decades. Like

Madeira barrels for whisky, the flavour is gradually
imparted. BTB's and my mistake was simply haste. Naively,
we'd tried to mix two previously separate family ceremonies
together, violently shaking together Donnelly oil and Riley
water.
I added the pair of socks to my pile of book tokens and ties

from various aunts and uncles, a shirt and tie combo, or mis-

180
match, from Mum - pink
shirt, blue tie with waves and

gaudy goldfish swimming across it - and a massive en-

cyclopedia of mushrooms from Dad, which I was sure I'd
seen on his bookshelf only a day, or two, ago.
Up until this Christmas, I'd had a clear winner in the stakes
of worst present ever. It was from Granny Victor, a few years
earlier, after my first term as a student in Edinburgh. 'You'll
need one of these,' it said on the tag. It was a mug. Thank
God, I thought, now I'll be able to avoid trying to drink tea
by putting a tea bag in my mouth and pouring boiling water

straight from the kettle down my throat. It was a special

mug. It had a picture of a large green boat - a tug-boat, I
think - on the front and, when you filled the mug with hot
water, the hull of the tug-boatwent blue. Fan-fuckin'-tastic.
Actually, I became rather attached to the mug over the years.
It stayed with me through halls of residence to Ratty's flat in

the final year, where Merlin eventually smashed it to

smithereens using it as a golf tee for a half-eaten Big Mac at

a graduation party.
BTB's parents outdid the mug, storming straight into the
charts to take the number-one slot with a box of place mats.
They were gold-rimmed and coloured an ugly burgundy,
which surrounded poorly painted 'Famous British Battles'.
They were outstandingly crap. My parents quickly followed
their lead with a furry sheepskin hat for BTB. It looked as

though this particular sheep had died fairly recently from

sheep mange. I guessed BTB would place the shrivelled thing
on her head as frequently as she danced around the house
wearing only a boa constrictor. She could hardly bring herself
to place the hat on her head now to show how pleased she
was with her gift.

imagined the post-present catastrophe

Surveying the scene, I

as a picture place mat 'Famous British Battle' - patterned-

paper debris strewn across the room, boxes and cellophane
littered like artillery shells and bullet cases, casualties

181
everywhere, wounded by this gift and revived by the other.
I tried to work out who'd done well. Dad couldn't be more
chuffed with his brand-new coffee percolator from Mum,
about which he was childishly joyful. Months later, looking
at the Christmas photos, we noticed that the glass jug of the
coffee percolator appeared with Dad in every shot, proudly
carried like the World Cup or an OBE. As we were to dis-
cover, Dad was far more aware of the aesthetic qualities of

that jug than its practical application.

BTB seemed to have survived well. The cuddly crocodile
I'd bought her was somehow insignificant next to an ex-

pensive shiny new leather coat from her parents. As BTB

opened my present, I suddenly wished we were on our own,
secure in a family-free, log-fire and flickering-Christmas-tree
cocoon. But BTB flashed a smile at me, while her parents
raised eyebrows and Granny Victor lost it for a second,
shouting, 'Cock-cock-cockodile,' loudly. Granny Victor was
easily pleased; so long as she received an industrial-sized
crate of foul jellied fruits, her Christmas was complete.
Muttley seemed content with a catnip mouse, while
Wedgwood was bemused by a chewy shoe - 'Mixed-up, bit
embarrassing to swap them now,' said Dad. Mum loved the
Illustrated History of Lavender I'd bought her, and had a
feast of chocolates to gorge on, but seemed a little bit quiet
. . . Hang on. I realized, paling, that Mum hadn't received her
main present from Dad. Frantically, I scanned the base of
the tree, but could see no sign of a small present, let alone the
vast, party-perfume box that I knew Dad had bought. But I

needn't have worried, Dad had saved the best till last, and
was now entering from the hall. He'd kept the big present
hidden for suspense, and carried the box with ceremony, like

a birthday cake, or a diplomatic gift for some fearsome tribal

chief.

Dad peeked around the corner of the enormous box, card-

board showing under last year's tatty wrapping paper. BTB's

182
eyes up and she clapped like a child. She had a great fond-
lit

ness for the eccentric, bumbling Henry, and was now rooting
for the underdog, knowing Dad's normal form was failure on
the present-buying front.
'Happy Christmas, Janet.' Dad smiled. For some reason,
Mum's eyes had lit down.
'Hmm .' she said vaguely, hesitating with the big box on
. .

her lap.
.'
'Open it then, Janet, I've a throat like a nun's . .

'Gerry!' Mary Donnelly gagged her husband.

'Yes, go on, Janet,' said Henry, a faraway look in his eye

now, as if trying to place something.

Slowly, painfully, she unwrapped her gift, the colour peel-
ing from her face like the cheap wrapping paper from the
box. Mum's cheeks washed white, before gradually regaining
colour, then turning pink and finally settling on an angry
scarlet. Opening the box, she turned with a crooked grin to
look at her husband.
'It's perfume, Henry. How nice.' Curt, clipped, sarcastic.
'Yes, dear.'

'A whole box of perfume.'

'Yes, all different, dear. Isn't it good.'
'And where did you buy this lovely selection from, Henry
darling?'
'From . . . well ... I can't remember now.'
'It's from the catalogue shop, isn't it, Henry?' Dad's eyebrows
raised as his mind grappled with the concept of a shop that

sold catalogues. 'This is the missing perfume box.' Mum's voice

had raised an octave. I started sweating. Wedgwood left
the room, dragging his chewy shoe, and Muttley hid under the
tree.

'Anyone for sherry? Coffee perhaps?' Henry tried a feeble

distraction tactic. The men rallied instinctively behind one of

their own, wounded.
'Whisky,' said Gerry, a little too quickly.

183
 'Hmm, sherry, yes please, Dad,' I joined in over-
enthusiastically. Granny Victor eyed me suspiciously,
remembering that I'd called her precious sherry 'rancid gravy'
the year before.
'I bought this for the Red Cross ladies six months ago.'
Mum was standing now, the missing box exhumed on the
floor. She rifled through the contents, blustering, 'Ann's
Tweed, Jenny's Opium, Sandra's Poison, Ruth's Elizabeth
Arden, my Lavender Water - it's all here. It was easier, and
we got a good discount if all the ladies bought together
through the catalogue.'
Henry edged coffeeward, clasping his percolator to his
chest.
'They kept asking me where their perfume was. Oh, Henry,
really.' He'd already left when she asked nobody in par-
ticular, 'How can I ever show my face at another tombola?'
I was flabbergasted, staggered by the combination of
daring and ineptitude involved. The selection perfume box
had obviously been delivered by some anonymous innocent.
Coincidentally, Dad had collected it on the doorstep, and
opened it to magically discover the perfect Christmas present
for his wife. He had taken the box, wrapped it in jolly dan-
cing snowmen paper and presented it to Janet for Christmas.
Stunning. Taking something from someone, wrapping it and
giving it back to them ceremoniously as a Christmas present.
His only defence was the fact that, because he joined so
many book clubs, music clubs, wine clubs and gift clubs - all
of which he'd failed to keep track of - he was quite used to
having various items that he hadn't ordered delivered to the
house. He'd never read the small print, so was blissfully

ignorant of the line saying, you fail to order something

'If

from our list of dross, which deteriorates monthly, we

will send you the crappest of the crap and bill you for it

later.'

The room was quiet. Shaking my head, I couldn't think

184
of anything to say. BTB looked at me, turned to Henry and
back again, silently calculating genetic possibilities.

Sitting down to the ceremony of Christmas dinner, I

wondered why on earth we had ever thought this was a good
idea. A month ago, when BTB had suggested it as we
snuggled up, I'd had my doubts, but in the end agreed it
could be a good plan.
OK, so we we should really have told the
accepted that
parents straight away, when we touched down from my
Barcelona bruising. But we didn't. The families had never met
and, at some point, like the Second World War, we knew this
conflict would become inevitable, so we decided to do the
meeting and announcement in one go. Somehow, we had
lulled ourselves into thoughts of a cheery, sleigh-belly, tinga-
bloody-lingy Capraesque Christmas. In Clapham, we'd
imagined a Yuletide happy-families fairy tale. Christmas
would be a joyous, magical event; it would snow on
Christmas Eve, everyone would be delighted with our
engagement and Granny Victor wouldn't say 'buggeration'
over and over, like a demented parrot.
'Stuffing!' shouted Granny Victor like a foghorn.
'Crackers?' pleaded Mum, tensely, to the table, which
ignored her.

'Is the tide out then?' said Gerry Donnelly, impatiently

waving an empty wineglass.
It had the feel of a children's party. A desperate, every-man-
for-himself battle for the requisite plateful of Christmas fare.
I glanced at BTB, who had 'nightmare' written all over her
face. Was it too late, I wondered, to change our minds? Tell

the parents over the phone separately? Or maybe just call the

whole thing off?

Glancing from face to face around the table brought to
mind a feast of cannibals. I felt like a missionary preaching
from a pot-shaped pulpit roasting over the fire, preaching

185
irrelevantly to the unconvertible who drool and salivate while
my meat tenderizes. Dad demolished Mum's precious prize
turkey that she'd won at the local Red Cross raffle.

'Carve away from the bone, Henry dear.' She spoke

through gritted teeth, her cheeks scarlet from a combination
of the kitchen stove, the morning's sherry tippling, and her as
yet untamed anger at Henry's present-buying catastrophe.
'Yes, Janet dear, Henry was as ruffled as his
I am.'
crumpled tweed Christmas jacket and tartan tie. He diced the
turkey, viciously hacking hunks off the mauled carcass.
'Coffee smells good, Dad.' I tried to set him up with a
staged compliment for Mum. In the background, beneath the
hullabaloo, the 'pleuch, pleuch, pleuch' of the coffee
percolator was audible.
'Yes, lovely. What a wonderful idea for a present, Janet
dear. Really excellent.'

Pleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.

'Is that all right for you, my dear?' Henry sarcastically
thrust a tiny sliver of shredded white meat towards Granny
Victor.
'Arse-face!' said Granny Victor, like a violent Tourette's-
syndrome victim.
'Mother!' Mum paled. Mrs Donnelly nodded seriously, but
it was hard to tell whether she was agreeing with Granny
Victor or Janet Riley.
Gerry Donnelly laughed heartily and said, 'To be sure, now
pass those taters over here, would you, young Jonathon lad/
I passed them silently.

'Johnson, Dad.' BTB sighed.

'Crackers?' cried Mum for the tenth time, waggling the
battered red-foiled cardboard.
'Uh-hmm,' I confirmed. Only BTB noticed, raising a scold-
ing eyebrow.
'Mum, where are these crackers from?' My own cracker
seemed to be held together with Sellotape and kite string.

186
 'I made them from a kit,' she said proudly. I pulled my
cracker with BTB. It phutted like a dog's fart, and a small
brown wrinkled object that looked like faeces landed on my
parsnips. I prodded it with my fork, and noticed Mr and Mrs
Donnelly doing the same with their own brown things.
Granny Victor had quickly stuffed hers into her mouth and
was stretching Nosferatu fingers in the direction of BTB's
plate when Mum spotted her chewing.
'Don't eat them, Mum.' Granny Victor chomped furiously.
Every wrinkle seemed to dive into her mouth like a black
hole, pulsating and quivering as her cheeks sucked in and out
and her false teeth jabbered.
'What are they?' I asked anxiously.
'Chocolate-covered dates stuffed with marzipan. Spit it

out.' Mum had hold of Granny Victor's mouth and was try-

ing to stop her swallowing it.

'Spit it out, Mum.' Granny Victor swallowed and smiled

imperiously.
'Oh well, she ate cat food last week, so I'm sure she'll be
OK. Nobody else eat them; they're last year's crackers,' Mum
said casually, failing to acknowledge that she could have
poisoned the two families.
For a second I regretted this wasn't the case. Mass food
poisoning couldn't be any worse than telling these two, hope-
incompatible families that they were to become united.
lessly

'Ow!' I grunted as BTB kicked me for the third time under

the table. I reached for yet another top-up of Shiraz to
dull the pain and give me the courage to make the

announcement.
'What the hell's up with you, boy?' BTB's dad needed little
confirmation that Iwas a wimp, and must have presumed I'd
bitten my tongue or chipped a fingernail.
Pleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.
The percolator drip-drip-dropped in the corner, perched on
a red leather-topped table near the fire. Wedgwood watched

187
the contraption cautiously from his cushion on the mantel,
while Muttley snoozed, his head resting on the cuddly catnip
mouse.
'Nothing.' I tried to avoid eye contact with BTB, who was
staring at me like a lunatic. Every time I caught her eye, her
face contorted horribly. The first time she did this I thought
she'd accidentally eaten one of last year's stuffed dates and
was about to collapse. Gradually, I realized it was a subtle
form of code. Early translations of her facial gymnastics and
under-table kicks had proved incorrect. But I persisted like
the Bletchley Park code-breakers, trying to defeat the Nazis
and crack the infamous U-boat code, Shark.
'Are you trying to tell me you're sitting on a pineapple?' I

said, unhelpfully. BTB crossed her eyes and sucked in her

cheeks.
'You look like a whippet,' I whispered.
Pleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.
'Tell them,' BTB growled.
'Oh, I was just about to. Why didn't you say that?' I lied.

Mum and Dad were having a similar struggle at the far end
of the table. In an odd parallel, which I presumed was to do
with the mauled turkey carcass, my parents seemed deep into
their own red-faced, whispering row.
Granny Victor looked the way I imagined the turkey we
were tucking into had looked only weeks before, her cheeks
stuffed with food as she gobbled away happily to herself, the
loose skin on her neck quivering as she hard-swallowed
partially-false-teeth-chewed Christmas fare. Opposite me,
within a right-hook's reach, Gerry eyeballed me menacingly.
Pleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.
Dad, not used to Mr Donnelly's pace, had been mumbling
and swaying for the length of the meal, and had managed to
cover his tie in gravy and drop his handkerchief in his wine.
'Ferkin' amateur,' I'm sure I heard Gerry mumble in

between stories about Irish ancestors, ghosts, giants and

188
 '

family curses. BTB's father held court like a rampant Richard

Harris: 'And Cousin Connolly was struck dumb by a light-
ning bolt during a horse race that he'd won, but he never spoke
again. The village reckoned it was a deal with the devil himself.
And then there was Great Uncle Casie Donnelly. Now he was
the Wild West hero that John Wayne based that Sbootist fella
on.' Gerry was in a mischievous mood that I had seen several
times before. He was an artist, captivating an audience with
tall tales before boring of the task. To entertain himself, he

would begin to test the mettle of the group, lobbing in con-

tentious and controversial comments like mortars.

Fleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.
Mr Donnelly scanned the table like an old Gatling gun. 'So,

when're ye gonna get a real job to look after my daughter?' I

was the obvious fodder.

'Ican look after myself, thanks.' BTB instinctively
defended her self-sufficiency, but in doing so made me sound
small and irrelevant to her happiness.
'Bet you never got your hands dirty in yer life, did ye,
young Johna
—
'Johnson,' I semi-shouted, angrily. BTB glanced sideways
and could see my
jaw clenched with pent-up tension. 'I did.'
This was a reflex, and the table waited in silence while we all
wondered what I was going to say. 'I used to pick potatoes on
the local farms for pocket money.' I unearthed the muddy
recollection like aruddy King Edward. 'Up at the crack of
dawn, fingers raw by lunchtime, caked in mud, nails cragged
.' Mum's giggling stopped me from continuing to
with grit . .

elaborate my story into some epic of childhood hardship and

poverty in the Granny Victor vein.
'For a half a day.' Mum sniggered. I went scarlet, realizing

the potato memory I'd picked was badly blighted.

'At a time?' asked BTB, thinking she was helping me out.
'No, dear. Ever.' Even the stone-faced Mrs Donnelly found
Mum's answer amusing.

189
 '

Pleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.

'He was brought home in a tractor by that nice farmer over
at Yorbay, Fred Morris. Fred said Johnny was the slowest
picker he'd ever seen, apart from a young girl before the war

from Polperro, who was a bit loopy, ate the raw potatoes and
threw herself under a tractor.'

'Lazy. Told you. Sent home for shirking, was he, Janet?'

Gerry wheezed with laughter as he spoke.

'Well, that's not all, Gerald. Fred said he was . . . now, I

think his words were "a flaming Trotskyist". He said Johnny

had tried, single-handedly, to form a potato-picking union
and organize a strike at the first tea break.'
'A milksop and a militant. My God, I'm surprised you
missed the priesthood and politics as vocations, lad.' He
chuckled. 'You need a proper job, sonny. Come and work
with the Donnellys, hard-working bulls to a man, except that
young Seamus, who should've been a girl.'
'Dad,' chided BTB.
'It's true! Seamus with his bloody arty landscape balhooey.

Never thought a son of mine, a Donnelly, would grow up

a—
'Gerald Donnelly, will you be wanting me to recount a few
stories about yerself as a young lad?' Mary Donnelly was
quick to defend her own.
'Anyway, the offer's there. Work with the Donnelly boys
and we'll make a man of you yet.'

'No thanks.' I spoke through gritted teeth.

'NO?!' Gerry boomed, while I looked sheepish. BTB

stepped in to protect me, only inflaming Gerry's irritated
thoughts that I was not, as his wife kept telling him, worthy
of their daughter.
'He has a career in film, Dad.' Once again, BTB played the
grown-up, the guardian.
'Career! What sort of ponce has a career} He should come
and get a proper job in the family. Stuff his bloody career up

190
 '

his arse. Sorry, Janet,' he added quickly. My parents were too

polite to contradict the overbearing Gerald.
'Young people today, they're just work-shy, layabout
idlers.'Granny Victor joined in on her favourite subject, Why
young people today are crap.
'Damn right,' nodded Gerry. 'Layabouts the lot, young
people today. No different to the Johnny Foreigners we got in
the Fifties. Running every shop on every bloody corner, and
you lazy young people doing bugger all about it, with your
poncey, noncey advertising and films, and and and . . . . . .

landscape bloody gardening,' he ranted.

'Dad!' scolded BTB.
'Gerald Donnelly, will you not be warned, another word
against our Seamus and we'll hear more about your own
upbringing, and see just how hard you worked in your pop
band, with yer long hair and yer tight pants and yer
—
'OK. OK there, Mary, just hold your horses. Not another
word, I promise.'
But Granny Victor was too far gone. 'Young people and
darkies, all the same, lazy as the day they were born.
Wouldn't know one end of a spade from the other.' In full

flight now, Granny Victor twitched energetically.

'I'm with you, Victoria.' Gerry geed her on, winking
furiously.
'And the bloody gypsies, too, and the good-for-nothing,
layabout Irish.'

Gerry had nodded too often to stop in time, and found the
momentum carried him through to agreeing that his own
countrymen were also good-for-nothing layabouts.
Granny Victor's bright eyes danced. 'Cock sprocket!' she
said, victoriously.
Pleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.
The table was silenced, and BTB began to prod me once
again.
'Look, we've got something to say,' I said quietly. Nobody

191
 '

paid any attention. Grandma gobbled, Mary seemed to be

ticking off her husband and Mum and Dad's row spilt across
the table bedlam.
'How could you, Henry?' Mum's
face was beetroot. All
they seemed to do these days was row. I'd never questioned
whether their marriage would survive, but suddenly, with
inappropriate timing, I realized it might not.
Mum gulped at her wine.
'Christopher Columbus!' Dad swore Dickensianly.
'Go on, Johnny,' BTB whispered again.
Pleach . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.
'I say, Gerald, what do you think of the mushroom
tapenade?' Henry tried to wriggle away from his wife's anger.

'Oh, for crying out loud, Henry,' Mum moaned, banging

her glass on the table and spilling her wine.
'The wha'd'yama'flip, Henry?' Gerry shouted back.
'Tapenade.'
Pleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.
'You mean this black paste?' He pointed to a pot of goo.
'Yes, you see, it's made from a rare wild mushroom only
found
—
'Henry!' Mum was shouting at her husband.
'To be sure, Henry, I've been a bit diverted by the
Christmas dinner to try yer mushroom jam.'
A shrill pinging noise slowly drew everyone's attention to
BTB, who was repeatedly tapping her crystal wineglass with
her fork. 'We've an announcement, haven't we, Johnny.' BTB
spoke through gritted teeth as she jabbed my thigh with her
fork. I stood involuntarily and gained a clear view of the
room. Over the heads of Mum and Dad, at the opposite end
of the room, I noticed something odd about Dad's precious
coffee percolator.
'Oh, how lovely, dears.' Two glasses of wine and Mum was
drunk. Her nose rosy, her body slipping slowly under the
table. Mum had a legendary limited tolerance for alcohol.

192
 'Oh goody gumdrops, pass the tawny port time,' wittered
Granny Victor through a mouthful of broccoli.
Pleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.
'Right,' I said loudly, gaining the table's attention. With
everyone expectant, I stammered, 'I ... er ... we are . . . I'm
happy . . . yes . . . er . . . happy to announce that we are . .
.'

All eyes were on me. 'We are getting . .

.' I reverted to mental
trickery - (Johnny 'Marr .' (W)
) . . 'eeed.'

Pleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.

Mr Donnelly was the first to rant: 'Jesus, Mother of Mary
and Joseph, what in the He carried on incomprehensibly . .
.'

for a minute or two. The only words which surfaced were

things like 'ponce', 'ferkin', 'kneecap', 'no permission', 'over
my dead body' and suchlike.
Mary Donnelly was tellingly silent. Granny Victor, on the
other hand, coughed and spluttered, trying to get the word
'married' out of her full gullet, but muddled and mangled the
word into 'rammied', 'whammied' and 'rampheed', gurgling
swallow her food.
as she tried to
Muttley barked before moving away from the now brown-
stained leather table and the rapidly spreading dark puddle
on the rug in front of the fire.

Pleuch . . . pleuch . . . pleuch.

'Shouldn't there be a jug underneath the percolator to
catch the coffee?' I asked.
'Jug . . . jug . . . Ah, yes, wondered what that was for.' Dad
jumped to his feet, looking for the jug.
'Oh, Henry.' Mum sighed.
Granny Victor continued to cough and began to sound like
Wedgwood hacking up a fur-ball.
I checked Mary Donnelly's reaction. Her eyes were tightly

closed and her lips pursed, as if she were balancing a slice

of lemon on her tongue. I imagined she was thinking
Please let me wake up now. Please let my daughter marry a
normal lad, like that one Julie the hairdresser told me about

193
. . . Trevor, I think his name was. Works for Group 4.

'Urn, shall I fetch some water?' BTB was concentrating on

Granny Victor, who was still spluttering.
'By bloody Christ,' said Gerry, shaking his head.
'Someone get some water, she's in shock,' BTB said
urgently, patting Granny Victor's back as an unholy whistling
sound rose from her clogged throat.
'Mother!' shouted Mum.
'She's choking,' said Gerry, darting around the table.

Granny Victor's eyes were popping out of her head and the
veinson her temples raised and pulsed like overflowing
candle wax. Gerry Donnelly slapped her hard, full on the
back, and a half-chewed broccoli floret shot across the table
and bounced off Mary Donnelly's head. Granny Victor
inhaled heavily, croaked, 'Brockfuckle arse!' and collapsed on
the table.

194
Nice Baubles

'Right, my lovely boys, let's pull crackers, stuff ourselves silly,

snog under the mistletoe, get dreadfully drunk in front of the

Queen's speech and play truth or dare with mince pies and
port for tea.' Maddy was a Christmas princess, trussed up in

red velvet and diamante.

Maddy's alternative Christmas dinners for the 'loners' had
become almost as much of a tradition as the family gatherings
across the country that the trio of Ratty, Stef and Maddy
either avoided, or didn't have available to them as an
option.
'Nice baubles, Maddy.' Ratty smiled into Maddy's velvet-
cushioned cleavage, before nodding towards the blinking
fake silver Christmas tree balancing unsteadily in the corner.
'Well, thank you, my little Scottish dumpling.' She turned

to Stef. 'Come on, Mr Jolly, let's get you Alka-Seltzered

before Christmas turns intoone long vom-session.' Stef
groaned, while Maddy dashed off to rake around in her
and overflowing medicine cabinet.
cluttered kitchen drawers
Frank Sinatra crooned cool Christmas tunes in the
background.
This was the third year that Maddy had played Santa, and
converted her cramped Parson's Green second-floor flat into
a veritable grotto of kitsch Christmas crap. Beneath
the

superficial tinge of spray-on snow and limp straggling tinsel

195
draped around door frames and mirrors, Maddy's distinctive
taste shone through.
Her flat was a cluttered, mystical boudoir. Plush velvets
mixed with tasselled ethnic drapes, woven with glittering
beads and sequins. Patterned cushions and throws covered
the two deep sofas and single chaise longue; so much so that
any original fabrics were lost in the swathes of colour. Rustic
reds, oranges and browns combined with the textures of raw
silk and satin to create a visual heat.
Every available space - mantelpiece, table top and dresser -
was covered with ornaments and photo frames, mementoes
and trinkets. Walls, too, were crammed with posters and paint-
ings, mirrors and yet more patterned drapes. In the bay

window, overlooking the green and Maddy's favourite pulling

joint, the White Horse, Maddy kept her pride and joy: the
grand piano. Here, she captivated private audiences, or
practised songs, before letting them loose on suitable clubs,
cafes and restaurants in the West End and south London.
It was a woman's place, a pampering place. But strangely,

one that men felt at home in far more than other women. It
was all too permanently feminine for Maddy's girlfriends. All
too hedonistic. She had inherited the flat from her mad
grandmother, who Maddy reckoned was some kind of a
British Mata Hari. Maddy had preferred to add layers to the
existing embroidered, patchwork decor, rather than start
from scratch. The end result was, at once, Parisian, Russian,
Indian and oriental. But mainly, it was Maddy: exotic,
flamboyant, erotic, erratic and contradictory.
Once again, this Christmas, the guest list wrote itself.

Maddy, Stef and Ratty were the founder members of the

tradition, started when they discovered a shared lack of
family with whom to celebrate Christmas. Maddy's parents
were acrimoniously divorced, and she was expected, but
refused, to choose between them every year. Stef had grown
up to despise his father, after his mother flew back to Italy

196
with the fishmonger when Stef was a kid. 'He'd bring home
thepub dregs with him every night and expect me to respect
whichever local slapper was in his bed.' Ratty rarely dis-
cussed his past, but, over the years, they had gleaned the fact
that Ratty's mum had died in childbirth. His childhood was
spent with a bitter drunk for a father, who'd blamed Ratty
for his loss. 'Used tae beat me raw with a strap, 'fore his

lungs caved in,' he said.

Today, Stef was struggling in vain with a hangover from
hell. He had barfed in the bathroom twice already, and had
to pass the honour of carving the goose to Ratty. He coped
admirably, using cruise-liner carvery-chef skills. Typically, he
couldn't help but mutter non-stop innuendo about 'being
good with birds', 'liking a good goose' and anything at all to
do with 'stuffing'.
'So how come Col's no' here, Maddy?' Ratty dropped a
clanger.
'He's with Trish isn't . . . hand to her
oops.' She raised her
mouth, realizing her mistake immediately. 'What about his
mum and dad?' she asked desperately.
'Always go to Tenerife for Christmas. Fuck, I should have
warned you, Mads. Sorry.' Stef guiltily tripped back from his

hangover.
Maddy pounced on someone other than herself to blame.
'For God's sake, Stef, you're supposed to be his best pal. Ring
him.'
'What, now?' Stef looked confused.
'Yes, now, it'll be no use getting him over for bloody
Boxing Day, willThe poor lad's probably sat in
it? his pit on
his lonesome, having Pot Noodle for lunch and feeling as

Christmassy as a pina-bloody-colada.' Maddy pointed at the

old-fashioned telephone next to the chaise longue.
'But he eats like a horse!'
'Stefano.' Maddy pointed.
'And he farts like a horse, too.'

197
 'Ring him.' Maddy kept pointing until Stef rose and
walked to the phone. Ratty chuckled and continued carving.
'What're you laughing at?'

'Och, just thinkin' there aren't many people you take

orders fae, Ronaldo.'
'Shut it!' Stefano spat, while Maddy raised her hand to her
lips and zipped them shut in a silent gesture to Ratty to stop
him stirring.

'Yeah . . . Hello, mate, it's me . .

.' Stef spoke with a
monotone disinterest. 'Oh, yeah . . . Happy Christmas to
you, an' all that.'

'Jesus, you boys on the phone; it's painful.' Maddy tugged

her low neckline upward, conscious that Ratty was attempt-
ing to get an eyeful from his carving vantage point.
'Mind you don't hurt yourself, Ratty dear,' she said drily.
'What's that noise? . . . Scalextric? . . . Excellent.' Stef
perked up instantly. 'Who bought you that? We? Who's . . .

we? What? ... Is he there as well?' Ratty stopped carving,

and he and Maddy listened intently. 'Well bring him over,
too . . . And the Scalextric . . . Yeah, Maddy's. For a bit of
goose . . . No, not that kind . .
.' Maddy wrinkled her eye-
brows into a mild frown. Stef put the phone down and
returned to his seat. 'Pass the roast potatoes, Mads.'
'Well?' she said, as she passed the dish.
'Er, please?' Stef tried, like a little boy, unsure what
response would get him what he wanted.
'OhforGod'ssake, what's happened?' Maddy lost patience.

'Oh, well, Merlin's at Colin's place, and they've bought

themselves Scalextric'
'Why?' asked Maddy, looking concerned.
'To race with, it's the rally motor-cross version.'
Maddy sighed and adopted a Janet and John tone. 'I mean,
why is Merlin at Colin's?'
'I . . . erm ... I didn't ask.'
'How can you not ask?' Maddy shook her head in disbelief.

198
 "At'll be another marriage doun the pan.' Ratty sat down
and began to eat.

'Ever thought about a career in talk shows, Ratty darling?

You know, an Aberdonian version of Oprah or Parkinson, or
perhaps some sort of caring counselling job?' Maddy was as
hooked on insulting Ratty as he was on insulting her.
'I think there's room for a more honest line in marriage

counselling.' Stef was warming slowly. 'None of your "Why

don't you talk it through, Mr and Mrs Smith? Share your
problems, take a massage course." No, no, Dr Ratty could
just steam in with "Fuck it, don't waste your time, go your
separate ways. A partner's not for life it's for . .
.' Stef paused,
trawling his alcohol-clogged memory.
'Christmas?' Maddy asked with a giggle.
'Screwin',' Ratty stated with worrying sombreness.
'Anyway, you're wrong, boys, the pair of you.' Maddy led

a familiar charge. 'Did you know that emperor penguins

mate once in their lifetimes and reproduce every year? And,
after the females drop the sproglet penguins, the girls piss off

somewhere hot for their hols, while the boys keep the eggs
warm under their beer guts.'

'Twat-heeds,' spluttered Ratty through his goose. 'Any

creature that's fucked up its ecological niche so badly it's

below zero most of the year is bound tae be a half-wit.'

'Ratty, it simply demonstrates that nature's way can be
loyal and lifelong.'

'Thirty per cent of the seagulls in New York are gay,' said

Stef randomly.
'Aye,' Ratty agreed too quickly, before doing a double-
take, presuming his friend would be backing him up. 'Gay
seagulls, Stef? Fit planet're you on?'
'It's true. I read it in the paper.'

'Stefano, dear, Colin writes in the paper. Need I say more.'

Maddy's tone remained teacherly.
'Gay seagulls, Jesus! Anyways, Maddy, what I wuz tryin' to

199
say, 'fore His Randomness butted in, wuz that there are far
more examples of promiscuous loons shaggin' in the natural
world than penguin-type, lifetime-partner shite.'
'You mean, like chimpanzees, Ratty dear?'
'Aye, 'atdocumentary last week on BBC2, showed king
monkeys huv a whole harem of lassie monkeys to choose
from.' Ratty chewed on a celery stalk, looking mildly
primate-like.
'And dogs?'
'Aye, dogs an' aw. Muttley gave Colin and his beanbag a
right good seein' to, within hours of each other, the other
week.' Ratty smiled as he said this, as though Muttley were a
younger brother, or a protege.
'And rats?'

'Rats are good breeders and . .

.' Ratty's words dwindled as
he realized he was being led, like a donkey.
'How convenient for you to be able to work to the lowest
common denominator, my sweet.' Maddy popped a sprout in
hermouth and made it look like a triumphal full stop.
The three friends had barely dented the enormous goose
and mountain of vegetables when Merlin and Colin arrived,
and Maddy rushed to buzz them in and meet them on the
landing.
'No, three-one, mate, you didn't have to answer the
phone,' Merlin argued.
'It could've been Trish,' Colin protested.
'Could've been the friggin' Pope. You lost, three-one, fair
and square, mate.'
Maddy had taught herself not to let the thoughtlessness of
her male friends needle her. The fact that the phone call meant
they could come to her house and join in her Christmas meal
had obviously been blocked out by their sensitivity bypass.

'I'm sorry, my dears, didn't Stef pass on the invitations? I'm

so sorry. Happy Christmas.' She stretched on tiptoes to
kiss Colin on both cheeks, before moving on to Merlin.

200
'And you? What are you doing here, Mr Wiz?'
Before Merlin could open his mouth, Colin bowled in with
a response as they entered the flat. Ratty and Stef turned as
he said, 'Ruth's left him. She's had enough and is going
travelling. Completely made her mind up, no going back.
Irreversible, it is. Much more serious than Trish and me.'
Colin dumped his coat on the sofa and sat down where
Maddy had been sitting, immediately picking at her food. It

would be wrong to say he didn't intend to hurt Merlin; in-

tention presumes forethought, and therefore some tact and a
little sensitivity. Colin had neither and was just being Colin -
talking without thinking, talking like he farted.
Merlin was left gloomy and silent, in the middle
standing,
of the flat. Maddy rescued him. 'Come on, love, let's take
your coat into the kitchen and you can tell me all about it
over a glass of wine while the lads catch up.' With all the care
of a mother, she ushered the listless Merlin into the cluttered
kitchen ahead of her.
Amid the spice racks, pots and jars, Maddy cut to the

chase. 'Where is she?' She sat on the Formica top, while

Merlin perched on a barstool, both sipping huge balloons of

red wine.
'Her parents made it clear to me I'm not welcome. I can't

go to mine. Can't face them. She means everything to them.'

Merlin paused and swallowed. Maddy knew enough
about Merlin to know that tears would be sacrilege.
'It'll work out, won't it?' Maddy stroked his thick black
curls gently. Merlin shook his head, feeling silence was less

likely to betray his feelings.

'This hashappened before, hasn't it?' Maddy mined for

hope. Merlin shook his head more vigorously. 'It's over . . .

managed to squeeze out.

fucked,' he
'Come on now, Merlin, you two can work it out. Is she see-

ing someone else?'

More shaking. 'Not now, anyway. Can't say she hasn't.

201
Can't say anything. Says she might travel, take a year or two
and cut and blow-dry her way across the States. Like it's that
easy for her to do. We were going to do that together, once. She
says there's nothing left between us, just a mortgage, and I'm
welcome to it. A pair of husks, she said we were, last night.'
'Do you want her back?' He shrugged at her question and
glugged his Barolo.
'You poor thing. Come here.' Maddy drew him into her
embrace. She thought she felt a delicate droplet land on the
skin of her shoulder and kissed him gently on his crown.
'I want you . .
.' he mumbled, his voice muffled in her
velvet so that Maddy couldn't be sure of what he'd said.

'What? What did you say?' She was greeted with a long
pause. She could hear the men laughing and grunting in the
room beyond. How many times had she done this? she thought,
rocking gently in time to the tree-tops outside. How many male
friends had found their voice with her, behind closed doors,
away from prying eyes, predators and partners alike? Was this

her life? For ever a sister, an agony aunt, a mistress?

Merl finally broke his silence. 'You know, you and Stef.

You've got it made, everything before you, all to play for.'

'Me and Stef?' Maddy 'Me and

couldn't help but laugh.
Stef is convenient, that's Company, easy, like a take-away
all.

meal. Suits Stef, suits me. But you need solid foundations to
build on, like loyalty and trust, and neither one of us can
claim either.'

'What do you want, Maddy?'

'Nothing much - zero-cholesterol chocolate, Brad Pitt on
tap, to stop being the bloody bridesmaid all the time.' Maddy
reached for the wine bottle and refilled their glasses.

'You're the bridesmaid in May, aren't you?'

'Yup, third time unlucky. Just like third light off the match
is unlucky.'
'Yeah, my grandpa used to say it was 'cos of the trenches
in the First World War: snipers got their sightings and, bang!'

202
 'Well, it's the reverse at weddings, you know, three sights

and the snipers just think, Wonder what's wrong with that

old bint. Christ, there she is again, old moose.'

'Moose? Come off it, Maddy, everyone fancies you.'

Maddy blushed, although Merlin couldn't see her. 'So you

just wanna get hitched, do you, Maddy? 'Cos after Ruthy
and me, I'm not so sure.'

'All I want's a bit of stability, Merlin, I want someone safe

and certain. Johnny's a catch, lucky cow. That's the sort of

thing I'd like, you know.'
Merlin frowned. 'Funny, I'd 've said he was the lucky one.'
'She thinks there's something between me and Johnny, you
know. Like he's got some unfinished business from ten years
back, when I jumped on him at that party.'
'Well, maybe he does.' Merl dug into a long-term mystery.

'Merlin, you don't understand, I don't want to be some

bloody bike everyone wishes they'd tried. Johnny's getting
married to my best friend ... my best friend, who's always

had bloody everything go her way. More brains, more blokes,

great jobs and now Johnny. And I could have had Johnny,
. . .

trouble is, I don't bloomin' well want Johnny. I want ... I

want ... I want what other people have got.' Maddy bit her

lip in frustration, unable to articulate her thoughts.

'See, telt youse, 'nither marriage bolloxed.' Ratty was in right-

eous mood. 'Is it no' time to start writin' 'bout divorce, Col?'
Colin shook his head. 'Editor's happy the way it is. D'you
read it this week?'
'Aye. D'ye no' think wee bit harsh to write that Johnny
it's a
thinks his father-in-law-to-be maims people for cash?'
Colin laughed nervously. 'I just made it up. Pure fiction.'

'ButJohnny really does think that.' Stef joined the debate.

Colin changed the subject. 'So, Ruth gone, who'd of

thought it, eh?'
'Probably be in the friggin' column next week,' Ratty jibed.

203
 'Ruth'll be back, eh, Col, just like Trish 'n' all?' Stef had
never progressed beyond more than a few months of serious-
ness. He had no sense of depth or longevity in relationships,
and ended up treating his own and everyone else's with a
bemused flippancy.
'Don't know about Ruth, but Trish'll be back, definitely.
I've got a cunning plan, you know.'
'Nae fuckin' chance, Col. Trish's gone. You've got more
hope of losing that lard bucket strapped round yer stomach.'
Ratty scooped dollops of cranberry sauce on to his plate.
'You'll see, she'll run back to the new me - Colin Carter
Mark Two, turbo-charged, super-fit and double romantic'
Colin paused while his two mates coughed, snorted and
spluttered for a minute or so, trying to picture Colin's
romantic gestures. 'What? I can be romantic. You'll see,

bastards. Maddy'll help. She's romantic, isn't she, Stef?'

'How would I know? I wish you lot would drop the Maddy

and me thing. We're just casual, you know.' Stef's face didn't
give away whether he was unhappy, joyous or indifferent
about the easiness of their situation.

'You get on well, don't you?' Deep down, past the piss-

taking, Colin and Stef were old friends. The two had looked
out for each other from playground punch-ups, through lost

virginity, underage club-blagging, minor STD traumas, college

and beyond, into the too-early, grim reality of adulthood.
'And she's a babe, mate,' Colin continued, trying to make
his mate see sense.
'Yup.'
i bet she's like a cat in the sack?' Ratty's one-track mind
joined in.

'Uh-huh.'
'And she's fun, she's a laugh.' Colin felt he was on a roll.

'Mmm.'
'And she's ... er . .
.' Sadly, probing remained an un-
developed skill for Colin.

204
 'Got miraculous . .
.' Ratty's hands cupped imaginary breasts.

'Listen, I admit she's special, all right. But I'm not in it for the

long term.' Stef's slim response wasn't going to satisfy Colin.

'Why not? Jesus, man, how many babes who are special,
good in the sack and have fantasy tits are there out there?'
Colin asked rhetorically.
'In London? I reckon about . . . sixteen thousand,' Ratty

calculated.
'Bollocks! Is that according to your standards, Ratty?'
'Nope, 'ats the women I dinnae touch wi' a barge pole. You
know, the antelopes, the women wi' way too much com-
petition fer 'em.'
'Sixteen thousand?' Stef grappled with the figure.
'Oh, about fifteen thousand nine hundred of them are
taken. You know, married or co-opting.'
'Co-habiting,' corrected Stef.
'Whatever.'
'So that leaves . . . not many.'
i reckon, on yer average night, yuv got as much chance of
finding a woman like Mads, who'll even consider meeting up
with you again on a date, as shitting a solid-gold turd.' Ratty
waved a golden roast potato, pinned to his fork, as he spoke.
'See,even Rat-man agrees, mate. Bag her, before she fucks
off.' Colin was surprised to have Ratty's support.
'Whoa! I agree Mads is special, but I dinnae think Stef
should settle down. what I wiz sayin'.
Christ, Col, 'ats not

He should enjoy the high life while it's goin', make hay when
the sun shines, like, but after she's buggered off with some big
rugby broker bloke, he should lower his sights and shag in
the Vauxhall Conference fer a wee while.'

Colin shook his head in defeat, and Stef breathed heavily,

preparing himself. 'Look, Maddy's special. Maddy's a

one-off, an original. But she's like a little bit of Kryptonite

in your pocket, or a jaguar in your bedroom. You can't

or
keep it. It's something that everyone else wants,

205
something that needs its freedom too much.'
'Bollocks, Ronaldo, she'd settle down with you if you
wanted to.'

'No, no, you don't know what I mean.

It's the stress. We've

talked about it, me

Mads. We've discussed being serious,
an'
but . . . but everyone looks at her, and Maddy, well, she looks
back. She'd flirt with a friggin' corpse. I haven't got the
energy or the patience to watch my back, to look round
corners. I don't know if I even trust her.'

'Cannae trust 'em fer a second.' Ratty nodded.

'And she's worse than ever at the moment. Never in, or
never answering the bloody phone. Says I need the mystery
of never knowing where she's going or who she's with.' Stef

clutched his bald head as his hangover hit second wind.

'Oh, and I suppose we're all trusty honest Injuns, are we?'
Colin asked Ratty, sarcastically.
'Oh, fuck no. No
way. We're worse, like. But at least we
know we're lying. Or at least we do if it's us well, I mean, . . .

if I'm lying, I know I'm lying.' Ratty talked himself into a cul-
de-sac and gave up.

'I won, I won, I won again. Enough Scalextric,' Maddy

slurred slightly. Merlin, Colin and Ratty sat in a captivated

semicircle around Maddy, on the far side of the track set up

on the floor. Stef tirelessly zapped at the TV screen, lounging
moodily on the chaise longue. Maddy and him had jarred
and prickled all afternoon.
Time had ticked by to the tune of a Queen's speech, a vat
of red wine, two bottles of port and one James Bond film.

They'd been playing winner stays on for the past hour or

so. Maddy had won every single race which, at face value,
seeing as was her first attempt, may sound a little surpris-
it

ing. Yet more surprising, unless explained, was the polite,

sportsman-like behaviour of the three lads. The normal

course of events would be a no-holds-barred, anything-goes

206
race, followed by a battle to wrench the controls off one
another before the next race. But today, everything had
entered the twilight zone.
'Well done, Maddy. Winner stays on then. In fact, why
don't you have another try, Ratty?' said Merlin, who had
been a spectator.
'No, no, I lost, can't stay on. Your go, Colin.' Ratty threw
the control at his friend.
'Are you sure about winner stays on, boys? I've won the
last seven races, doesn't someone else want a go?' Maddy
looked flushed and puzzled.
'No, no, Maddy, winner stays on,' they said in unison.

The cause for this behaviour was simple, and to be found

not in the smell of burning metal and the drone of the cars,
but wrapped tightly, in red velvet, and bouncing with wild
excitement through every race.
The boys were blissfully captivated by Maddy, as they sat
cross-legged like a row of silent Buddhas or drugged lab
monkeys wearing distant smiles. Their collusion was un-
spoken and instinctive. From Maddy's first race, the jiggling,
giggling, strap-slipping had dictated the racing
action
strategy of team Menetton. Winning male drivers were
nudged off the track by a stray foot from a spectator. When
Maddy's car span off the track on an uncontrolled corner, the
competing car simply stopped dead, while Maddy leant, bent
and bustled, retrieving her red Mini Cooper.
'Come on, Maddy, just one more race.' Colin whinged
pathetically.

'Nope, time for coffees.' Maddy stood and staggered into

the kitchen, leaving the men looking glum.
'Grand. Grand that was,' Merlin muttered, almost to him-
self. Colin and Ratty were dazed into dumbdom.
'You're pathetic, you really are.' Stef stood frowning at the
transparent voyeurism of his friends, as if it was yet another
reason why he should keep Maddy in the casual-sex bracket.

207
Once, the unfettered ogling of the lads had been something
Stef had happily joined in with, but now he and Maddy had
something going, albeit vague and relaxed, ithad begun to
irritate and annoy him. Today, especially, it seemed to com-
pound his short-fused frustration.

'It's all right fer you, you're flying first class, Ronaldo.'
Stefano had to laugh at Ratty's honesty. Stef's problem was
the history. How could he change his tune now and chastise
his mates for leching after Maddy, when he'd been doing the
same thing for years? And anyway, what did he and Maddy
really have going?
'Maybe, mate, but I reckon I'll be back in economy with
you lot in no time. Look at this place.' He drew his arm in a
wide arc across the room, pointing to the mantelpiece and
shelves. 'I've seen less cards in friggin' WH Smith. So far I've
only found two from bloody women.' Colin stood to join
Stef, and randomly plucked cards from the shelves: 'Mike,
Phil, Mr Bump - Mr Bump? - Dave, Marky . . . Who the hell
are all these guys?'
Merlin joined in the game: 'Sam, Billy. 'To my lambikins,
from Roger.'
'Roger's her dad.' Stef seemed happy to be able to trace a
source.
'Vince - something foreign - from Alphonse, Johnny, Rick.'
'Johnny. Johnny?' Stef interrupted, reminded of yet more
Maddy history that made him uneasy. Merlin returned to
pick up the tasteful, hand-made happy snowman card that
occupied a prime position on the piano. He cleared his
throat. 'Happy Christmas, Maddy, I'd be lost without you.
All my love, Johnny.'
The kitchen door opened and Merlin hurriedly returned
the card toits slot, knocking a whole row down, domino-

style, in the process. Stef's frown etched ever deeper.

'Coffee and mince pies?' Maddy carried a tray piled high
with china.

208
 'Lots of cards, Maddy.' Merlin tried to explain himself.

'Of course, popular gal me, Merl. Got to keep the contacts
up, being a woman of no fixed abode and all,' she sang out,
shooting a glance at Stef.

The men sank contentedly into deep velvet cushions and

sofas with their strong coffee and mince pies. 'The mince pies
are a Delia spesh,' Maddy explained, handing the plate around.

'Sing us a tune, Maddy.' Ratty, for all his caveman sensi-

bility, loved listening to Maddy on the piano. He said it

reminded him of watching the northern lights on the foothills

of the Grampians as a teenager, sitting in his Datsun Cherry
with a bottle of whisky, a tartan rug, an old blues tape
whipped from his dad, who worked out on the rigs, and his
hand tugging at the knicker elastic of some timid schoolgirl.
Merlin poured whiskies while Maddy settled herself in
front of the piano. 'OK, this is a new one I'm learning, so it's
a bit of a trial run for this special hand-picked audience.'
Maddy sparkled like a glitter ball behind the piano.
Merlin, film buff and muso, recognized the song in the first

few notes of the intro and tried to place it. 'Sting, "My One
and Only Love" from - let me think - Leaving Las Vegas,' he
whispered to Stef, who was standing next to him. Stef looked
at him with a pained expression. It was a slow, breathy, easy-
listening love song.

The very thought of you makes my heart sing,

Like an April breeze,

On the wings of spring,
And you appear in all your splendour,
My one and only love . . .

Maddy's deep,
A simple song of complete and utter devotion.
smooth voice swirled around the room and entered the minds
of the men who held their breath, bewitched. Her fingers
tumbled down the ivory steps, dancing, while her eyes glowed.

209
 In the moment after she finished playing, before Ratty
cheered and the lads clapped loudly, the silence was tangible.
Pressed into that fraction of a second was so much raw
emotion, so much unsaid thought.
'So what d'ya think, boyz?' She spoke with a mock-
American showbiz voice.
'Fuckin' brilliant, Mads. Bloomin' marvellous.' Merlin was
the first to wade in with thick buttery compliments.
'Aye, fairly brought a tear to my eye, darlin',' Ratty agreed.
Maddy turned to Colin, who just mumbled, dumbstruck.
Wallowing in the admiration, Maddy turned to Stefano for
more praise.

'It's Johnny's song, isn't it?' The mention of his name was
like an off-key note.
'No. Sting's, petal.' She raised her guard with the speed of
a flyweight.
'Johnny plays it all the time. It's from the Leaving Las
Vegas soundtrack.'
'Well, he's not the only person to have seen the film and
heard Sting, is he? More whisky?' Maddy stood, knocking
her stool over, and snatching the bottle from the table.
'No,' Stef mused. 'Who was in the film again?'

'Er . . . Merlin, top-up?'

'Who starred in the film, Mads?' Stefano dug while Maddy
flustered.
'Yes, please,' Merlin cut in, holding out his tumbler for a
top-up, and saying, 'Nicholas Cage, wasn't it, mate?' Merlin's
rescue didn't go unnoticed by Stef.
'Yes, I bloody know you've seen it, mate.' Stef scowled.
'Fuck it. I'm off.' He picked up his coat, strode towards
Maddy, snatched Johnny's card from the piano and threw it

at her, before storming out of the flat, slamming the door.

She shrugged. 'Hates snowmen,' she said, as she picked up
her stool and sat back down. 'Right, and then there were
four. So . . . any requests?'

210
Endangered

I was finding the piano lessons increasingly difficult. Maddy

had taken to dressing up - or down - and seemed to be clad
more skimpily every time I trotted over to Parson's Green.
She would snuggle up close in some flimsy flowery number
on the piano stool, flip off her mules and wriggle cherry-
painted toenails, pressing the pedal and slowly brushing my
leg. Maybe I was imagining the squeeze of my hand when she

placed it on the keys, the tilt of her head when I made a mis-
take, the coyness of her eyes flickering across mine before
darting away, like a thief's fingers. But it seemed that here
was a woman, a very attractive woman, doing a full-on

fertility dance in my face. She couldn't have been more

explicit if she'd stood on the table and belly danced.
Now, I'm no saint, but I'm no sinner, either. I did what any
man with good intentions would do in such a position: I

mentally pictured fish guts, trying to stop my old man from

making a marquee out of my trousers. It wasn't easy. Call me
pathetic, call me sad and primeval, but I'm just being honest
when I say that often man and 'old man' are at odds. The
very moments that you would prefer him to sleep harmlessly,
curled up on your thigh, he says, 'Oi! No, I'm here. I'm here,
look at me. I'm going to stand up, right now. I'm standing,
look. LOOK AT ME!'
Every lesson was a sweaty, tense battle of wits between

211
Maddy, me and my member. Just think about this for a
second: I'm alone, in the erotic boudoir of a seriously sexy
woman, who is rubbing herself against me while we sing love
songs to one another. She is blowing in my ear, brushing her
wrist against the proposed site of my marquee, and I'm think-
ing, halibut, maggots, gills, phooaaarrr, blood, scales, cod.
Now women may find it distressing that men are sub-
servient to their knobs. But sadly, it's a fact, and it should
simply be accepted. The short, bald bastard that dictates to
us from our trousers will henceforth be called Mussolini,

sharing, as they do, a diminutive stature, a polished noggin,

and an Italian temperament. We can consider the facts for a
second if you wish:

I love BTB.
Iam here to learn BTB's favourite song.
Maddy is BTB's best buddy and probably just mucking
about.
But she smells sooo good I can almost taste . . . no, no,
don't go there.

On this occasion, in early February, I was fighting a losing

battle and eventually cracked. 'Right, Mads.' I stood, sweat-
ing, and stumbled across the room, willing II Duce to go to
sleep. Maddy was smiling victoriously, glancing crotchward

as I tried to hide behind the table.

'We're going out . . . for some air . . . and coffee.' I was
agitated and panicked.
'We've got coffee here, Johnny. My, my, you seem all

steamed up. Why don't you take a shower?' Maddy was

loving this, loving her elemental dominance.
'No, no, come on, Mads, I'm hungry, too. Come on, let's

go eat.'

I wasn't really hungry, and we weren't on a date, and, as

I've explained, I was trying to play the good guy and remove

212
 '

myself from a situation in which Mussolini seemed more in

control than me. It turned out that Maddy was meeting Stef
in Battersea later, so it made sense for her to drive and we
dropped into Bistro 7, on Lavender Hill, for an entirely
chivalrous lunch.
Maddy was better behaved in public, at least for a while.

'So, after that, I told Colin why was spending time with
you, and
— I

'Tsk,' Maddy and sighed flamboyantly. She looked

tutted
to her out of the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows, at
left,

the Arts Centre opposite on Lavender Hill. The cherry

blossom had come early, and the pink shock seemed out of
place - old ladies in cream-cake hats.
'What? I can tell Colin, can't I? I mean, I know he's got a
big mouth, but . .
.'

was so much more fun when it was

'It all clandestine and
everyone was suspicious,' Maddy rued.
'Suspicious about what?'
'You and me, darling. You should see Stef; he's like a
wounded bull. I hope Colin doesn't tell him. Although I think
he's more interested in winning back Trish at the moment. He
has a cunning plan, you know.' Maddy sipped chilled white
wine while I studied the menu.
'What's his plan?' I asked, shutting the menu decisively.
Maddy tapped her elegant nose.
'Top secret, my love.' She smiled mischievously. 'Sworn to
secrecy.'

'But I'm just worried about the calibre of his plan, that's
all,' I explained.
'He's hell bent on it, whatever you or I say, Johnny.' Maddy
smoked in an affected, theatrical way.
'Come on, Maddy, what's the plan?'
'Look,' Maddy sighed, 'it's got something to do with the
Chris Balls breakfast show next Monday. That's all I'm say-
ing; ask him the rest. He's your mate, isn't he?'

213
 'Oh come on, Maddy.'
'In return for special favours, maybe I'll tell you.' Maddy 's

was interrupted by the arrival of the camp waiter.

flirting

While picked up the menu to remind myself what I'd

I

decided on, he handed us a Valentine's Day promotional

flyer.

'Just printed, love birds, make sure you book quickly.'

I blushed and Maddy grinned, reaching over to hold my

hand. 'Oh we must, mustn't we darling,' she hammed.
'But . .
.' I began, but trailed off. The waiter looked un-
impressed by our show, and tapped his foot on the wooden
floor, impatiently. 'Shall I come back when you're less busy?'
he asked, while Maddy pulled a face, mimicking his

stroppiness.
'No, no, I'll have sausage and mash, please, and another
Guinness.' I wasn't hungry, but it was too habitual a choice
to avoid.
'For mmmaadame.' The waiter must have trained on a
week-long course, learning how to say 'madam' and make it

sound just like 'trollop'.

'Just wine. I'll save myself for dessert.' Maddy handed the
waiter back the menu.
'Dessert. Right.' The camp waiter looked Maddy up and
down, visually questioning her figure's need for any pudding,
before turning on his heels and voguing across the restaurant.
'Rude bastard,' I said.

'But at least he thinks we're together,' Maddy smiled, pick-

ing up the Valentine's Day menu. 'Oysters, salmon,
strawberries. Sounds good; how about it, Johnny, my sweet?'
'Maddy, listen, I . .
.' Maddy threw down the menu in a

huff, mind-reading what I was about to say.

'Oh, for God's sake, Johnny, I'm just having fun. Stop
being such a bloody bore.'
Was I being a paranoid fool, while Maddy was just being
herself?

214
 The trouble is, I quite enjoyed the idea of Maddy really being
interested in me rather than messing about. My devoted
husband-to-be Jekyll side was affronted by the glimmer of
seduction, while my Ratty-type, Hyde side was dancing.
'Johnny, I'm just playing.' It was like hearing a magician's
secrets. 'You're going to be my best friend's husband and I'm
the chief bridesmaid. If that isn't enough, I'm also seeing,
admittedly on a hugely casual and pretty crap basis, your
mate Stef. So stop being so bloody stressed out about every-
thing, darling.'
Maddy made me feel so utterly immature that, when she
started flirting again, to question her motives, to suspect that
she was even slightly serious, was to reveal myself as a spotty
pre-pubescent pup.
In between courses, Maddy returned to the special
Valentine's Day menu. 'So I take it you're dissing me
on Valentine's Day, Johnny?' She was being sarcastic again,
demonstrating how large a buffoon I was being. She meant,

Of course you're busy, Johnny, don't you think I know that.

Durrrr.
'Hmm.' I shrugged. 'So, are you off somewhere romantic
with Ronaldo?'
'Hmph,' Maddy snorted dismissively. 'Stef is as romantic

as Bernard Manning. I'll probably have another lonely night

in.' She pulled her injured puppy face. 'What about you two?'
'Don't know. Every year we go to one of the local restaur-
ants. It's all a bit predictable. What's the ideal Valentine's
night, Maddy? What would you want?' I realized my mistake
in personalizing the question, but it was too late.

'What would I want . . . from Johnny Riley, for Valentine's

Day?' Maddy moved into overdrive, her chestnut eyes flick-

ing up to her left as she placed her first finger on her bottom
lip, thinking. 'Hmm.' She raised herself on to her elbows
and leant forward on to the table. Her pale arms pushed
her chest together like a vice, giving her a cleavage like

215
Boadicea's breastplate. Calm down, Mussolini. Calm.
'First, I would like,' she whispered gently, forcing me to
move closer, 'a candlelit meal prepared by your own fair
hands.' She placed her hand on mine and, after the jibes, I felt
it would seem childish to withdraw my own.
'And there's nothing quite like one of Agent Provocateur's
racy lacys to get the pulse going,' she purred.
'Agent Provocateur? Lacys?' I repeated innocently.
'Top-class, seriously sexy lingerie, my sweet,' she
whispered. 'Silk, lace, crotchless, nipple-clamps, diamond-
studded dog collars - you name it.'

'So,' I coughed, nervously, 'that would be an ideal night?' I

tried to return the question to the hypothetical, while think-

ing about the innards of a pilchard.
'Hmm.' She sighed, closing her eyes and leaning her head
back, as if fantasizing. I was losing my battle of wits to the

bald dictator.
Get a bloody grip, Riley. This whole Maddy trip was
increasingly frustrating. Why was it that Maddy could make
me this hot and bothered? Was it just red blood cells, or was
there more to it? How could I marry BTB when another
woman, her best friend, could have this effect on me at the

click of her fingers?

'Excuse me.' The camp waiter enjoyed disturbing us.

Clearly pleased with his timing, he said, 'So, shall I put you
two down for the fourteenth?'
'No, no.' I looked at her hand holding mine and wriggled
it free, while she giggled and he frowned. 'We're not
together,' I flustered.

'Yes . . . and I'm as straight as the Grand Canal.'

Maddy broke into a giggle. 'Desserts?' he enquired, with
regal indifference.
Maddy mumbled between
'Strudel,' chuckles, trying to
wrestle my hand back into her own and playfully tickling me
under my arms.

216
 'Erm.' I picked up the menu, quickly checking the options.
'Cheesecake,' I said, squirming. He looked at us derisively,

wholly unimpressed, before twirling and mincing away like a

matador.
In desperation, I started tickling Maddy back, and she
giggled uncontrollably. I realized how harmless it all was. We
were old friends, for Chrissakes; I could tickle her and she
could flirt with me all she wanted. We were just friends.

For some reason I can't explain, I looked to my left

through the plate glass. It's always hard to tell whether you
are unconsciously aware of someone else watching you, but
my eyes connected with another set in a stationary Golf
Cabriolet on the opposite side of the road, under the cherry
blossom. They were coldly, immovably, fixed on my own.
It was impossible to know how long Ruth had been watch-
ing us. Had she been there as long as we had? Had she
watched the entire act, with every second of innuendo?
Realizing how ludicrously infatuated we looked, I jumped
back with a start, trying to drop Maddy's hand like a murder
weapon, probably just adding to my guilt in Ruth's dark
eyes.

It was unusual for up at the same time as BTB.

me to be
Generally, she had long since bounced out of the door by the
time I stumbled downstairs, looking like one of the walking
dead.
But today was Colin's big day. This was the day we'd all

been instructed to tune in to Chris Balls' breakfast show at

7.30 a.m. I fiddled with the radio while BTB made coffee and
flicked through the post.
'Bill, bill, bill, bill,' she muttered.

'Make sure you have Balls for breakfast.'

The annoying jingle blasted across the kitchen, woke

217
Muttley with a start and seemed to rock BTB, like a willow
in a gust of wind. Muttley padded over to welcome his

favourite two-legged being.

'Get off, Muttley. Johnny, will you feed the bloody dog?'
I looked at BTB, swaying by the kettle, standing barefoot
on the grey lino floor, wrapped in an old powder-blue
towelling gown. She faced the French windows at the end of
the galley kitchen, frosted lightly with ice, and seemed oblivi-

ous to the cold. BTB was rubbing her face and flicking,

repeatedly, through the clutch of unfriendly envelopes, looking

as though she didn't want to plunge into any individual bill.

Me and Muttley were both thinking the same thing at the

same time: Where had Tigger gone? Where was the boun-
cing blonde whirlwind that we had grown accustomed to,
like a couple of storm chasers? I looked at BTB, her gaze
fixed on the chalk-board, shaped like a shopping basket,
hanging on the kitchen wall to the left of the French
windows. The board had a long, long list of wedding-related
tasks on it, covering its entire length: 'Cars, photographer,
cake, dress, bridesmaids' dresses, honeymoon, hotel, invites,
flowers, Father Derek, booze, band, DJ, video, ushers, seat-
ing plan.' I watched BTB's eyes scan the board, as she swore,
unintelligibly, under her breath.
I realized that I couldn't remember our last conversation.
We had become a pair of automatons, working mechanically
through our daily processes. We ate together, sat on the sofa
and watched some toss video together and we slept in the
same bed, but all of this was like so much padding on a sore.
The things that we wanted to talk about, needed to talk
about, were invisible, like infections running through our
blood, unseen. We ended up discussing the details of
our wedding plans over and over, like some kind of mantra.
The 'M' subject gave us an excuse to nimbly sidestep our real
problems, pretending everything was fine.

218
'Goood morning. It's seven thirty-eight and you're listening
to Balls for breakfast, Fun Lovin' Posse. Hey, Polly,
and the
let's twiddle your tuning knobs. Ooopps, only joking,
listeners, too early for that, eh. Don't touch that dial, we've
got a special feature starting today called Desperados, jilted
people so desperate to win back the affections of their loved
ones that they'll do absolutely anything to get them back. But
first, Robbie Williams

'That must be our boy - a desperado sounds apt.' I looked

for a smile on BTB's grey face. She sipped her coffee and sat
down on a barstool, finally opening the bills. How had this

crept up on me? When did BTB stop singing the bouncity-

bounce song in the morning? Where did the down-turned
crow's feet and black eye sockets come from?
'Love, are you OK?' She turned away, looking out into the

plain paved backyard, eclipsing me.

'OK, first up on Desperados it's - drum-roll - Colin Carter

from Clapham. Hello, Colin.'
'Yeah, hi, Chris mate, how are you?' I smiled and pointed
at the radio, turning the volume up.
'So, you are totally desperate, is that right, Colin f
'Completely desperate, yes, Chris.' Colin sounded muffled
and distant.
'And what's the lovely lady called, Chris?'

Trish/
'OK, Trish, I hope you're listening out there in radio

land, 'cosyou have the chance of a lifetime. Colin, here,

wants you so badly that every morning for a week, starting
tomorrow, you can ring us at Fun FM and tell us what you
want Colin to do to pledge his love to you. Isn't that right,
Colin?'
'That's right, Chris ... er . .
.' Colin sounded unnatural
and scripted. Someone had obviously given him his lines.

219
 'Go on . . . you've got a poem, haven't you, Colin?' Chris
Balls prompted.
'Yeah what now?'
. . .

do the poem now, Colin.'

'Yes,

'OK right
. .Dear Trish,
. . . . to prove my love to you,
There's not a thing I wouldn't do, Just name your task and I

will show, How low a desperate man can go.'

'Well, that's a really beautiful thing, Colin. Right, time for
an ad break, but don't go away, 'cos in five minutes, Colin,
who I can guarantee has around about the worst voice in the
history of radio broadcasting, will be singing Trish's favourite
love song. I hope you're listening, Trish, 'cos Colin will do
anything for you. The man has no dignity.'

'I can't believe he's doing this. What's he doing? Jesus!'

'At least he's trying.' BTB's eyes were narrow and red.

'What does that mean exactly?' Muttley left the room.

'Look at us, Johnny, this is pathetic. This is the longest con-
versation we've had in weeks, and it's a row.'
'What? What have I done?' I wondered if Ruth had already
become a supergrass.
'It's not what you've done as much as not done, Johnny.'
She pushed me away as I went in for the this-will-solve-every-
thing hug. Bollocks, my one and only plan, foiled.
'Well, what have I not done?' I fumbled.
'Look, look around you. Wake up, these are bills.' BTB
held up the fistful of paper, accusingly.
'Uh-huh,' I said, nervously.
'Exactly, "uh-huh", that's about the level of your contri-
bution to our relationship, Johnny. Do you know anything
about our bills, our out-goings?' As per usual, I decided on
silence as a response. 'Yes' was incorrect. 'No' was suicide.

Silence was a fair stake.

'Do you know anything about the wedding, Johnny? Do
you?'

220
 'Well . . . yes.' I felt this was an accurate reply. I did, at the
very least, know the date, and I could name a few of the
guests.
'Where's the bloody electronic organizer I bought you?'
'Er.' Lost.
'Lost?'
'No.'
'Which of these tasks are you responsible for, Johnny?' She
pointed at the long list on the chalk-board, and I squinted.
'Er . . . cars . . . ushers, photographer,' I read, rather than
remembered.
'And what do they have in common?' BTB interrupted
before I could finish the list.

'Er . .
.' I racked my brain. Surely she couldn't mean that
they were all tasks that Uncle Alfie could do? Photos, sure,
DJing, maybe, but cars? His car was OK, but I didn't think
BTB would want to arrive at the church in a tan Sierra.
'What does this symbol mean?' She pointed at a tick. The
tick was next to all the tasks on the board that weren't mine.
'Oh,' I said.

'"Oh"! Is that it?'

'Make sure you have Balls for breakfast.''

'Right, listeners, you're back with Chris Balls on Fun FM,
and do we have a treat for you. Folly, put your beaver away.
It's a real beaver, listeners. Billy the Fun FM beaver. Don't
want you thinking we're cheapening the show. Right, we're
here with a new feature, and it's day one of Desperados. Play
'
the jingle, Folly.

The theme tune to A of Dollars whistled out of the

Fistful
radio. BTB and me had stopped, mid-row, to listen.

'Colin, are you there?'

'Yeah . . . yes, Chris . . . er . . . I'm here.'

221
 ' '

'OK, we're going to see if we can persuade the lovely Trish

to come on the show and set you a luuurve challenge to-
morrow, for you to prove just how desperate you are, OK?'
'Er . . . yes, Chris, that's right.'

'OK, so today we've had to come up with a Herculean task

ourselves, and I understand you reckon it would be romantic
to sing her favourite love song with no accompaniment, live

on air, to two million listeners?'

'That's right, Chris.'

I put my head in my hands in embarrassment.
'Do you hear that, listeners? Colin has no shame. Right,
what's the song?'
'Er the song is her favourite song, which we played as
nineteen ninety —
. . .

our first dance for our wedding in

'Just name the song, Colin, ' Chris Balls butted in.

-My Heart Will Go On".'

'By?' Balls prompted.
'By . . . er . . . Celine Dion.
'OK, you ready?'
'Yeah.'
'Listeners, this is Colin Carter's rendition of Celine Dion's
"My Heart Will Go On", which goes out to Trish, his wife,

as a message of love from a desperate and undignified man.''

Colin was more tuneless than it was possible to imagine.

Chris, Polly and Billy the Beaver left their mike on

maliciously, so the listeners could hear their laughter and dis-
belief. Halfway through the song, Chris Balls cut in.

'Enough, enough. Trish, please, for the sake of the show

and the listeners, take this man back. If that's what he does
on day one, what will he be doing by Friday? See you to-
morrow, Colin. OK, that was the first in a new feature. Now,
if you're a true desperado, if you would do literally anything

to win your loved one back, give us a call on .'

. .

i can't believe he did that,' I muttered, head in hands.

222
BTB turned from the window to face me.
'Like I said, Johnny, at least he's trying.' I glanced at BTB
to make sure she was being serious.
'Is that what you want me to do? Sing friggin' shite songs
on the radio like a wazzock?'
'No, Johnny, you are completely missing the point. God,
why do I bother?' BTB walked past me, aiming for the
kitchen door.
'What? What am I supposed to do?' It was too dangerous
to allow her to walk away. She was way too stubborn. If she
left, that was it, she would keep on walking. Past experience

proved she could go the distance. 'What can I do? Come on,
don't do this to me,' I pleaded. She turned around in the
doorway, thank God.
'Work it out, Johnny. Grow up, pay bills, be responsible,
finish something you've started. You never finish anything,

you're pathetic. At least Colin's doing something. You and

Merl and the rest of them, you just dither your way through
life. You're like a gang of bloody ostriches, running around
in circles, sticking your heads in the ground when anything
complicated comes along.'
'Ido ... I will I
.'
. . . . .

'What did you ever do about that film contact, Norbert

wotsit?'
'Well I . .
.'

'You did nothing, did you? You tell me scriptwriting is the

only thing that drives you. You run away and hide in your
room when we're supposed to be sorting bills or fixing the
wedding, to scribble your scrawl in those bloody notebooks.
Along comes the only chance you'll probably ever get, and
what do you do?'
T .'
. .

'Fuck all,' she answered for me.

'Let's talk tonight. I'll buy you dinner.' Yet another trans-

parent tactic.

223
 'We're skint, Johnny.' She waved the bills and pointed at

the board.
'I'll cook us dinner.' We have a cooker and some pans, I

can't fail.

Ruth tonight, she's buying me dinner, so sort

'I'm out with
yourself and your mutt out.'
As BTB walked away, my bowels triple-jumped. This
would be the first time she'd seen Ruth since Ruth had seen
. . . well, whatever the hell she thought she'd seen. After BTB
had left for work in angry anti-Tigger mood, I tried to work
things out. After a shower, I sat on the edge of the bed, drip-
ping in a grey bath towel, with Muttley at my feet.

'So do I tell her, Muttley? Do I get in there with reality

before Ruth hands her a grenade?' Muttley yawned, obvi-
ously unaware of the seriousness of the situation. Unaware
that Ruth could be about to wreak havoc on BTB and me.
'I mean, what would I say? "Listen love, I've secretly been
visiting Maddy for private lessons"? Bollocks, I'm dead. I

can't win, can I?' Muttley looked up at me, broke wind and
fell asleep.

224
Dung Beetle's Virtual 360

'What the fuck's going on on this planet?' Johnny sat in front

of Colin's portfolio, flicking through the plastic sheathed

pages.
Colin paced around room, phone clamped
his living

between ear and shoulder. 'Yeah, sure, I'll do The Big

Breakfast .Yeah, that's fine, no probs
. .
OK Car . . . . . .

picks me up at six a.m., no worries.'

'Merlin, how did this happen?' Johnny turned to the tartan
boxer-shorted mess draped over the sofa, immersed irretriev-
ably in VR Rally. Merlin shrugged, uninterested. It was
Saturday afternoon and Merlin had just forced himself out of
bed, tempted by the armful of pizza boxes and crate of beer that
Johnny had arrived with, fighting his way through the press.

'Fuck off, piss off, get out of here!' Johnny rose to

harangue another journalist flashing cameras at any available
window space. He pulled ill-fitting red curtains across the
bay windows to stop them peering in.
Colin had always been the dominant design force in the
house he shared with Trish. She had moved in with him after
they'd married, and hadn't yet managed to eradicate Colin's

style-blind taste. Colin had spent a decade nurturing his

video library, crafting his entertainment unit and feeding the
babe-of-the-month altar in the downstairs loo with new
cuttings and clips.

225
 Number 77 Elbourne Grove was a physical representation
of Colin Carter. For this reason, visiting him was a trip back
in time, to sock-smelling lockers at school and stale student

bedsits. The naff, the impractical and the unhealthy all vied
for supremacy.
The house itself wasn't hard for the journos to find.
Squatting in a side road to the north of the Common, it was
an unobtrusive Victorian red-brick semi, lost in a grid of

young professionals,
similar streets. First-time-buyer land for
awash, commuter-time, with pinstripe and black shiny
leather. At weekends, the same herd shed suits for jogging

pants and fleeces, baseball caps and deck shoes.

Trish hadn't dented Colin's thickly glossed lad haven
in their eight months of marriage. Maybe added
this

to the pile of reasons to leave him. Unfamiliarity makes

leaving easy. How simple it feels to walk on through some
unknown train station, how hard to part with a place of
significance - a home, a hideaway, a cherished happen-
site.

Since Trish had gone, just before Christmas, the Colinness

of Elbourne Road had overflowed and spilt across the house,
like ivy. Videos and CDs, cable and satellite-TV guides, cross-
words and jigsaw puzzles represented the floating trash of
Colin's haphazard mind.
Penthouse and a Scrabble dictionary battled for sunlight
on the coffee table along with take-away detritus and beer
cans. Dirty socks and crusty cooked pants clung to different
parts of the radiator.
Yet here was the proclaimed hero of our times. Colin
Carter, Mr Lover-Lover.
Merlin started lodging informally in early January, when
Ruth kicked him out, rapidly doubling the demolished state
of the house. He had overlain his own brand of mess as a
complement to Colin's chaos.
The fake-leather cover of Colin's A3 portfolio had his

226
favourite headline pasted on the front: THE LOVE machine,
the Sun called him.
'Merlin, don't you feel we've entered a funny parallel uni-
verse sometimes?' Johnny frowned from the depths of the
once-beige sofa.
'Hmm?' Merlin managed somehow to manhandle the
PlayStation controls, while balancing a cigarette on his
bottom lip.

'Some sick invention of Colin's mind, in which the world

has mistaken him for the most romantic man alive? And we
are the keepers of the dark secret - that he is, in fact, as

romantic as a dung beetle?'

'Fuuuckk!' Merlin hurtled out of control, flipping his car
into a 360 on a hairpin. He threw the controls down in
disgust. 'Want another beer?' Merlin trotted off to the
kitchen, clearing a path through strewn clothes, empty crisp
packets and cans.
'Yeah, but I'm gonna make a pot of tea in just a second,'

Johnny replied.
'Dung beetles could be romantic, for all you know.' Colin
put the phone down and it rang immediately. 'Yeah . . .

Speaking Loaded} Yeah, no problem.' Colin had become

. . .

matter-of-fact about the media.

'Dung beetles live in shit, too.' Johnny warmed to his allu-

sion, looking around the living room.

The latest Mail on Sunday sat atop a pile of papers on a shelf

below the coffee table. Johnny had stopped bothering to check

on the exploits of his doppelganger in 'The Life of Riley'

column. Picking it up, he reluctantly chuckled as he read that
the bride-to-be had called it all off because his namesake had
accidentally hoovered up her niece's guinea pig. 'Where does
he get this stuff from?' Johnny shook his head as Merlin
wandered back in with a four-pack of Bud. 'What, the hoover
thing?' Merlin asked cagily. 'Well, I did that to Ruthie's niece,
Cassandra. Poor little fella had a heart attack.'

227
 'Jesus! He's like a friggin' magpie, picking up everybody's
bits and pieces, and yet here he is, being lauded as some sort
of icon.' He threw the paper on the floor.
'Thing is, see, Johnny,' Merlin cracked a can, sipped it,

slumped back into the armchair and pressed reset on the

PlayStation in one single, worryingly slick movement, 'that

society needs its ordinary heroes, right.' He lit another cigar-

ette while the game went through its warm-up sequence.
'Here we go, Professor Merlin, bloody amateur sociolo-
gist.' Johnny opened his beer and put his feet up on the coffee
table, sliding the cheap portfolio on to the sofa next to him.
'It's Johnny and Merlin looked at Colin,
true, look at him.'

standing in the bay windows

in tattered jeans and his 'Colin

& Trish 4 Ever' campaign T-shirt. He was peering out at the

band of journalists, thinning in the failing light and falling
temperature. 'He is the common man, see,' Merlin continued.
'Can't argue with that, mate.' Johnny nodded.
'And the common man needs icons, but if all their icons are

rich and famous and beautiful, well, there's nothing to relate

to, like.' Merlin had been developing his theory gradually,
since it all kicked off on the Chris Balls breakfast show two
weeks ago. 'They want to know that the underdog can win in

the end, that normal people can change their circumstances

and end up on top. Not win money, or long-term fame, you
understand, just win wives and lives back, a return ticket to
normality.'
'But there's millions of people in the same boat as Colin,
Merl.' Johnny carried on flicking through the plastic-coated
news clippings.
'Yeah, but he went public, didn't he? He wore his heart on
his sleeve in front of millions of listeners and, the next thing
you know, he's a The fact that he
fuckin' national hero.
writes about a fictional bemused groom on a wedding count-
down just adds to the romantic myth. They don't care if
Colin's overweight, thick-skinned and balding. In fact, that

228
makes them love him even more. That makes him more
accessible, more representative. He could be a part-time
pornographer who's into bestiality and no-one would care.'
Merlin started the game, instantly freezing his brain cells.
Johnny glanced at Penthouse and considered the camel-
coat incident. 'I reckon I could make a pretty strong case for

both. Hmph, put that in your bloody papers,' he swore at the

portfolio, as though the clips embodied the whole mixed-up
media world.
The Evening Standard picked up on day two
Colin's cause
of the Chris Balls show. Trish, staying at her mum's house in
Croydon, rang the show right after Colin came off air. She
had missed him, and was willing to see where Fun FM would
lead her. Anyone who knew the couple could tell it was
staged and scripted, but to everyone else they sounded real
enough. Two real people, living out their life, their separ-
ation, for the nation. was addictive for a nation bred on
It

fly-on-the-wall soaps and docu-dramas. Chris Balls spoke to

Trish before giving Colin his challenges. Usually, Colin had to
do somerhing embarrassing live on air and something ludi-
crous over the course of the day, which Chris Balls would
encourage the press and TV stations to pick up on. It was a
mutually beneficial PR frenzy. Balls created his own romantic
hero for the nation, and the media fuelled the fire with yet
more publicity, followed everywhere by Billy the Beaver in
Fun FM furry suit. More listeners, more readers, more
money. Colin's journalistic career had always veered towards
the tacky, culminating in the column, and he knew how to
play the crowd like an old hand. He knew what the papers
and their readers wanted. He ought to, he'd written it often
enough.
An ode to Trish was read out by Colin, live, on Wednesday
morning. Johnny read from the version printed in the
Evening Standard that day.

229
 I love you Trish, please take me back,
I really miss you in the sack.

Around the house and down the pub,

At Tesco's and the snooker club
'Where's Trish?' they ask. 'She's gone,' I say.

They shake their heads as if to say

Shouldn't have let her get away . . .

You spanner.

Over the week, Colin swallow-dived off London Bridge,

broke the world record for sitting in a bath of custard -
twenty-four hours and a nasty rash ever since - did a Full
Monty strip at the Limelight with Peter Stringfellow, got his
left nipple pierced, sat atop Canary Wharf and joined the
Foreign Legion. All challenges laid by Trish - planted by
Chris Balls and his PR team - as proof of his undying love.

His image was littered through the media as if he were the

Second Coming. The Sun gave out Union Jack bowler
plastic

hats saying, 'Colin 4 Trish'. Colin's website had more than a

million hits in a week. He was booked on The Big Breakfast
and The Richard and Judy Show in the run up to Valentine's
Day. The theme was the same throughout the media;
like some great Colingate conspiracy, everyone asked the
same question: 'Will Trish take Colin back by Valentine's
Day?'
'I just can't bloody believe this, Merlin.' Johnny couldn't
understand how it had happened. How his sad friend, who

was the butt of most of the jokes at the Blue Boy, had been
elevated to national hero in a matter of days, while in the
same time frame, his own relationship seemed to be collaps-
ing around him.
'Mmm,' Merlin grunted at the TV. 'Fuuuckk!' he shouted,
totalling his car into a tree and turning to Johnny.
'Yeah, it's mad, isn't it. But, you know, fifteen minutes of
fame and all that,' he muttered.

230
 'So it's all just a cynical media thing?' Johnny had a hint of
bitterness in his voice.
'Listen, Johnny lad, whatever this is about now, whoever's
hijacked and manipulated it all, it started for the purest of
reasons.' Merlin seemed to have developed a level of wisdom
and freedom of expression since his separation from Ruth.
'Colin just wanted Trish back. That's all. No harm in that
now, is there?' Merlin's tone seemed to quietly chastise
Johnny for his bitterness.
'So, d'you think it'll work? Think he'll get her back?'

Johnny tried to shake away the envy.

'Oh aye. He loves her. She knows it. And the world knows
it now. He'll get her back.'
'What about you?'
'What? Me and Ruth?' Johnny expected Merl to nervously

toy with his white streak, but he didn't.

'Yeah. I mean, no offence, Merl mate, but you're just
sitting here, playing computer games, eating pizza, drinking
beer and' - Johnny picked up January's already well-leafed
Penthouse - 'bashing the bishop.'
'Uh-huh,' Merlin confirmed, almost smiling.
Ruth back is it?'
'Well, that's not going to get
'You're presuming want her back, Johnny lad.' Merlin
I

crumpled his empty can and tossed it over his head. Johnny
let this sink in for a second, nodding his head gently, realiz-
more complete, more confident
ing that his friend seemed
and calm than he had seen him in years. Merlin looked a
state, unshaven, scruffy, short of clothes. He ate shit, drank
reservoirs of beer and was on computer games and
fixated
junk videos. But all of the garbage seemed part of the cure.
Colin reckoned this was Merlin's way of detoxing, Merl's
version of a seaweed wrap. But underneath it all, the clarity
and focus of Merl's eyes were a polished pair of zoom lenses.
'So what about Ruth?' Johnny asked tentatively.
Merlin shrugged. 'Don't know, boyo. Don't even know if

231
she's at the house. Maybe she's doing what I'm doing. Staying
with a friend, staying with her folks. I hope she's happy, like.

I'm sure she's happy. Maybe she's already left the country, I

don't know. I guess I should find out, pluck up the courage,

like, an' go home.'
'Colin says you haven't been to work, either.'
'Yeah, you know, can't be bothered, mate. Told them the
dog died.'
'You haven't got a dog.'
'No.' Merlin nodded.
'So you're not even going to try . . . with Ruth, I mean.'
'It was just us, Johnny, together. You know we clashed. It

all started so madly. We just fucked each other senseless and

exploded like chemicals mixing, totally un-fuckin'-stable, we
were. Never even stopped to think about what we would do
when we got bored of fuckin', an' had to talk, like, an' had
to live together an' all that. London was about saving up the
cash to travel round the world. For Ruth, too, but I wasn't
sure she really wanted to, you know. I sort of thought she'd
just latched onto what I wanted to do, copied my dream, like
some software. But I'm sure she's fine. I'm sure she feels
like I feel - like we just stepped out of a sauna, where we
thought the heat and pain and sweating was normal life. But
out here it's fine; it's not painful. It's all OK.' Merlin picked
up a fresh beer, and looked hard at it before opening it. 'Am
I making sense, Johnny?'
'No, you're talking total bollocks, mate.' Johnny smiled,
dissolving the tension. Colin continued to chatter in the back-
ground incessantly.
'An' what about Johnson Riley. How's that old
the great
tosser doin'?' Merlin was playing tit for tat. He'd spilt his
emotional guts to Johnny and was offering a free return to
sender.
'What?' Any question put Johnny on edge.
'If I was to say I've seen happier death-rowers, would you

232
be surprised?' Merlin dug, disregarding Johnny's reticence.
'Nothing's wrong.'
'Wedding all going to plan and everything?' Merlin hit the
target with ease.
'You're the best man, you tell me.' Johnny rubbed his
thighs in nervous frustration as he spoke.
'Ouch.'
'Apparently I'm not pulling my weight.' Johnny drained his
beer.

'For the wedding?' Merlin turned in his chair to give

Johnny his full attention.

'For the wedding . . . and life in general. Half of me thinks

she might even call it all off, just like doppelganger Riley.'
'Really?'
'We're pretty distant, Merl, mate. Not really on talking
terms. Apparently I'm a loser, a child, a no-hoper, who finds
it nigh on impossible to finish making a cup of friggin' tea.'

'Now where is that cup of tea you were making?'

'Bastard!' He threw the empty beer can at Merlin, who
ducked as it bounced off the back of the armchair.
'She's got a point, mate.'

'I do not need mates taking her side, for fuck's sake, and I
think your bloody Ruth chucked a bomb in for good
measure.'
'What d'ya mean?' Merlin frowned.
'She saw me and Maddy, and I think she read a lot more
into it than there was.'
'What, you an' Maddy? No way, mate.' Merlin sounded
surprised but calm. 'You're not marrying an idiot . . . not you
and Maddy, mate. No way.' Johnny looked puzzled by
Merlin's certainty.
'Anyway, it's all piling up - the Maddy thing, the organiz-
ing, the eternally unfinished Mr Saturday Night - I'm just

your basic dunderhead in her eyes.' Johnny stood and tried to

look purposeful.

233
 'You're seeing that film geezer soon, aren't you?' Merlin
dragged the memory from some hazy, pubbed-up convers-
ation.
'Exacta-bloody-mundo. I mean, how many people can say
they've got an appointment with Lord Norbert Camberly,
eh? Mr Hollywood, meeting me. Geordie boy made good.
Read my script, wants to talk to me. So how about that for
bloody finishing. And while I'm at it, who wants tea?'

'Yeah, go on, mate.' Merlin messed with the controls again,

muttering, 'Right, you bastard, I'm gonna have you,' to the
console.
Colin finally hung up and immediately said, 'Did I hear
you say you're seeing Norbert Camberly?' Johnny had left
the room as Colin shouted after him, 'Well, do us a favour,
would you, mate.'
'What's that?' Johnny shouted back from the kitchen.
'See if he fancies doing this as a film.' Johnny re-entered the
room, poking his head around the door.
'Doing what, Colin?' Johnny looked confused.
'Doing this . . . you know, Mr Lover-Lover.' He pointed at
his portfolio. Johnny laughed dismissively.
'You're a fucking one and only, Carter.'
'Guaranteed audience, Johnny. Just think about it, mate.'

234
Disengaged

It was one of the weirdest days of my life. Round about mid-

day in late February, standing in the rain outside the shoddy
offices of EF&Co on Hanway Street, just off Tottenham
Court Road. I clutched my mobile, wearing my best black
suit and least-offensive Christmas-gift tie, the latest script
draft tucked under my arm
brown envelope.
in a

I suppose it was inevitably huge, but I was still shocked by

the size of Mr Big's limousine. You know the opening scene

in Star Wars, when the space cruiser cuts in from top right,

quickly fills the screen and goes on and on for ever. It was like
that. The metallic blue, US-style limo took one look at the

side street where EF&Co were based and decided against try-

ing to turn into it, parking instead on the main road,

gradually grinding to a halt, like some sort of supertanker.

I stood stock-still and witless. I hadn't really expected him

to turn up, even after his PA had confirmed by phone.
Lord Norbert has a slot between noon and one; he'll
'Yes,
pick you up outside your offices and leave you at Gatwick.'
'But I don't need to go to Gatwick,' I said, like a fool.
'I know, sir, but Lord Norbert does.'

Eventually, in the distance, one of the windows in the rear

hemisphere of the car opened, and a vast, familiar hand, like

a boxing glove, beckoned me over. I realized I was standing

still, in shock. Childishly, I responded by breaking into a run,

235
as though the car might change its mind and drive away
unless I hurried along.
I'd wondered, in the months that had passed since I'd last
seen him, whether I had an exaggerated memory of Mr Big.
Whether the enormous blustering nutter was as much a
product of my own alcohol consumption as his.

'Getinthefuckincarlike, yer daft twat.' I wasn't disap-

pointed. Mr Big occupied the latter half of the limo. This was
his haven, his made-to-measure nirvana. Everything fitted
around him like a pilot in a cockpit. His phone was a minus-
cule headset and microphone. Several screens floated in front

of him, and a keyboard-cum-remote-control was strapped

ergonomically around his waist. A drink - a gin and tonic I

think - rested on a tray, where his hand naturally lay, and he

sipped from time to time.
I have since discovered how the interior of the limo was
created. Mr Big sat in a great big vat of plaster. A delightful
brilliant-white mould was made of him, and reproduced in

foam, like some sort of joke iceberg. The limo company, in

co-operation with Lord Norbert's personal designers, created

the perfect mobile office for their paymaster, based around
the presumption that all movement was nasty.
In the beginning, he said nothing. Outside, London choked
on grey Crowds rippled past the
rain. window and the hum
was ever present.
of traffic
'Fuck off! Not now,' he shouted suddenly. I jumped,
wondering if our meeting was terminated, or worse. He
pointed at his headset by way of explanation. 'No more
calls,' he barked. I think I preferred the sensitive Mr Big who
was scared of flying.
Mr Big was holding a crumpled piece of paper between his
thumb and forefinger. I recognized it as the letter I had penned
in angry response to BTB's insults about me being an ostrich.
It was a normal-sized letter, on EF&Co headed A4, but in his

paw it looked like a postage stamp. Mr Big was rereading the

236
 '

letter, refreshing his memory and sipping his gin and tonic.
I tried to remember what I'd written. The letter had gone
off with a copy of Mr Saturday Night the day after BTB's
barracking about my finishing skills; the day after Chris Balls

launched Colin on Fun FM. So it was written prior to the

Valentine's night massacre, when me and BTB were still a
living, unbludgeoned thing. I touched the painful, bruised
bridge of my nose at the memory.
Strange, I thought, how coincidences conspire to cause
such opposite outcomes. Colin's and my own relationships,

and went critical on

the dynamics that affected them, both
the same day. Satellites glancing asteroids on interplanetary
orbits. Yet Colin's glance had sent him off on a glory-bound

trajectory, through new vistas of galaxies, while mine had

sent me crumbling apart, like chalk in the vacuum of space.
Mr Big dabbed his mouth, using my letter as a napkin, before
crumpling it softly, unconsciously. I looked around for signs of
my script, wondering if he wanted the copy I had brought.
'You helped me, Riley,' he said. 'First flight for a long time,
and you helped me through it. I never forget help. On a plane
again today, you know.'
'Really?' I said, nervously banal.

'Yes, fuckin' really, think I'd joke about it? Fuckin' planes.
I hate the bastards. Jesus! What're you doing today?'
.'
'Er . .

'Wanna come to Rio?' Mr Big's moon of a face lit up at the

spontaneous thought.
'Well ... I, er, sort of have things planned. I haven't got a
passport,anyway'
'Course not. Not lost your firefly, anyway, so why the hell
would you want to chase mine round bloody Brazil for me?'
'Well, it's not that, I just
—
'Not what? Got married, didn't you, Riley?'
'Er . . . no . . . Well, we were going to ... I mean, I asked,
but she left . . . last week, so it's all off.'

237
 'WHAT! What did I tell you on the plane, you twat?'
'Urn . . . not to miss my chances, Lord Norbert, sir,' I

stammered nervously.
'Damn fuckin' right, and call me Norb, not Lord fuckin'
anything.'
'Well, that's why I'm here, that's why I sent the script.' I

held up the envelope, shakily.

'What script?' His pasty face crinkled with confusion.
'Urn . . . with the letter. Mr Saturday Night. I've got a spare
one here, if you want it.' A big mitt swiped the envelope from
my hands, ripped off the brown paper and glanced at the
cover before flicking through the pages.
'Oh . . . this . .
.' He seemed to recognize the words.
'Yeah, you know, I didn't want to miss the opportunity for

you to see it.'

'Daft fucker. I'm not your opportunity, I'm not the chance
you don't want to miss. Stupid southern pillock, more stupid
than bloody monkey hangers or the bloody aristotwats in the

House of Lords.'
'You're not my chance?' I repeated, trying not to excite the
unstable Mr Big.

'This is a shit script.' He opened the window and threw the

clump of pages out.
'Oi, what the hell?' I could see my pages scattering in the
wind and rain across Shaftesbury Avenue.
'I've read better wank mags.'
'But I . . . you . .
.' Mr Big must have seen the bemused fear

and confusion written across my face. And maybe, just maybe

he could see a bit more besides. Maybe he could see the sadness
below. He cocked his head to one side and raised his hands in a

calming gesture. I wasn't sure if he was calming himself, or me.

He leant towards me. 'You've got talent, lad, sure, but that
pretentious bollocks isn't worthy of my sphincter.' He said this

gently, as if it was well-earned praise. He shifted back in his

chair and folded his arms. I sat, awkwardly, not sure what to

238
say or where to look. After a while I made eye contact. Mr Big's
curious button eyes were framed by inquisitively raised eye-
brows, waiting for something. After a while, I realized they

were waiting for me. Awaiting my explanation.

'What? You want me to tell you what happened?' I was
unsure, feeling my way through.
'Johnny, this film stuff is as significant as a fart' - he farted
loudly - 'compared to the big things in life. Tell me what
happened. Tell me what happened to her.' As he said the

word 'her', he cupped his big hand gently, as though holding

something fragile, small and breakable.
So I told him. He drank more gin, never offering me one,
and I told him what had happened on Valentine's Day. He
wanted the full works, even, seeing as we were near by, a trip
to Agent Provocateur in Soho. It was embarrassing enough the
first time round, without a return visit accompanied by Norb.
I know I shouldn't have listened to Maddy, but I did. It was
Friday the thirteenth, predictably, and I was already late for

a night out at the dogs with Ratty and Stef. I blustered into
the trendy lingerie shop, just off Berwick Street, red-faced
and out of breath, determined to buy the best present I could
for BTB. Sexy underwear said all the right things; it said, 'I
still fancy the pants off you after all these years.' It said, 'We

might be about to become husband and wife, but we can still

shag like rabbits and laugh and love and lust and enjoy.' BTB
had gone to St Helens in a rage, and would be back on
Valentine's Day, for what, I decided, would be the dog's

bollocks of a romantic night.

'Can I help you?' The assistant looked like she'd stepped

out of the imagination of a schoolboy. I felt as though I'd

been caught with my hand on the top shelf at the

newsagent's, standing on tiptoes. My cheeks burned and

tingled, my eyes flitted from item to item, trying to avoid
alightingon anything and revealing an unhealthy interest in

waspies, PVC, or the assistant's cleavage.

239
 'Would it be a Valentine's present, sir?' How astute, I

thought, but, looking around the small shop at the handful of

blushing men being assisted, I realized it was an easy guess.
'Urn . . . I, er . .
.' I stammered, wondering what the form
was. The shop's policy was to assist lone men and leave other
shoppers to sort themselves out. A couple browsed together,
tittering, experimenting, pushing back boundaries. A stylish,

understated woman in her forties was left to shop un-

disturbed, and had already gathered an armful of silk.
I quickly realized why this was the policy. Without assis-

tance, I would have cut my losses and done a runner. Maybe

because of the beguiling array of sizes, combinations, styles
and patterns, or just the sheer embarrassment. I'm pretty sure
me, and most of the men in the shop, would suddenly have
thought, Hmm, come to think of it, chocolates are a damn
fine idea. But now I was captured, cuffed to the bedpost.
'Girlfriend? Wife?' The tall assistant had hair like
Cleopatra, cut in stark lines and angles. Her pale face was
lost to violently scarlet liquid lips, which looked so full they
might explode at any second, without warning.
'Fiancee,' I said, bizarrely. It was a word I'd never used, but
somehow it arrived unwanted spittle.
on my tongue like

'Tying the knot ... in, er ... in May,' I elaborated, and real-
ized I was trying to remove all threat from my situation. I was
saying, We may be in an underwear shop, you are indeed a
very attractive lady, my, that is a short skirt you are wearing,
but I am not, I repeat not, weird, nor am I up for it.
'Good for you,' she said indifferently. 'Now, does she like
crotchless, or G-string?' I gulped. Somehow, over the next ten
minutes, we managed to select a bra and knickers. I steered a
course, with stoic determination, towards the discreet and
away, as far as possible, from the gauche.
'No, no, she's just not the pink leopard-skin type. Yes, I

know it looks good when you drape it over you like that,

but . .
.' It all got fairly difficult when it came to sizes.

240
 'So those are the small panties? With the crotch?'
I nodded firmly.
'And her bra size?'

I swallowed and panicked. How could I not have thought

to check this out? How could I have left the house without
quickly peeking in a drawer?
'My sort of size?' The assistant, thoroughly enjoying my
awkwardness, cupped her own breasts proudly.
'Urn, yes,' I said, not knowing what else to say.
Mr Big rubbed the steamed-up car window pane, peering
at the shop front of Agent Provocateur. The rain blurred the
view. Eventually, he pushed a button and the window slid
down. By now I was used to the constant rubbernecking
caused by Norb's blue whale of a car. He squinted at the win-
dow display, which centred around a giant, fluffy strapped
stiletto and a diamante whip. Estimating that the doorway
was a little too small for Norb, we decided to remain limo'd,
saving me a repeat red-faced performance. I thought I could
just make out the assistant who had belittled me, peeking out
of the doorway and pointing at me and Mr Big. Stuff that up
your crotchless knickers, flubber lips, I thought, trying to
look as though I was sitting in my everyday car.

We headed south, towards Gatwick, veering west to

Clapham Common on another diversion, so that Mr Big could
soak up the atmosphere as I told him about Colin's triumph.

'And he's your friend?' Mr Big bounced excitedly in the

back, testing the car's suspension.
'Yes . . . Yes, he is.'

'Now there's a man committed to his cause.' It didn't take

much explaining. Norbert, like me and BTB and everyone
else in the world, had seen it all unfold on TV.
With relative secrecy, Interflora had sponsored Colin's
attempt to create a world-record-winning bouquet of flowers
on Clapham Common, appropriately, on Valentine's Day.
Trishwas kept occupied by her mother all day, before Fun

241
FM's eye-in-the-sky helicopter arrived in Croydon at around
about teatime. Trish's reaction to the 200-yard-square
bouquet was caught live on camera and beamed out to
millions of homes on the early-evening news. 'Colin & Trish,
4 ever' was picked out in white among the field of roses,
tulips and carnations. Colin, meanwhile, wearing an
Interflora T-shirt, Sun hat and Fun FM stickers, was being
interviewed on the ground as Trish descended. 'Any last
words before you see Trish, Colin?'
'I love her, and, you know . . . that's all that matters. I just

hope she'll have me back.' Colin turned to speak directly to

camera, tears welling up in his eyes. 'This is it, Trish. Have
me back. I'm sorry I was a plonker, just take me back on
Valentine's Day.'
With the world's media tuned in, the chopper landed, Trish
and Colin rushed towards each other and she leapt into his
arms, twirling around and around. It was perfect television.
Colin was a natural. All of his junking out on crap TV and
B-movies, his tabloid training and his addiction to American
daytime talk shows paid off in that moment. Colin had an
absolute understanding of what the mass psyche wanted to
see.

Lord Norbert wept, openly, as I recounted the story to him

once more. I remembered how BTB had also sobbed help-

lessly through the Valentine's Day news. 'It's lovely,' she

repeated, over and over.
'But it's all staged, set up, faked,' I protested.
She sobbed more, muttering things like, 'That just sums
you up, Johnny Riley. How could you think that? Look how
much he loves her.'
'And he's your friend?' repeated Lord Norbert, using my
letter to blow his nose.

'He's an usher . . . Sorry, he was going to be an usher at my

wedding,' I corrected myself, bringing yet more sobs from
Norbert.

242
 'One day, perhaps I could meet him; he seems to me a very
special individual.' I realized, in his words, that reality is

irrelevant. Colin had become Mr Lover-Lover. He was

now the most romantic man in Britain, if not the world. My
was inconsequential. The
view, the real view of Colin Carter,
media and the public, Mr Big and even BTB, didn't want to
know about the real Colin, they wanted the hype and in-
vention. That's what they wanted and that's what they got.
You had to give it to him, Colin might have sacrificed his
dignityand transformed himself into a national hero of Eddie
the Eagle ilk, but he had achieved his goal. He had, for the
time being, at least, won back Trish's heart and salvaged his
marriage. There can be few worthier causes.
Now, I guess I can't blame Colin for my result, but science
does reason that, for every action in the universe, there is an
equal and opposite reaction.
I had good motives, too. All I was trying to do was breathe
a little oxygen on the fast-fading flames of me and BTB. I'd
planned a Valentine's night that would snuff out all doubt
from BTB's mind. It would be a celebration designed to leave

her with unwavering certainty about me, about us and our

togetherness. At once an apology and an announcement of
the arrival of the new Johnson Riley. Johnson the husband,
Johnson the hunter, the provider, the anti-arse.

Between Clapham and Gatwick I explained about the

Valentine's night massacre to Mr Big. Outside, through
the rain, the low-level south-west terraces thinned out,
replaced by bands of council blocks. on the M25's
Later,

graceless boundaries, the scenery became large mock-Tudor

semis and big detached houses with misplaced delusions of
the country estate. The traffic was always slow, the driving
unrushed and comfortable. The gentle rock, the scent of
leather, the engrossed captive audience, created the perfect
environment to tell my story. I found it a release, cathartic,

but I suppose that was how he wanted me to feel. Maybe

243
Lord Norbert felt some debt to me after the Barcelona flight?

Maybe he really was a wandering saint of missed oppor-

tunity. A man possessed by his own loss and obsessed with
averting the suffering of others.
BTB had escaped to the comforts of her family at the tail-

end of the week. I did nothing but frustrate her, so she had to
leave. Our relationship was left hanging by the tiniest of

threads. After visiting her mum and dad on Thursday and

Friday, BTB arrived back with me as irritated and angry as a
rash, after the long drive. She'd been listening to the Colin
and Trish story unravelling during the day on the car radio.
On her return, she was interested in nothing but watching TV
and trying to get through to Trish on the phone. BTB
wandered around the house saying, 'They're so lucky,'
shaking her head and sobbing, 'I'm so happy for them.' Then
she'd look at me, or shove Muttley out of her way with her
shin, tutting and cursing.
Her mood could not have been clearer, or more ominous,
if worn a sandwich board painted with the words 'I'm
she'd
pissed off on the front and 'I hate Johnny' on the back. But,
somehow, yet again, I had the incompetence to ignore all the
warning signs. I didn't mean to, I wasn't being a knob, I just
didn't want to inflame anything. Not blind, but with my eyes
tight closed. I know this is always a dangerous game to play,

but I'll choose the safety of silence above the hazard of direct
action any time. Muttley knew the score, and sensibly went
into hiding.
While BTB had fumed and stormed and battered around
the house, before finally buggering off to her parents, I'd real-
ized something. I may have been silent, I may have avoided
confrontation like a coward, but I had been through an
awakening. I had watched BTB. Watched her green eyes
smoulder and spark, watched her pale fists clench and flail,
watched her lips drain of blood as they pressed tense to keep
a coiled and sprung tongue. The colour, speed and dizzy

244
effort of observing made me think of a dragonfly trapped in
a glass house.
What I'd realized was wanted to keep
simple. It was that I

her. I wanted her to be mine. And every angry movement,

every thump of dragonfly on glass, made me more aware of

my certainty. Do you remember the genie in the cartoon, The
Arabian Knights} He would clap his hands and say 'size of an
elephant' and 'speed of a cheetah' in a deep voice, and then
morph into that creature? Well, you might think I had met
this genie years ago and he'd said 'speed of a snail' or 'mental

agility of a sprout', and I was still waiting for the effects to

wear off. I confess, I have not been quick off the mark. It's

been a meandering realization of the preciousness of BTB. A

dithering, dawdling, reluctant proposal; a feeble crawl across
the line to finally understand how much I wanted to catch
and keep my angry dragonfly, and yet, for me, it was an epic
awakening, an evolutionary leap of the scale of sight, or
flight, or consciousness.
But what could I to do? To catch her in my hands was to be
stung. To leave her alone was to allow her to batter herself to
death on the glass. And to open a window was to lose her for
ever.

I should have tackled BTB on Thursday, when she abruptly

informed me she was off to see the Mersey Mafia - probably
to get a contract put out on my head. She didn't invite me and
I didn't argue. Thinking back, watching her on the white tiles

of the kitchen as she said, 'I'm off to Mum and Dad's for a

couple of days,' she was probably angling for a fight. I should

have clocked the tight tendons in her neck, should have real-

ized she wanted passion and disapproval. She probably

wanted to hear, 'What the hell do you mean? What about
me? Aren't I bloody invited?' Or 'But it's Valentine's Day on
Saturday. When
you be back?' Something, anything
will but,

'Oh that means I can go to the dogs with Ratty and

. . .
Stef

Friday night,' which is what she got.

245
 I should have tackled her at any of a thousand obvious
moments over the previous week, during which BTB had
spoken to me in little more than monosyllabic grunts. I now
know she was trying to produce a response, trying desper-
ately to cattle prod my cow's hide of a skull into action. But
I chose to say nothing, do nothing. Well done, Johnny, that's
got to rank up there with, 'Nah, can't be an iceberg,' in the
league of things you shouldn't ignore.
The trouble was, I knew I'd done something wrong, and I

reckoned if you put all of the hundreds of errors, mistakes

and misjudgements into a big boiling pot of fuck-up stew,
you could reduce the bubbling mess down to the two real
problems driving BTB's anger.
Either Ruth had told her about Maddy and she was about
to confront me, or this was more aggro about my wedding
failure. Either way, I had a single, fail-safe plan, which was to
blow her away with Valentine's night and tackle the issues

later.

A poor response to both problems, I agree. I should've

known better. I honestly thought that, if I created the right
environment, I'd have a better chance of explaining myself. I

would take the blank canvas of our pine-floored, open-plan

living room, and convert it into something magical. I thought
that if I could cloak her in candlelight, prime her with sooth-
ing music, subtle wine and pleas for forgiveness from the
moment she sat down, then might avoid disaster. I
I just

might side-step the sting in her tail by telling the truth about
me and Maddy.
didn't know she was about
I to go nuclear, did I? I didn't
know she was at boiling point.
She ignored my little Saturday night insect trap, pretending
not to even notice me laying the table and decorating the
room with an army of candles, as she finally made contact
with Trish.
'. . . It's wonderful, darling . . . Yes, isn't he a superstar . . .

246
You're so lucky having him.' She glanced at me for the first
time that day, with an acid look that caused me to flinch. She
carriedon talking: 'Oh, I'm OK No, he hasn't No . . . . . . . . .

No, I'm not surprised ... I think I'll have to, as usual.' She
walked the phone upstairs to the bedroom, shutting the door
behind her. I heard Muttley squeal, discovered in his hiding
place, and pad downstairs glumly, pausing to give me a dour
this-is-your-fault-Johnny look, before flopping into his bas-
ket gloomily.
Later, once she was all gabbled out with Trish, BTB
returned, another layer of hardened anger set over her face
like fired clay. She ignored the clanging and clattering noise I

made in the kitchen, banging pots and pans around in a

desperate look-at-me-Pm-doing-something-nice effort.
She sat down at the table reluctantly, pushing my gift-

wrapped present to one side. She shovelled the smoked

salmon around her plate and downed her champagne in one.
I raised my glass too late.
'Happy Valentine's, sweetheart.' That was it. The
detonator. That sentimental soundbite was like dropping a
bomb into a fault line, or sticking your thumb up the arse of
a bull. BTB went on one. off
'Johnny, open your eyes, you stupid little boy. We've had
it.' BTB pushed her food away.
'Well, that's what I . .
.' I tried to find rehearsed lines.
'We don't speak. When we do, we row. The wedding's a
complete farce. You spend your time either trying to get away
from me, or hiding behind Mr Saturday Night, or just not
being here, Johnny.' The accusations were racking up too
quickly and I couldn't keep pace.
'Hang on, slow down . . . I . . . It's not that bad.' This was
not how I'd planned things.
'Johnny ... I don't want to marry you. I don't know you
any more, and I'm not sure I even love you. '
It was a soul-
destroying trio of statements and it stopped me in my tracks.

247
My rehearsals, my thought-through lines and apologies, were
blown away like dust from a gravestone. 'J.
Riley, born
1969', it said below, as the wind whistled.
'But I . .
.' I looked around, trying to find perspective, try-

ing to find something to cling to, to stop me spiralling

downward. 'But I bought you a present.' I pointed at the

gaudily wrapped box on the table.
Even as she opened it, I began to realize the inappropriate-

ness of the present. The terrible timing and the triviality of

the contents.
'And what's in a present, Johnny? Some material crap?
Isn't our problem a little deeper than Oh, Agent . . .

Provocateur.' She recognized the pink box and seemed to

twitch suddenly. 'Maddy's favourite shop. What a co-
fucking-incidence Johnny.' I juddered nervously, as though a
whole congregation had walked over my grave. I swallowed,
thinking of the implications, trying to find an escape, an
answer. BTB was ripping the box open and tearing at the

black crepe paper violently.

'Well, Johnny, what when our relationship is on the

better
rocks than some cheap, whory red bra and knickers.'
. . .

BTB's serene pale face was gone, lost, unrecognizable behind

the contorted, violent replacement. She stood, holding the
bra and panties against her body. 'Is this what you want,

Johnny? what
Is they
thiswear in your nasty pornographic
magazines? Is that how you want me to look for you? Shove
my bum in the air and stick my tits in your face? Is that it,
Johnny? My, how fucking deep.'
I was silent, watching the red silk blur into BTB's face,
veins pulsing, eyes burning, voice shaky and breaking. Again,
maybe intervention was what she wanted. Maybe for me to
stand and try to hold her, control her, interrupt and explain
myself was what she wanted. But, to me, that looked as safe
as stroking an injured tiger. So I stayed, pathetically rooted,
potato-like.

248
 'Eight years down the pan and your answer is that I dress
up like . . . like fucking Maddy.' The word carried a sharp
spiny emphasis, as BTB's lips spat it like venom and I cowed.
'Your solution is a quick shag, is it, Johnny?' She looked at
me, pausing for a response for the first time.
'I . was a chance, an opportunity to try to put things
.
.' It

right. was too slow, missing it like the hairline slash of

But I

a shooting star that someone else wishes upon.

'Shall I put them on now, Johnny? Maybe a good fuck right

here on the table will sort us out?'

'No I was about to launch into my series of apologies
. .
.'

and explanations, but the pause was too brief for my

strangled mind. Last chance lost to BTB's anger-powered,
chainsaw mind.
'No . want to have sex? Why? Because we
. . no, you don't
never have sex any more, do we, Johnny?'
I managed to shake my head, hoping it was the right thing

to do.
'But then, that must be because I don't look like a whore.
Is that it, Johnny?'
'No I . . . . .
.'

'Mind you, why should you care? You probably wank

away happily to yourself with Colin's porn, isn't that right,
Johnny?'
'No . .
.' I tried to keep up with the non-stop barrage of
questions, exploding like flak clouds all around me.
'No? You don't wank?' She was on an unstoppable melt-
down, a one-woman cavalry charge. 'Don't wank? Don't have
sex with me? My, what do you do with all that testosterone,

Johnny?' She paused for impact. For a second, we were inside

the eye of the hurricane. The silence settled, feathers after a

pillow fight. My snail brain caught up with what she was
going to say.

'Oh, let me guess, you're fucking Maddy, aren't you? And

I bet she loves this cheap shit, loves playing the whore. Does

249
 '

she wear this for you, Johnny?' She waved the red silk.

'Does she wear this while you take her from behind? Does

she you up and sit on your face?' It was like watching a

tie

demonic possession as she spat and swore.

'No . . . there's nothing
—
'Don't deny it, Johnny, what do you take me for? I know
it's true, you bastard. Ruth told me all about you and Maddy.
Why don't you give this to her? She loves it. In fact . .
.' For
the first time, BTB looked at the underwear closely, scrutin-

izing the label on the bra; her reaction was damn

like a

bursting. 'In fact . .

.' Hot, prickly tears streamed down her
distorted face, as if it was final confirmation of the truth, the
last damning piece of evidence. Finally, all of BTB's doubt
and anger welled up inside her like lava, overflowing the
brim and releasing itself in a huge melancholy back-draught.
Between deep, lurching sobs, she managed to say weakly, it's

her size anyway, Johnny.' With the same will-lost resignation,

she threw the underwear at me. it's her size, Johnny. Did you
get our presents mixed up?' She sniffed. 'Or is this an outfit
she's already got?' BTB had backed against the wall, leant
and raised her arms to cover her face. She looked like a lost

little girl. I decided to make my move, my gesture.

Standing and moving towards her, I said, it's not like that.

There's nothing between me and Maddy.' I reached out to try

to hold her shoulders, shaking in time to her sobs. 'You

should know that. For God's sake, she's your friend. I mean,
just ring Maddy. Ask her.'

'Don't you dare touch me, Johnny.' BTB's tiny fist rose like
a startled bird and jabbed the bridge of my nose, sending a
sudden rush of pain through my head. Raising my hand to
my nose, the blood filled my palm. 'Now get out. Get the
fuck out of my life, Johnny Riley,' she said coldly. I stood,
stunned and motionless. 'Johnny, I'm leaving you. Now get
out,' she repeated.

250
Looking outside, the rain had stopped. Everything was the
colour of lead. Inside, Mr Big's cheeks were wet and his
button eyes were red-rimmed, like wounds. The car stopped
outside the entrance to the Gatwick Express. A plane flew
low overhead and Mr Big looked nauseous. I wondered who
would help the now-drunk bulk through his troubled
journey. The door unlocked automatically. 'I'll be back. And
if you have not recaptured her, then I will take your silly little

neck in my hands and throttle you as though you were a

sparrow. Do you hear?' I nodded, confused by the sudden
change of tone from Norbert. I got out hurriedly.
'What about the script? Shall I rewrite it? Do a new one?'
I remembered the reason, or at least my reason, for our
meeting.
'Fuck the script, lad, it was bollocks.' A vast hand grabbed
me by the collar of my crumpled grey suit, hooking a finger
into a buttonhole, and holding me there in a vice. 'Firefly.

Catch it, Riley. She sounds too precious, too fleeting. Get her
back ... OR I'LL RIP OUT YOUR TONGUE WITH MY
PINKIE!'
He let go and pulled the door shut. I stood, shocked, on the
pavement. This was not a peaceful saint. This was an axe-
The car began
wielding crusader. to pull away, then stopped
and reversed back towards me. I considered running. The
window opened once again, and Mr Big peered out, proffer-
ing another of his rare business cards. 'And perhaps you
would give this to your friend, Colin. I think there may be a
film in him.' The window shut and the car pulled away. I

watched it roll around a long, slow corner in the distance.

I stood on the pavement in the cold, and the mobile I'd

clutched all afternoon in the same hand rang. I recognized the

number on the display. 'Hello, Mum, you're not going to
believe what's just happened to me.'
Mum sounded weary, and fixed on forcing out her words
rather than listening to mine. 'Granny Victor's died, Johnny.

251
I'm sorry, love. She passed away just a few hours ago, this
morning, at the hospital. Her heart finally gave in. Dad was
with me.'
I stood in the rain, looking for somewhere to shelter, some-
where to sit, listening to Mum. 'We were there together, your
father I. He was lovely,
and Johnny, your father. I was proud
of Henry. He just held her hand and mine, and encouraged
me to tell Mum stories of how happy I'd been as a child. And
he told us both how hard he'd tried to win her over when he
was courting me, and how he knew she'd disapproved. But
that he was glad he'd never let me go. She smiled when he
told her he'd always look after me, and that she should for-

get about our arguments, as we would always be together.

And she asked after you, Johnny. Said we should all look
after each other,and that you were a good lad, even though
you reminded her of Dad and Jonah. And that you mustn't
let that young lady of yours get away; she said she was far

too special.'
I don't know how long I stayed on the pavement, in the
cold, listening to Mum. I don't know when I started, or

stopped, crying. Nor when I finally said goodbye, and that

I'd be there as soon as possible, sounding brave for Mum.
I could think of only one place of safety. I knew the land-

scape, the geography, of BTB's body as if I had created it

myself. But there was one special place, the place at the base
of her throat, that delicate hollow between her collarbones.
And knew, I knew
I after eight years, that I could rest the base
of my own chin in that hollow, and slot my crown beneath
her chin, and there feel an all-encompassing comfort that
must be equivalent to the completely protective surroundings
of an unborn child. BTB would blow on my cheeks and
stroke my eyelashes with her fingertips, and there, nothing
could harm me. I stood on the pavement and wept for my
hollow, my place of safety.

252
Departed

I'd never been a pall-bearer before. Never carried the delicate,

morbid calling card in the top pocket of my best suit jacket
before. A black-crossed reminder of the position you
should take when the time comes and the priest calls your
number.
The responsibility of the role weighed heavily, distracting
me from my grief, from the cold facts of the situation,
smooth pebbles in my pockets. The setting, too, defied
expectations. The Cornwall cemetery crowned a small hill, a
good hundred yards from the church and its original
crowded ground, on the edge of the town. An overflow, built
to accommodate the war dead, the stone dyke-walled grave-
yard already jostled with headstones.
Beforehand, I'd imagined it all as dramatic, funereally
majestic. Imagined rain and greyness, imagined tolls and
tears and slow movements. But our small gathering of family
and friends was bathed in spring sunshine like a bank holiday
break. Buds clumped and edged nervously at the walls and
beds, the fresh smell of thewind carrying the taste of the sea,
the ever-present gulping of gulls. It was light and bright, with
a pale-blue sky and a white, uncertain sun which lit the sea
with silver.

was the first time I'd seen BTB since I'd found out about
It

Granny Victor. I'd seen her arrive, graceful and pale in a

253
formal black suit, flanked by her father and two tougher
brothers, Jack and Paddy. Leaving them at the back of the
church, she slipped like a whisper into the pew next to me,
gently pushing a gloved little finger into my clutched angry
hands.
Through the bellyful of emotional sickness, through the
memories of Granny Victor, I realized I owed her something
additional in death. Only a happening this severe could have
impacted upon my floundering relationship. We weren't
speaking. I had moved out. BTB was on the verge of dis-
mantling everything, unpicking the threads of our
togetherness.
We had spoken, of course. Eventually, the day after I'd
found out about Granny Victor, BTB had called me on the
mobile, when I was already rattling on a train to Cornwall.
Sat at Gatwick, in the rain, the night before, I had tried her

everywhere - at home, at Ruth's, at Trish's, at her parents' -

without success. Devoid of my hollow, I had packed and left

for Cornwall, in autocoma-shock.

'Johnny, I'm so sorry.' Strangely, in the rock of the carriage
across the Bristol plains, her voice brought no comfort,
purely because it was so distant.

'Where the fuck were you?' A shocked old lady opposite

shuffled as I swore.
'Johnny, I'm sorry I wasn't in. I'm sorry I wasn't there,
but . .
.'

'Where were you?'

'Johnny, I'm sorry, I'll be with you as soon as I can.'

She refused to answer, and I still didn't know where she'd

gone that evening. Where to and why my guardian, my safety
net, had suddenly disappeared. I still didn't know, but sus-
picion clouded my mind, like a shadow on an X-ray. I spoke
to her over the days leading up to the funeral and she con-
tinued to sidestep my question and, as a result, to spite her, I

put her off coming to Cornwall.

254
 'Don't bother, I don't need you there,' I'd said, stubbornly,
the reverse in my mind. In the event, she'd ignored me and
spoken to Mum, who had insisted she come down, and knew
that I'd need her.
BTB threaded her arm through mine and walked with me
behind the hearse, from the church to the grave. 'I'm glad
you're here,' I said. Ahead of us, Mum and Dad braced each
other.
'I couldn't not be, Johnny. She was an extraordinary
woman.' She reached up, stroking the haphazard fringe from
my eyes.
'What about us?' I asked. 'Are we OK? You know.' I tripped
on my words, but she knew what I was asking. She knew, in

my wordless way, I was asking if we were together, if we were

getting hitched or not. She smiled gently and turned her head
into my shoulder, tightening her hold on my arm.
'Let's talk about it later, Johnny.' I determined not to waste
precious moments with BTB being vague. This could be a
final chance to straighten things out, to be direct and ask
those ugly questions lurking in the back of my mind before it

was too late. Today, BTB would hear only the essentials, only
the black stuff left behind when all the water was boiled
away.
Like the beach, like the fields and cliffs and crannies
around Cawsand, the cemetery was yet another place of mis-
spent youth. An escape place from adult eyes, to indulge in
things adult. We used to call it Boot Hill, but I don't think I

ever realized where I'd stood. Alone, or with friends or girl-

friend, trysts and truants, we had looked hard, looked so

hard it hurt, but never at the ground beneath our feet. Always
elsewhere: deep into the eyes of the latest love, words poetic,
mind on the brassiere catch. Surreally, into puff-smoke
clouds, making shapes from nothing, no sense of the
preciousness of time. Longingly, at the crack of sea/sun
horizon in the distance, aiming for beyond, bored of the here

255
and now. Profoundly, at the speckled vast everness of stars, a
hunger for the unanswerable. Pupil-stretched, at whisky and
cider and cigarettes and solvents, at grass and resin, at porn
and football cards. But never to the soil, never considering
the significance of the place. Back then, it was simply shelter,
a wall, a seat, a haven from the wind whipping off the sea.
Now it would always be the place where the memory of
Granny Victor lay. Now the clutter of granite and marble
clamoured for attention, stating names and lives in chiselled
summary, distilled to simplicity.

In loving memory of Victoria Elizabeth Stephenson,

born 1902, died 1999, wife of Jonah James Stephenson,
born 1892, died 1968, leaving a daughter, Janet.

In twenty-three words the unimaginably huge catalogue of

a life. But what really was the sum total of Granny Victor?
Granny Victor, who'd latterly lost her marbles and sworn at
me comically, who'd scolded and spanked the living daylights
me as a six-year-old, left a dying blue bony
out of cat called
Wedgwood behind, like a ghost. Despised the liberated
thoughts of the generations below her own. Taught me the
ivory secrets of mah-jong with a tender patience. Nursed me
tirelessly through a fever when I was ten. Married a man ten
years her senior, who'd swept her off her feet and drank him-
self to death. Seen a world without cars, danced with King
Edward, journeyed on the QE2 and refused, with her hus-
band, to accept that men had ever landed on the moon or
evolved from apes.
Sentences from a single perspective on a life; like one tiny
surface among the millions on a random hunk of quartz.
The reality, the heaviness of coffin, the body, as you lower,
cord through hand after hand, is the exhalation of finality. If,

against the odds, you haven't considered what is happening,

it is then that it brutally registers. You know that you are

256
lowering the totality of a previous existence into the cold
earth. The on your palm, which runs through your
strain
arms and into your shoulders, is caused by nothing but body
and bone and casket. Nothing but Granny Victor.
That was the point at which I lost it, stepping back into the
space beside BTB, my chin quivering, shoulders shuddering,
the brevity of life, the importance of living, being, doing,
loving, spinning around my bead.
BTB placed me in her hollow and the tears flowed. My
thoughts and emotions converged on the concern that the life

cycle of a dragonfly is unimaginably fractional.

'It's not right. We're not right apart,' I mumbled.
'No . . . no, Johnny, I can't stand it, either.' I was sure I

could see hope and relief in her eyes, too. Sure I could sense
that she, like me, wanted, needed repair.

'Are you staying?' I whispered hopefully, through the

embrace.
'For the wake? Or do you mean after, Johnny?' she
answered.
'Both,' I said.

'I'm going home with Dad and the boys tonight, but I'll

stay a while, Johnny. I guess we need to talk. Are you all

right?' She held me back, her hands on my shoulders, look-

ing me up and down to see if I passed the test.
'Yeah. Yeah, I think so.' I rocked back, legs rubbery, body
dislocated.
Around me, the dark suits and powdered faces dispersed

softly.Dad, formal and stiff, was thanking the priest and

shaking hands with a few mourners. Mum stood near by,
looking other-worldly.
'I'm just going to see Janet, Johnny. You sure you're
OK?' Standing in the bright light, I watched BTB touch my
mother lightly on the shoulder, watched Mum smile
suddenly, revived, and overheard their conversation from a
distance.

257
 'I am glad you're back together. So pleased. Mother was so
happy you were to be married.' Mum glanced at me as she
spoke. BTB's words, out of earshot and lost in the wind,
escaped me. For once I was pleased to have Mum's direct
approach, the same approach that had embarrassed me so
often as a child: 'My Johnny seems quite taken with your
daughter, Mrs Giblets. '
Secret love instantly shattered.
I watched BTB comfort Mum, and then Dad, who joined
them and let BTB hug him, possibly pulling an unseen tear,

glimmering in the sunshine. I noticed Clark, the orange

neighbour, looking edgy and well pressed in his best suit. He
hovered uncertainly on the boundaries of the family, before
reconsidering and fading back into the crowd, leaving my
family to our grief for the time being.
Standing in the graveyard, having laid a batty, magnificent
woman to rest, I knew now, more than ever, my needs. All
these stones covered lives, the brutal basics. A headstone
bearing nothing more than twenty words or so: born, died,
wife, children. That's all. Not born, died, wife, children, four
girlfriends at school, two at college, EF&tCo and a couple of
mediocre film scripts. And why not? Why no elaboration?
Because life is the simple things. Life is births, marriages and

deaths. And that can be beautiful or tragic, absurd or

mundane.
And on the wet trampled grass ahead of
there, standing
me, was my life. The three adults chatting and consoling, the
sea glittery in the distance - that was my headstone, my
simple summary.
About to walk over to join them, I became aware of a
presence at either shoulder. Two too-close overcoats.
'Jack, Paddy. How are you?'
BTB's brothers nodded, muttering politely. 'Sorry about
your grandmother.' We stood in a row, silently, hands held
respectfully to our front, heads bowed. Jack stepped aside
and I felt a powerful lean hand grip my right shoulder,

258
vice-like. I didn't need to turn to know who it was. Gerry
Donnelly leant in close and whispered, 'At times like these
family becomes important, eh, lad?' The whiff of whisky and
the deep rattle in his throat were familiar.
'Mmm,' I said solemnly.
'You join our family and we'll always be there for you, lad,

you know that?' he continued.

'Thank you,' I said weakly.
'Nothing to do with you, son, but that's my daughter over
there. She's upset, I'm upset. She's happy, I'm happy.
Understand?' His hand gripped more tightly.

'Yes . . . yeah, I understand,' I said, shoulder buckling

slightly. I tried not to grimace as BTB, Mum and Dad waved

at us from the far side of the grave. Mr Donnelly waved with
his free hand.
'Wave, lads.' The two brothers and myself waved
awkwardly.
'Be right over,' he shouted, before finishing, whispering
throatily in my ear. 'Now, I don't know what you've done to
my daughter, but I do know that if it's something you can't
fix, you'll need fixing yerself soon enough. But like I say, if

marrying you makes her happy, and you join our family, all
you've got to do is keep her that way and we'll look out for
you, son. You understand?' He released his grip and patted
me on the shoulder.
T . . . yes I do,' I stuttered.
'Right, I'll pay my respects to your parents, lad.' He turned
to face me, his eyes wild through deep fissures, straightening
his tie and reaching out to shake my hand. 'Only met your
grandmother the once, lad, but I'll never forget her. If I get
past ninety with a pinch of her passion, I'll be happy, son.'
Temporarily blocking the sun, the three men walked slowly
away.
I paused before following, trying to unravel my thoughts
on family, on mortality and on the Donnellys. Had I just been

259
embraced, welcomed into a family? Was this the Donnelly
way of showing me respect? Or was it a straightforward
threat? Hurt my daughter and we'll hurt you. And while I
was shaken, was that so wrong? Or just natural, just flesh
and blood? As they walked into the frame of my headstone
summary and mixed with my own family, I saw the strength,
the loyalty, the permanence of the Donnelly way.

Wedgwood sat sullenly on the mantel, brittle and stubborn,

dying. Waiting for Granny Victor to return, the cat sneered at
the sherry-sipping, snack-munching crowd, gradually gaining
the confidence to talk loudly and tell stories about Granny
Victor.
With BTB on my arm, we toured the room like honorary
guests at a function. Adopting learnt stances, repeating
practised niceties, we smiled and shook hands, accepted con-
soling pats on the shoulder and hearty handshake con-
gratulations in advance of the wedding. BTB disappeared
now and then to help refill plates of sausage rolls and vol-au-
vents, while I refilled glasses with sherry and whisky.
Smoke, from cigars and pipes and the crackling fire in the
grate,rose and clouded the room. Muttley snuffled and
snuck between legs, finding treasured scraps of food or plates
and drinks, unguarded on the floor, to steal.

Grief came like tiredness, in sudden sickening waves, wear-

ingme down and blackening my eyes. was conscious of BTB I

watching me closely, concerned.

Midway through a wave, caught rubbing my eyes into their
sockets, trying to massage them back to life, I felt her catch
my arm; 'You need some fresh air. Come on, love.'
'He's happy.' BTB laughed at Muttley's capers. We sat,

entwined in the cooling light, together on an old favourite

flat rock, an overgrown, pitted lump of shortbread, sheltered

at the back of the beach. Muttley ran in circles, stopping and

starting suddenly, leaping and diving, chasing his shadow

260
and splashing in pools. Every once in a while he would return
to us, challenging us to play, head on paws, nose in the sand,

a manic look on his face, seemingly uncontrollable snorts

bursting out of him. Our breath billowed in the cold as the
little warmth the spring sun had mustered lost its heat in

the late afternoon.

'Hasn't seen us together in weeks, has he? That's what he's

dancing about,' mused, BTB's head resting on my shoulder

I

as we watched Muttley gallivanting. 'I'd be doing the same if

I thought we were permanent,' I continued, conscious of the

need to know, to 'Where were you the other night?' I

clarify.

clenched my jaw and looked hard into eyes that matched the
sea.
'When? When Granny Victor died?' The question had
hung over us all day, as if we both knew something we
wished we didn't. As if we knew a murder had been com-
mitted, or a wrong-doing done that we couldn't discuss.
'Yes.' I had a clarity of thought and action that had no need

of elaboration and waffle, rambling and disorientation. BTB

was visibly thrown by my attitude and tone, by my focus.
'With Stef,' she said, simply.
'What?' I wasn't shocked. It had to be something sinister,

something out of the ordinary, for her not to have told me

instantly. For BTB to have waited until we were face to face

and certain of one another's emotional state.

'Out with Stef, for a meal. A meal with Stef.' She held my
eye contact, knowing it was how I would measure her
truthfulness.
'What for?' I was determined not to show panic or anger
or jealousy. Determined, with my new-found certainty, to

approach this problem with appropriate discipline. I had

to give BTB the chance to defend herself that she had denied
me in the emotional furnace of Valentine's Day.
'We've been out for meals before, Johnny. He's my friend,

too, you know.'

261
 This was absolutely true. As was the fact that Stef had
never made it a secret that he fancied BTB. At times, when it

suited him or her, and in a mainly light-hearted and non-

threatening way, these sentiments were played out in public
as a joke. You know, the if-you-get-bored-of-Johnny-you-
know-who-to-call crack.
'What happened?' I held my calm, looking across the
waves as the sun courted the sea, toying and tempting.
'What do you mean, What happened? Nothing happened.
We ate pizzas at Pizza Express is what happened.' BTB was
firm, answering questions, holding my gaze, offering
transparency.
I sat for a long time, considering this. Out with Stef. Why
should I be even slightly bothered by this? She and Stef had
been out together a hundred times, so why should it bother
me now? It shouldn't, but something nagged, like an itch,
under a wound's new skin, something felt wrong. Maybe it

was circumstance. BTB had never been out with Stef when
she was single, when she had thrown out her fiance, whom
she'd accused of sleeping with her best friend, when she was
vulnerable. This state of mind was an unknown, for me and
for her, and importantly, particularly importantly, for Stef. I
would have felt safe if she was with Colin or Merl, just not
with Stef. It was an instinct, a character judgement. 'Look, I
need to know. I need to know that nothing happened, that it

was all platonic stuff,' I pressed.

'Johnny, it was ... it was in my mind anyway.' It was a
waver, a wobble, a lapse in concentration which I pounced
on.
'What the hell does that mean? "In my mind." What did
?'
he . . .

'Look, forget it, Johnny. Nothing happened; just leave it.'

She realized her mistake and worked hard to regain control,

closing the shutters quickly. 'Nothing, Johnny, just forget it.

Nothing happened, OK.' Palms held to my face, instructing

262
 ' '

me to drop it, to trust her. I had to. Think about my situation

here. Imagine a diplomatic incident between countries. I

simply couldn't continue my current line of questioning

indefinitely without wrecking the relationship permanently
'So you're sure you're not supplying arms to the horrible
dictatorship? You're certain? Sure? Absolutely sure?
Cross your heart and hope to die? Stick a needle .' At . .

some point you have to let go. I had to avoid condemning BTB
in the way she'd condemned me. I had to hold the moral

high ground, for there was precious little else I owned. BTB
was surprised by my directness, but the day had dragged me
that way.
'OK, I'll leave it. I trust you. I'm not sure about him, but I

trust you, and, likewise, you should trust me. Do you?' I

returned to my original plan of action.

'What, you mean you and Maddy? . . . She came over
yesterday.'
'So you know there's nothing,' I confirmed.
'I guess.' BTB squirmed, reluctantly.
'Come on.' I forced the issue.
'OK, I believe you, Johnny. I still don't know what on earth
you do over there but
—
'Look, I'll tell you want. It'll ruin the
you if
—
'The surprise. Yeah, I know, that's what she said, and for-
get it, if it's a surprise for me, fine, I trust you ... I think.' She
smiled mischievously.
'So, where does that leave us?' A bored, wet, shivering
Muttley returned, pushing himself between our legs, expect-
ing attention.
'Where do you want it to leave us, Johnny?'
'Am I moving back in? Are we getting married? Is everything
OK again?' I looked at BTB calmly, certain of my aims and
intentions. Clear on what I wanted and needed. BTB looked
confused, and I realized I'd been speaking with a different tone
and had said the 'M' word without even thinking.

263
 'Er . . . well, I, suppose . . . I . . . I'm not sure, Johnny.'
'Listen, nothing happened between me and Maddy, there's
nothing going on with me and anyone. Just you. That's it,

understand?' I held a hand to her cheek, feeling the burn of

blood vessels below the surface.
'Johnny . . . I . .
.'

'No, listen, you ran the show last time, you threw me
out without letting me get my words out, and I'm not
having it this time. Life's too short, I know that now . . .

after today. Life's way too short to let your ... to let things
go ... so ... so I know buying underwear was bollocks
but . .
.'

'It's not that.' BTB shook her head, a vague smile playing
on her lips.

'Yeah, hang on, let me finish. And I know I'm useless with
the wedding and the bills, and telling you what I think, and
being a grown-up and and everything but I'll try to be. . . . . .

better; I'll try to grow up a bit.'

Muttley barked loudly in support.

'You will?' BTB laughed, surprised by my show.
'But I'll always be Johnny Riley. You know that, don't

you?' She cocked her head and frowned a little, reminding me

of Muttley.
'I'll always be me. I'll buy you the wrong-sized bra, insult
your parents, forget our anniversary, I'll . . . I'll try, but I'll

always be me.' She looked away, watching the sunset fizzle

and creak amber and in gold.

'I don't know, Johnny ... I don't know.' She stood to walk
away.
'No.' I caught her cuff and pulled her back on to the rock,
and was met with yet another look of surprise.
'Not this time. No walking away, no having the last word,
no uncertainties. We're on, or we're not. I've lost you, or I've
got you for ever. Nothing in between.' BTB's eyes softened in
a way I'd never seen before, watery in the half-light. It was

264
the first time remembered being so determined, so resolute.
I

She melted into my arms on the rock.

'Will you marry me?' No stuttering, no Spanish, no joke.
'Yes. Yes, Johnny.'

265
Depraved

The men stood in a huddle, joking, shuffling, knocking back

the standard Oranjeboom served in the Dutch pub. The sun
was weak and grey, and the air carried the sickly whiff of
monosodium glutamate, rising from the drains, bins and
basements of the rows of Chinese restaurants on Gerard
Street.

I had to admit they'd done a fine job, Merlin and Maddy.

The hen and stag were both in Soho, kicking off on Saturday
lunchtime the week before D-Day, both separate yet inter-
woven, tacky, hip, sordid and sophisticated. A couple of
nasty lurid cocktails: a Strawberry Daiquiri for her and a
Long Island Iced Tea for me.
Thinking about was well engineered, well planned.
it, it

Maddy and Merlin must have stolen a fair amount of time

together sorting it all out. I only kind of know what
happened to the girls, but as I discovered, updates were an
all-too-vivid twist to the day. I remembered how it started -
harmless and normal, like any Saturday afternoon with the
lads.

Mixed in with the smell of rotting noodles and special fried

ricewas the scent of expectancy. Like soldiers lying in the
peaceful dawn mist of jungle grass, the certainty of battle
ahead; like cowboys draining treacle coffee from tin cups, a
cattle drive and a horizonful of rolling plains before them.

266
That was me and the boys outside De Hemms in China
Town. Me, Merlin, Ratty, Colin and Stef, all soldiers or
cowboys ... or maybe just a bunch of rough-looking lads
with a day of drunken debauchery ahead?
The men had followed their instructions, turning out in
shirts, trousers and shoes; smart enough to get into sad

establishments, trendy enough to get into cooler venues. It

was a hard call, which Merlin really had to push, especially
with Colin, who ended up being dragged out for a forced
threads-sorting afternoon. The result was that everyone
looked slightly too spangly. Slightly too well pressed and off
the shelf.
'You know, I still can't believe you won't move the bloody

wedding so we can watch the match.' Inevitably, Stef's lament

returned.
'Act of God, Stef. Can't blame Johnny it was put
back. Anyway, saves you the trouble of deciding who to

support for another week.' Merlin patiently batted the

whinges away.
'Gotta be the Eyeties, surely, Ronaldo. I'm supportin' 'em
anyways, and the only Italian in me is a touch of herpes I

caught in Tenerife.' Ratty happily catalogued his remarkably

long list of STDs given any opportunity.
'That's not Italy, Ratty, mate.' Colin stated the obvious.
'No, the bird was though ... an Eyetie, like,' he explained.
'Ratty, you'd support anyone over England. I heard you
make up some bullshit Dutch ancestry when they were past-

ing us in that friendly last September.' Colin pointed the top

of his green bottle accusingly at Ratty.
'Even the friggin' Krauts. Anyone above England,' Stefano
agreed.
Ratty shrugged. 'Och I canna help it, it's in ma blood. I

hope youse get panned next week.'

I was already bored with the ear-battering pretty much
all

the men invited to the wedding had given me in the last week

267
or so. 'Look, it was an earthquake warning, right. Blame the
friggin' Italian government, not me.' Mind you, it was more
than a minor glitch. The stag was supposed to overlap
gloriously with the match, providing a focal point, a theme.
Now it clashed cruelly with the wedding and just caused
trouble.
'Come on, Johnny. For your country, man, just bung
Father Derek a few quid and we'll pop up a big screen in the
church and start the wedding an hour and a half later, job
done.' Stef was the chief whinger.
'Johnny's tried, honest. Look, we'll keep track of the score
live, and have beers and a replay round at mine on Sunday.
Deal?' Merl loyally defended me as the lads shrugged and
muttered.
Merlin's mobile rang, 'Yup, hello love . .
.' Merlin strolled
off and sat on the dull, burnished metal barrier below the red
mini dragon gate that cordoned off China Town. Colin
whispered to me, 'Thought Ruth and him was all off.'

'Yeah it is, she's in the US. Going coast to coast in a

Cadillac with two other hairdressers.' I kept my voice low.
'Fuck! Two hairdressers in a Caddy - sounds like a film.

And Merl's back in the house. Is he OK?'

'Yeah, he seems happy as Larry. I mean, it could do with a
good clean out, and I think most of the bills are glowing on
the doormat, but I can't remember him being this happy.' It

was true, Merlin was a testimony to matrimonial failure.

'So who's this? A new woman?' Colin asked, and I

shrugged, ducking the response, but with a fairly good idea

who it What was interesting was Merlin's body
might be.
language and behaviour. He was buzzing, like he'd just
worked out or won a football match or something. Merlin
put his phone away as he returned to the group.
'Right, lads, here's where the fun starts. That was Maddy,
she knows where we are, and the girls are gonna send some-
thing over, then later on we'll repay the compliment.'

268
 'Send what over?' Stef asked.
'I don't know, that's up to them. A message, gift, who
knows. The girls get to decide, same as we will when we send
one back.'
'What? What's this all about?' I was more confused than
anyone and, on top of that, severely worried that, seeing as it
was my stag, I'd be the butt of any scams on the go. I did not
want to go home with a shaved head, or naked, or dipped in
paint or . . .

'Don't worry, Johnny boy, it'll all become clear. By the way,
your other half's having loadsa fun with some male strippers
round the corner. Who's got the kitty?' Merlin spoke matter-
of-factly while an image formed.

'Off, off, off, off!' BTB and the girls clapped and jeered as
strippers dressed as firemen (London's Yearning) waved
yellow helmets around.

Halfway through round of Oranjebooms, a dis-

the second
turbingly large, square-jawed, shiny man appeared in a cream
mac. Looking slightly uncomfortable, he seemed to be
wearing no more than a pair of trainers, a rash of lipstick
marks on either cheek and bugger all else below his beige

gabardine.
Keeping his distance, wary, shy or unsociable, he called
over, 'Johnny Riley?' I was shoved to the front of the group
as the culprit.
'Thanks, guys.' Nervously, I wondered what might be
expected of me and considered the consequences of a mad
dash up Shaftesbury Avenue. 'Just keep your mac on, big
guy,' I called, walking slowly towards the shiny man.
'I've been asked to give you this.' The stripper stayed
rooted to the spot, with no intention of taking what he must
have considered a risky step towards a group of half-cut lads
drinking heavily in the afternoon. He spoke plummily, and I

269
wondered if this was the barrel bottom in the career of a
RADA-trained actor. He handed over a flimsy white envelope
with 'The Boys' smeared in lipstick across the front. Opening
the envelope, I began to stroll back to the group, relaxing
slightly.

'One other thing,' he said. I turned, and the shiny man

furtively whipped his mac wide open, revealing a muscle-
bound, suspiciously hairless body.

'Steady, lad!' shouted Merlin, laughing.

'We don't know this man. We didn't ask him to do this,'

Colin cried out at the passers-by, tourists and shopkeepers,

who had began to pause and look on, intrigued.
'Think you huv tae work out for a physique like 'at?' Ratty
pondered, possibly to himself.
With relief, we realized it could be worse: tight rubbery
cycling shorts attempted to cover the shiny guy's crotch.
Across his stomach was a big bold cerise lipstick message.
Merlin read aloud, 'Girls just have more fu . .
.' the re-
mainder of the message was below the shorts line, and
no-one was going to ask him to reveal any more of himself.
'Reckon 'at says fun or fucks.' Ratty was always a sordid
step ahead.
'Or furniture?' Colin said thoughtfully.
Satisfied we'd had enough time to read the message, the
stripper bolted in the same direction I'd been considering
seconds before. Opening the envelope, I pulled out a fresh
Polaroid, showing BTB draped across the oiled biceps of the
five-strong London's Yearning crew. I was slack-jawed,
already feeling out-stagged by my fiancee.
'Right, lads,' Merlin rallied. 'That's it. The gauntlet has
been thrown.'

It took a good ten minutes to hatch a plan. Around the

corner, in the Trocadero, Merlin struck a deal with an instant
digital T-shirt maker. We grouped in close behind. 'Go on,

270
mate, we'll pay double.' Merlin and the shifty ginger shop-
keeper haggled.
Happy with the price, Merlin turned back to the lads. 'See,
we use these digital cameras at work, right, for brochures,
like. You can take a snap and load the shot straight onto a

PC, and then do whatever you want with it. And he's got
one.' Merlin pointed at the shifty T-shirt man. 'Normally he
uses it to superimpose, say, Johnny's face over the face
of Clint Eastwood, and then prints it off as a poster or a
T-shirt.'

'So we're gonna take a daft shot of Johnny, are we? And
print it on a T-shirt?' Colin enthused.
'Well, we could, but basically, we can do whatever the hell
we want, boys.' Merlin grinned wickedly, a plan already in
mind.
After much amusement while taking the photo, and an
argument about who would wield the big blue marker pen
essential to the shot, the T-shirt was eventually printed. Like
Maddy with her Polaroid, Merl had given plenty of advance
thought to the game, with ideas for a message and means of
delivery. 'Right, how about a stunning lap-dancer to deliver
it?'

Two phone calls later, Merlin was speaking to a Kiwi

called Tina - admin girl in Merl's company by day, moon-
lighting lap-dancer by night.
The lads looked on, open-mouthed, as a svelte blonde
woman wearing faded skin-tight denims strolled through the
arcade, spotted Merlin and pecked him on the cheek.
"Atta boy, Merl,' Ratty muttered.
'Let's send Merl off with the T-shirt and keep Tina for our-
selves,' Stef drooled.
'So I just have to wander up to these women and ask them
directions?' Tina clarified.
'Yeah, yeah, that's all. Oh, but you have to wear this.'
Tina held up the T-shirt. 'B-L-U hey, is this written on
. . .

271
your Awesome.' The lads looked on proudly as Tina
. . .

worked out that the message, in bold blue marker-penned

letters, was spelled across an ugly line-up of arses, cheek by

cheek. BLUEBOYSFC glared out from the mooning butt-

cheeks, printed in vivid technicolour on the photo T-shirt.

Ratty held up the blue pen proudly, like a trophy, and winked
at Tina. Tina examined the picture. 'Mmm, I end arse
like the

with FC on it, but BO in the middle's a bit spotty, and I think

UE is showing a little turkey.' Colin blushed. 'Easiest fifty

quid I've ever earned.' She pulled the T-shirt over her head,
and blew a goodbye kiss to Merl.
'And they're in Cafe Boheme right now?' she checked.
'That's it, Tina. Off you go, girl.' Merlin, the stagmeister
general, saluted.
Half an hour later, in the middle of a mass Formula 1 race
in Segaworld, a callcame through from Maddy. We swore
and gesticulated from our row of black bucket seats facing
flashing console screens. Merlin, losing anyway, used the
distraction as an excuse to try to call the race off.
'That's it, red flag. False start. Hello?' He fumbled with the
phone while Ratty and Colin, also too far off the pace to
have a hope of winning, joined in with the protests for a
replay.
'Bollocks!' I shouted. 'I'm winning and there's a ton riding
on this.' We'd all chucked twenty quid into a sweep.
'No surrender, I'm with Johnny, keep racing.' Stef was right
behind me, nudging my wheels on chicanes and trying to
edge past on the straights. I veered left and right, shimmying
the car on-screen to try to block Stef from overtaking.
'You bastard, Stef, that's illegal.' Stef, desperate and failing
with speed or manoeuvring, piled his nose cone into my rear

wheel on a corner and flipped me into a crowd of cheer-

ing pixels, which exploded dramatically. 'All's fair in love

and war, eh, Johnny?' Stef accelerated away, taking the
chequered flag and laughing manically.

272
 'Bastard. Shame the race was called off,' I stirred. Nothing
had been said about him and BTB, but there was an edge
between us that could slice a friendship in half.
'Uh, uh.' He shook his head. 'I won, who's got the sweep?'
'Your fiancee wants a word, Johnny.' Merlin handed
me the mobile, avoiding any argument between me and
Stef.

'It's all off.' BTB was laughing down the phone.

'What, the wedding?' A month ago, trust fractured, love
questioned, I'd have believed her.
'Yup,' she confirmed.
'Good. Why?' I chuckled.
'We've studied your T-shirt and decided that none of you
has a bum as firm or as good-looking as Gary's or, in fact,
any of London's Yearning.'
'That's not what Tina said when she was writing on them,'
I lied.

'Oh really; that'll be Tina who's joined us for a drink. I'll

just ask her, shall I?'

'Er . . . no.'
'Oh, apparently, Tina says some short Scottish bloke
seemed to quite enjoy wielding the pen! You'll be hearing
from us.' She alluded to our next delivery and hung up. I
handed the phone back to Merlin, realizing the row about the
race remained unresolved.
'Rerun,' I shouted, trying to distract my mind from the
anxiety caused by the knowledge that BTB was now drinking
with a lap-dancer and a herd of naked firemen.

'Really. Yeah, course I'll teach you how to lap-dance. We

need some more girls down at the Windmill. OK, first you
need a theme, what d'you reckon, boys?' Tina encouraged
BTB.
7 think she'd make a smashing dominatrix, don't you,
Brad?' Sebastian held his jaw in his hand as he spoke.

273
 'Nope, schoolgirl - natural freckles, blond pigtails - it's

you, it's perfect.'

'So where exactly d'ya buy flock wallpaper, like?' The booze
was taking effect now, and Merlin was happily rambling
about the first thing that came into his head. Tandoori
Dreams was decorated highly originally in dark burgundy,
fake brass and lit sympathetically for the assorted curry,
vomit and cigarette-smoke stains.

'Come on, Johnny, just admit it, yer no' really gonna shag
the same woman yer whole life, are ye?'
'Yes, Ratty.'

'Come on, I mean, I'm no' even sure the entire female gen-

der can satisfy me.' I frowned at Ratty, presuming he was

considering bestiality. 'Look, just imagine I'm yer psy-
chologist, what are you gonna say now?'
'The same.'
'Shite. It's just no' possible.' Ratty spat tikka masala at me,
refusing to accept my answer.
'Ratty, the lad's getting married in' - Stef thought for a
second - 'less than a week, he has to say that.'

'Whoa, hang on, this is not "have to". I believe in this.' I

was riled by Stef's dismissive tone.

'Yeah, right.' Stef raised his eyebrows and gestured a wrist-
flick of disbelief. I was beginning to struggle to contain my
anger.
'Listen, lads,' I held my ground, 'you are in charge, know
what I mean? You fucking decide what you do or don't
do, nobody else. It's all too easy to reckon your cock's
some malign mind-control organ that runs the rest of your
body.'
'Uh-huh.' Stef and Ratty nodded blankly.
'OK, OK, so I'm the fucking lunatic, but I'm gonna give
this a go. I can't get married presuming it won't work out.

What's the friggin' point!'

274
 'Kids.' Colin had overheard our conversation, and collided
head on.
'Eh?' I asked, the beer settling and setting now, jelly

injected into our skulls like a mould.

'Kids,' he repeated. 'Listen, listen, before I get too
comatose.' Colin staggered to his feet, Kingfisher in hand,
'I have an announcement.' Colin was swaying badly. 'As
you know, Trish and me have had our ups and downs.'
Colin spoke formally, double chin lodged in his chest to stem a
belch.
'Aye, she gets down trying to get you up,' Ratty heckled.
'And we're back together now.' Colin waded on through
the jeers.
'Thank you, Billy the Fun FM beaver,' I joined in.

'But . . . well . . . I'm going to be ... a dad.' The word

didn't really fit into the curried surroundings.
'Jesus!' I swore through sag aloo.
'Oh fuck! Cloughy's kids, that sounds like a dangerous
gene-pool problem.' Stef blithely took the piss and made me
want to punch him,
'Excellent . . . that's just . . . wow!' Merlin incoherently
summed up my thoughts. None of us had a benchmark here.
We didn't really have any experience of this event as a group.
Colin was the first father- to-be, and it was a strange moment.
A life-changer with no instructions.
'So ... so here's to life, love and happiness. Here's to
Johnny next weekend. May your rod be long, firm and well
staffed.'

Colin's smile and sense of humour were well worn these

days. His brief flame of fame as the nation's Mr Lover-Lover
had already faded from the public's fickle attention span.
What was left behind was a confident, sorted Colin. As thick-

skinned and emotionally myopic as ever, but happy, positive,

accepted.
We raised glasses and bottles. I stood, automatically, to

275
give some sort of ad-libbed return toast. 'To Colin, Trish and
the best news I could imagine for the pair, soon to be three,
in fact, of them .' I faltered. 'Congratulations, Colin,
. .

mate.' Another chink-clink of glasses, lager slopping over

bhajees and naan bread.
The table quickly disintegrated into muttering. 'Think I'll

get me tubes tied 'fore that.' Ratty winced.

I leant back, removing myself from the melee, and looked
across at Colin. He stared into the middle-distance, a
Cheshire Cat's grin spreadeagled across his face. His eyes, his
bearing, his manner, all those of a convert, someone who has
worked out all the answers, or perhaps the right questions.
Someone who knows the measure of the world that
surrounds him, and is happy with its dimensions.
'You are the luckiest man alive, Johnson Riley.' Tina
slumped on to my lap, still svelte, but now sweetly trolleyed
after an afternoon with the hen party.
'Wey-hey, Tina's back. Do us a lap-dance then, love.' Stef
leered, beerful and lairy.

'Piss off, you dirty sod, I'm off-duty.' Tina subtly stuck two
fingers up at Stef, before adding, 'Alternatively, come and see
me later at the Windmill,' as if remembering her business
conscience. 'But no lap-dancing for you, Mr Riley.' Tina play-
fully tweaked my cheek. 'Oh no, your wife-to-be's all too
lovely for that.'
'Great, just great. Merl, my wife-to-be's the lap-dancer's
best mate. I don't think this was s'posed to happen, was it?'

'This is for you.' She handed over another expected

envelope, addressed plainly, with the word 'Johnny' in

signature cerise lipstick.

'So they liked the T-shirt?' I asked Tina, opening the en-
velope.
'Oh yeah, but I think London's Yearning preferred it. She
gave it to one of them; Sebastian I think his name is. He's
wearing it tonight. Asked if you could get some more copies;

276
reckons it could become quite culty down at Club Slippy,'
Tina babbled.
'What?' Stef made an offended grunt. 'Hang on, you're
saying our arses are now on the chest of a gay bloke who's
clubbing tonight?' Stef really wasn't happy with this
prospect.
'Yes, at Club Slippy. My, you're a fiery one. What's
your name?' Tina winked at Stef.

'Clubbing? In Soho?' Stef was incredulous.

'He's Stef, by the way,' Ratty answered for him.
'Yes, Stef, Sebastian has your pert little butt plastered
against his nipples and six-pack, and is probably already
sweating it see-through to some hard-core dance.' Tina took
great delight in the detail as Stef moaned and buried his bald
head in his hands.
'So . . . er . . . we'll be sort o' famous, like? In this . . . er

. . . gay place?' Ratty addressed Tina intently. 'And

this . . .

er . .where is this Slippy place exactly?'

.

'Jesus! What's she done? Bloody hell!' I stared in shock at

the two photos in my hand.
'Ha ha,' Tina laughed. 'She said you'd lose it.'

my'Oh gonna say? Jesus!' The first

God. What's her mum
photo was BTB outside a tattoo parlour on Berwick Street.
The second quite clearly showed BTB's shoulder adorned
with a bright-red love heart and the word 'Johnny' in black

Gothic script scrolled diagonally across it, as BTB smiled

with pride, like some biker's babe.
'Look. Fuck!' I passed the photos around.
'Foxy,' said Merl drunkenly.
Colin was more conservative. 'She can't do that,' he said.
'Too late, boy, she's gone and done it.' Tina giggled.
'Fuck! What about her dress? You know, she must
have a dress that covers her shoulders next week, otherwise
it'll be on show, and I'm not sure they're not still scabby
after a week, and . .
.' I wittered, bewildered.

277
 '

'Dress?' Ratty was as confused by my concerns as any non-

groom would be. Blissfully unaware that, to the bride, the

dress takes on an importance that would overshadow an

alien invasion. 'Yeah, you know she keeps it locked away in
the spare room. The room I can't enter, so I've no bloody idea
what it looks like, but —
'Mr bloody boring. Tattoos are great.' Tina strutted. 'I've
got one.'
'Yeah, I thought you liked tattoos, Johnny?' Ratty was
right, I did. I'd always thought they were sexy, and had spent
hours trying to persuade BTB to have one at Eddie the
Rainbow's parlour. In fact, an early dream wedding for me
was and a tattoo-
a tacky Vegas Elvis-impersonating priest
swapping ceremony. I don't think I ever managed to get the
bottle together to suggest this before everything went all
white and sepia and trad.
'Let's see your tattoo then, Tina?' Stef slavered pathetically.
Tina bounced off Stef's lap and began to unbutton her
jeans, stuck her backside in Stef's direction, to his obvious
pleasure, and hooked her thumbs into the belt loops. She
looked back at Stef with a cruel smile and said, 'It's in a very

special place, Stef.' Tina dummied pulling the jeans down

before jumping back up, turning around and saying,
'Whoops, I'm off duty. Like I said, see you at the Windmill.'
She kissed her fingers and planted her hand on Stef's cheek,
who was left looking boyishly frustrated. Buttoning herself
up, she turned to me. 'You behave, Johnny Riley, you're a
lucky man.' Tina kissed me on the cheek as she sauntered out
of the flock and burgundy cave.

After two pints, to wash down the curry, in the spit and saw-
dust of the Glassblower, Stef became uncontrollable. 'Come
on, we might be missing Tina's set. Let's go, let's go.'
Staggering through the alleyways, neon noise and flickering
puddles of Soho, I found myself walking next to Stef, as

278
 Merl and Ratty straggled behind, or stopped to look
Colin,
and laugh through tasselled doorways and seedy club
entrances.
'Stef.' Stef strode like a man on a mission. 'You know you
went out that night when we'd split up, me and the .'
. .

'"Wife". Ha, you nearly said "wife", me and "the wife".

Jesus, Johnny, this is seminal stuff. Fuck! Me and the wife.'
He laughed, shaking his head. My anger continued to well,
silently.

'Well, I . . . You've always fancied her, haven't you?' Stef

looked at me sideways, searching for anger. He shrugged. I

kept my emotions and expressions in check, sealed tightly in

a cellophane wrap.
'I guess, Johnny. She's got something about her, y'know . . .

but nothin' happened, Johnny. I'd never do that. We're

mates, all of us, mates.' Stef swept his arm in the vague
direction of the lads dallying behind. 'Never diss your mates,
you know that, Johnny.' I nodded, clenching my teeth,

swallowing the wrap. 'You know, mates are a for ever thing.
Never fall out over women, Johnny.' Stef put his arm around
my shoulder and hugged me hard. We paused briefly, looking
up at the huge neon Windmill.
'I guess we're here,' I said. We waited for the lads to catch
up.
'Heads up, lads. Look sober and sophisticated, we are
about to enter the sweetie shop.' Stef brushed himself
down as two hefty bouncers in black bomber jackets clocked
us.

'Hope it's no' too tame,' Ratty muttered as we filed

through the club doorway and were checked to ensure we

were properly attired and not too improperly pissed.
Inside, it felt like a Hollywood gangster flick, moody lights,

pulsating music, a long sweeping mirror-and-chrome bar,

surrounded by table after tableful of men, mainly focused
on a large pole-impaled stage, or distracted by their own

279
show as a girl gyrated privately for their table.
The light veiled the tawdry surroundings supremely. The
men, when you looked hard, were not gangsters, but
Japanese tourists, pasty-faced brokers on stag dos and birth-
days, and dodgy-looking bulldogs. These guys, the middle-
aged men in immaculate suits, heavyweight, pockmarked,
with shaven heads, looked like regulars. They also looked

in need of a lot more than topless dancing before they'd

get their fix and head back to dreary London suburbs, wives
and children.
Likewise, from a few feet, aided by the light, spatula-
applied make-up and drink-broken focus of the men's eyes,
the women were goddesses. Peroxide wigs, sequinned boob
tubes, impossibly tight short skirts, long leather boots and
stilettos, all squeezing and prodding, jutting and cutting into
bodies.
'Nirvana,' Stef muttered, now pretty much arseholed.
'The best table, please, madam.' Merlin thrust a twenty
into the palm of the hostess, who guided us, sliding on
rollers, to a vacant round table in the middle of the club.
From the depths of the circle of sunken red-leather seats,
Merl attempted to police the rapidly deviating men. 'Look,
guys, you're on your own now. The kitty's bought the
entrance fee and the first round, but that's a hundred and
fifty gone already. So whatever elseyou want, you'll have to
pay for yourself. Then there's beer back at Johnny's later,
OK?'
'Where's all the friggin' women, like?' Ratty was right to
point out that, for a lap-dancing club, the essential ingredient
seemed to be a bit thin on the ground. A few minutes later

our question was answered as a sort of show kicked off. It

involved all the dancing girls coming on stage en masse as

spotlights swung across them, followed by freestyle dancing
as the music blared out. It was like watching a single-sex
fantasy disco from the naff heights of the Eighties. Lots of

280
women dancing in far less than they would normally wear
and no daft-looking blokes getting in the way, dancing like
pillocks or trying to cop off with the women.
As the spotlight ranged across the waving girls, wearing
false smiles, glazed eyes and battered dignities like costumes,
you could had themes and styles which maybe
see that they
they'd invented, ormaybe were one of the club's stockpile of
standard sexy outfits. Hand-me-down costumes, from girls
gone upward and onward to Paul Raymond's revue bar, with
dreams of the West End, or downward, shunted off the
ladder by a younger body.
Stef's blurry eyessomehow managed to spot Tina, buried
at the back, swaying a little too much after a day's drinking,
dressed as a cowgirl, dancing badly and hanging onto one of
the metal poles.
'Right, I'm saving her till last,' Stef planned, and I was
reminded of childhood paper bags of penny sweets, eaten in
worst to best, painstakingly thought through and ordered.
Cola cubes and powdery-pink candy shellfish first.
last

Stef and Ratty quickly found out just how profitable the
place was. It was like turning a tap on in your bank account
and watching the money pour out. After two tame table
dances, they realized, fifty quid too late, that the dancers'
tops stayed on, and discovered that, for double the money, all

their kitcame off in a room at the back. From that point on,
the two would shuffle off through a sequin-covered curtain
every half-hour, looking more jaded and jagged every time.
'So how do you feel, mate?' I was fascinated by Colin's
changed circumstances.
'I don't know, just feels weird.' He carried a wistful look.
'Weird, but good sort of weird, like, mate?' Merlin lit

another cigarette.
'Everything's different, you know.' He pushed his drink
aside, so that he could use his hands to gesture. 'Everything
changes. All this, like,' he pointed at us, the bar and the

281
velvet and leather surround, 'just doesn't matter.' I tried to

break through Colin's opaque words.

'Likewhat changes? How does it change?' I probed.
'I don't want to do this. No offence. I mean, I'm having fun

and all that, Johnny, but I want to be looking after Trish. I

want her to be OK, kept safe and sorted.' We nodded, trying
to understand.
'And also, I feel all wary . . . worried, you know. Worried
about me being healthy and being able to look after the kid.
I don't want to not be there, not just because I want to
provide, to support, you know, but also I want to see it all. I

don't want to miss anything.' We continued to nod. remem-

I

ber feeling the passion in his words but, at the same time,
feeling disconnected from what was happening inside his
head. It wasn't something I could empathize with or fully
grasp.
'It's hard to explain, maybe you'll understand if it happens
to you. I don't know.' Colin sighed and grinned.
'Hello, boys.' Another jumble of flesh, sequin and lipstick
jiggled at the table's edge. We'd become used to the constant
offers of table dances from girls trained to make you feel

special.

'And did you plan it, Col, mate?' Merlin asked, ignoring
the girl.

'Plan? Well well, I didn't plan it. Trish maybe did, you
. . .

know. We've been chancing our arm for a while now anyway
with this Persona stuff. I mean, I don't really follow it, like,
but I know had to pee on something every morning to be
if I

sure I wasn't fertile, I'd be as reliable as Merl is in goal. No

offence, mate.' He apologized to Merl.
'Oh, none taken, lad.' Merlin wasn't precious about his

goalkeeping skills.

'I said, hello, boys.' The girl had raised her voice now and
Merl, who was the closest to her, turned.
'Sorry darlin', but we're smack in the middle of something

282
here.' He turned back to the conversation.
'So when's she due?' I asked, trying to remember the right
list of questions to ask.
'She's due November the twenty-first.'
'So when does that mean you actually . . . you know . .
.'

Suddenly sex took on a whole different meaning.

'Valentine's Day.'
'What a surprise. Bloody hell, if the papers get onto
that,it'll be round two of Mr Lover-Lover,' I said.

'No more media bollocks. I've had enough, back to jour-

nalism. Been offered a regular features slot on Esquire, so I'm
gonna take that,' Colin explained calmly. 'As for the "Life of
Riley" stuff well, just the stag and the big day - all a bit
. . .

predictable really - then it's run its course. Someone even

approached me about publishing the lot as a book.'
'Excuse me!' the girl shouted. She was petite, with cropped
black hair and a pale face, wearing a disco-diva pink crop-
top and hot pants. We all turned to face her, startled.
'Why are you here? This is a strip club. I am a stripper.' She
had a pained twang in her voice.
'Sorry, love,' Merlin spoke gently, 'it's just that our friend
here has just told us he's going to be a dad, and was telling us

about it.'

Her face lit up. 'A baby! Wow, your wife's having a baby?'

'Yes,' Colin smiled broadly, proud and dad-like.

'My sister's just had one. When's she due?' The girl slotted

and the two started nattering about

herself in next to Colin,
parenthood and children.I was struck by how incongruous a

conversation about conception, pregnancy and parenthood

felt in a strip club.
'It's my first day. My name's Maggie,' the teenager said. 'I

don't think I'll last, I'd rather have a chat than jiggle my tits

about. I'm training to be a manicurist. Let me see your nails.'

We handed her our cracked cuticles for inspection. 'Anyway,

the only people spending real money are a table of apes that

283
look like retired hit men and two sad fuckers in the
backroom.'
'Who?' I questioned Maggie, worry burrowing through the
beer.

'Some dodgy bald bloke pretending to be an Italian foot-

who gropes anything that comes within two feet of
baller,

him. If he doesn't keep his hands to himself the bouncers'll be

on to him,' she explained.
'And ?' I asked.
. . .

'And they'll kick his head in.' I tried to prevent myself from
thinking, Good.
'No, I meant and who else? You said two lads.' As if we
needed confirmation.
'Oh, and this nasty little Scottish geezer who just keeps say-
ing really disgusting things, asking us to say stuff and do
things, and calling us sluts and whores 'cos it's not doing
anything for him.'
'You mean those two sorry fucks.' Colin nodded at the cur-
tain as Stef fell through and Ratty angrily pushed him aside.
'Shit, you know them. I didn't mean . .
.' Maggie stuttered.

'Don't worry, love, we should be apologizing, dopey

bastards.' Merlin shook his head. Maggie smiled briefly and
dived away before Ratty and Stef staggered over to the table.
'Youse borin' buggers finally havin' a go?' Ratty peered
into the gloom after the shrinking shape of Maggie. 'I dinnae
think I've tried her. Looks a bit tomboyish. Am I right? Fuck,
I'm skint, an' I've no' even got a proper stiffy yet.' Ratty was
swaying and slurring. 'Someone lend us a hundred. Actually,
forget it, I'm wastin' me money.'
'I've gotnuffforTina and thassit.' Stef's eyes were rolling.

I caught Ratty edgily twiddling his thumbs and staring at

the table-top, his leg tapping up and down like a piston.

'You need to take a break, mate?' I said.

'I need somethin', 'ats fer fuckin' sure.'

'Ratty, calm down. What's your problem?'

284
 Ratty turned to face me. Red-faced and sweaty, he
whispered, 'It's no' fuckin' workin' fer me any more. I've got

tae do something, Johnny. Where's that Slippy Club, d'ya

ken?'
'What?' I thought I'd misheard him.
'You know, that place where London's Yearning are wear-
ing our arses on their chests, like?'
'Ratty, what the fuck are you on?'
'Johnny, I cannae get it fuckin' up. I have tae try summit,
an' if a wee bit o' AC/DC's fit the doctor ordered, then there
you go.'
'But . .
.' I realized Ratty hadn't really noticed who or what
he'd shagged for years, and that the attraction wasn't men,
but promiscuity and the hope of a new high.
'Dinnae say anythin', like, eh, Johnny?' It was inevitable
really. Ratty had objectified sex to such a degree that he'd
entered a downward spiral of sordid excess. 'Right, see you,
lads. Good luck, Johnny. Look after him, Merl.'
'Wherethefuckreyougoin'?' Stef mumbled, slumped on the
seat. Ratty paused, looking at me, presumably to check
whether I'd play along or not. He nodded a silent thank-you.
'Skint, pissed and knackered. Off to get some kip. See

youse, like.' He waved and left, a noticeable urgency in his

walk.
'Well I'll be buggered,' said Merl. 'Never thought Ratty'd
be first out.'

'You know, yeraluckybastard, Johnny.' Stef was totally

gone now, slurring and rolling dangerously.

'I know, I know I'm lucky.' I was pissed, but nowhere near
as far gone as Stef.

'Teen . . . Tina . .
.' he shouted indiscriminately at some
poor girl passing.

'No, but I'm sure you'd never know the difference. Want to
go out back?' Stef looked like easy money.
'Oh fuckit, whynot.' Maggie passed by, saw what was

285
happening and whispered in the girl's ear. She sneered at Stef.

'On second thoughts, fuck you, ya bastard.' Stef shrugged in

slo-mo.
'Fuckin' sluts.' He slumped on the table.
Maggie leant over, talking to the rest of us. 'Your friend
here grabbed a girl so hard she's in tears. I'd get him the fuck
out of here if I was you.' Two bouncers loomed into view like

bombers, sights on Stef.

'Teen . . . Tina . .
.' Stef called out to any woman passing.
'You know, Johnny, I reckon Tina has an arse just like your
wife-to-be.'
I cut the bouncers off before they reached the table. 'Look,
we'll sort it out. He's our problem.'
Back at the table, I pulled Stef to his feet. 'Shorry, Johnny.
Never meant it, you know, about her arsh.' I tried to control

my clenched fists.

'We should get him out of here, Johnny.' Merl was pissed,

but clung to a reminder of sobriety.

'I'm gonna throw . . . goin' to the loo.' Colin helped Stef to
the gents.
'Look, we'll meet you outside, Col, OK. We'll get a cab
back to Johnny's.' Merl stuck doggedly to his job as stag-

controller. We sat together outside on the kerb, waiting for

Colin and Stef to arrive, chain-smoking battered Silk Cuts.
'I'm gonna take a walk, Merl. There's somethin' I need to
do,' I said.

'I'll stay with you, man. Can't go home alone, mate.' Merl
tried to look after me. Three people stumbled into us, two of
them laughing, drunk and loud.
'I 'ave us a privatedancer,' Stef slurred. Somehow, Stef had
found Tina, and the pair of them were irretrievably blitzed.

'Fuckinfuckorrrf,' Tina swore back and swayed in time

with Stef.

'Someone's got to look after this lot, Merl. Take 'em back
to mine. I'll see you in an hour or so.'

286
 'No. Come on, Johnny, the taxi's got room. I'll stay with
you, Johnny.'
'No, honest, there's something I've gotta do, mate,' I

shouted.
'Johnny!' Merlin called as I darted into the crowded Soho
night, which closed around me.
On the way to Berwick Street, I thought I saw the silhouette
of a long limousine patrolling the streets like a great shark in
deep waters, leaving me yet more certain of my design.

An hour later, shuddering through the rainy night in a black

cab, I clutched my shoulder and felt suddenly sober.
Unlocking the door back in Clapham, I half expected total
chaos, but instead was met by MTV blaring out Trevor
Nelson's late-nighter, and Stef and Tina slumped on the sofa,
half asleep. Muttley was lapping at a puddle of beer on the
floor next to an upturned can. The room was cold, and
through the hall and beyond the kitchen I could see the
French windows flapping in the wind.
'Johnny, ya fuckwit, we've been waiting fer you, ain't wee,
Teeeen?' Stef roused himself. 'I bet Teeen's got better tits 'an
your bird.' Tina woke and whacked Stef with a cushion. I

wished it was a breeze-block.

'Fuckooorfff, ya sod.' Tina and Stef were both as pissed as
when I'd left them.
'C'mon, luv, get yer kit off,' Stef pleaded, necking more
beer, red eyes all lit up.
'Jesus!' I shook my head.
'C'mon, Teen,' Stef whined.
'Whaasit worth, you sad bastard.' Tina wasn't too drunk
to do business. I left in search of Merl and Colin as Stef
fumbled for his wallet.

'Where's Col, mate?'

Merlin was sat on the step, staring at the stars, tugging
happily on a joint. 'Family man these days, Johnny. You

287
know how Col throws himself at stuff.' Merlin spoke in a
slow, stoned drawl. 'Where you been?' He asked after a long

pause.
'Nowhere,' I said. 'Just something I wanted to do, like I

said.'

'You OK, Johnny boy?' Merlin was ever- wary, even when
stoned.
'Yeah. You?' We were beginning to conquer our trapped-
in-amber thoughts.
'I was wrong about something, Johnny. It's a good
thing, a good thing for you two, marriage.'
'I know,' I replied. And I did know. We
watched the stars
for a while longer. I on the joint
pulled and watched them fur.
'So I s'pose she's staying at Maddy's tonight, is she?' BTB's
image filled my thoughts, smoke like speech bubbles.
'No, back here, mate. Didn't think you'd mind, like.'

'You what?' I laughed nervously. Merlin simultaneously

realized his mistake. I stood, suddenly feeling unanchored
and flimsy.

'It's Stef's problem, mate. Er . . . I thought they'd just end

up in the spare room, the two of them, like.'

where she keeps her fuckin' dress!' I staggered back

'That's
through the French windows, but sort of knew fate was about
to fuck me over. Walking into the lounge, through the kitchen,
I could hear several things simultaneously: Muttley barking
excitedly, Stef singing the stripping song, badly - 'Na na na . . .

na na na' - the door unlocking and women's voices.

The picture that greeted me will haunt me for ever. My eyes
locked with BTB's across the room, her face agog. In between
us, Stef clapped drunkenly on the sofa. Muttley, similarly, sat
captivated, a blue garter clutched in his innocent teeth. He
and Stef stared up at Tina, hips swaying, tits jiggling, wear-
ing nothing but a white veil.

Blind-sided. Just when you think everything's OK, some-

thing you didn't expect comes at you. There was a second of

288
 '

deathly quiet. Tina stopped stripping, Merlin looked hor-

rified, Muttley wagged his tail and BTB left. I thought I heard
'It's off.' Maddy ran after her, spitting at Stef, 'I'd expect
nothing from you, but Jesus, Johnny, what have you
less

done?' She slammed the door behind her.

'Oh my God!' Tina, as drunk as she was, realized the
magnitude of what had just happened.
'You said she wasn't coming home, you bastard.' Tina
walked towards Stef, who automatically reached for her
breasts.
'You see,' he said, grabbing, 'Tina's tits are unbeatable.
Ooophhhh!' Tina landed a shin in his groin, picked up her
clothes and aimed for the door, dressing hurriedly in the
corridor while Stef squirmed on the floor.
'Just go, Stef.' I sighed. Eventually, he stood. Merlin was
behind me, watching. 'Just leave, you don't know what
you're doing.'
'She might be marrying you, ya fucker, but if she'd thought
she could have had me for more than a shag, she wouldn't be
walking up the aisle with
—
The swing came from deep inside my mind, like a thought
or emotion, entirely uncontrollable. I caught Stef directly on
the belt buckle, but followed through the hard metal into his
stomach, ignoring the pain in my hand. Stef bowled forward
on to his face, thudding heavily on to the floor.
I went outside to smoke, while Merlin picked up the pieces.

I sweated through the week. While BTB refused to engage me

in conversation, my only feedback was 'You'll be lucky,' from
Maddy. But whenever I said, 'So is it off?' I was told, 'That's

not your decision, Johnny.'

I lobbied Maddy, I pleaded with BTB's mother, I even fed
her dad a line about a minor error of judgement on the stag,
but I was still left in the dark. They all knew the truth about
that night, and that it wasn't what it looked like, that it was

289
entirely out of my hands. Behind the scenes a UN-style peace
negotiation was taking place. From Merlin to Maddy to BTB
and back again.
Maddy finally rang on Thursday. 'She says she doesn't
want you there on Friday night, Johnny.' A family get-
together had been planned in Soho Soho the night before the
wedding.
'Oh, but the wedding's on, though?'
.'
'Well . .

'What do you mean, Well? She can't happily have a meal

with my parents, her parents, Merl and you the night before
no bloody wedding, can she? Anyway, won't it look weird if
I'm not with the family on Friday?'
'She's going to tell them she's superstitious.'

'Maddy, she's not gonna do it, is she?'

'I don't know, Johnny, she keeps laughing and saying, "I'll

leavehim at the altar," and I can't bloody tell if she's having

me on or not.'
'Oh fuck.' I sighed.
'Johnny, listen, just do what I tell you, OK.' I listened care-
fully to my instructions.

After a trouble-free family do, Maddy managed to persuade

BTB to go for a final drink with her and Merl at a club where
she often sang. Maddy was at home in the oak-panelled walls

of Soho House, where shady people looked famous, lurking

in shadows and speaking in hushed voices.
Maddy had hired a small private room - the study - on the
top floor of the club. It was a split-level room, overlooking
Dean Street, with a few armchairs and a sofa littered casually

and, on the raised half of the room, a piano squatting

impatiently, sleek and black.
I was drinking large whiskies a little too quickly in the bar
downstairs. Maddy found me sitting, depressed, on a stool.
'So this is it, Johnny.'

290
 '

'Let's forget it, Mads. She hates me.'

'No way, Johnny, she loves you. She knows it was Stef's
fault; me, Merl and Col, we explained it all. You are doing
this, Johnny.'
'No ... I just can't . Thanks and everything, but I'll do
. .

it another time, you know, when we're on our own. Some

other time ... I just can't . .
.'

'Johnny, shh.' Maddy held a finger to my lips and put her

hand to my jaw. 'Johnny, you're good at this. I never told you
before, but you're really good at this . . . and I think it might
be your only hope.' Maddy guided me up the stairs, the tower
talking a pilot down in a storm.
Looking like some high-society hostess, BTB lounged in an
armchair, legs crossed, champagne dangling from her limp
wrist. She looked made for the club, wearing a stylish black

shift dress, and with a tiny grey cashmere cardigan draped

across her shoulders, covering her enigmatically, with a hint
of the tattoo padding hidden below.
'Oh, Johnny, what a nice surprise,' she said flatly, as
though were a war criminal. At first, BTB refused to make
I

eye contact with me. I walked towards her and kissed her on
the cheek. She was still wearing her poker face; no hugs and
reconciliation, but no scenes or shouting, either.
'It's off,' she whispered, but deep down, inside her eyes, a

smile twinkled and gave me hope.

'I should be going,' BTB said to Maddy.

'Hang on, just a sec,' Maddy cut in, 'there's something we

wanted to do before.'
'Of course,' BTB said, 'you've gone to all the trouble of
arranging a piano so a song
—
'Well,' Maddy looked nervously at me, 'I know you think
I'd deliberately plan the night before your wedding around
me singing, but that's not the real reason the piano's here.
Johnny?'
I stood, silently, and walked towards the piano.

291
 'What are you doing, Johnny?' BTB snorted. 'Johnny
only knows how to play chopsticks.' BTB laughed.
'Badly,' Merlin added.
Maddy and me had worked towards this for months, but
in the space of a week, since the lap-dancing debacle, its

importance had suddenly grown. had become a last-hope

It

rescue plan, when previously it was, literally, the icing on the

cake.
I took a deep breath and tried to remember words I'd pre-

viously thought appropriate for this moment. Bollocks.

Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. Get up, give up, go home, you
fool.
Maddy dimmed the lights, leaving me conspicuous in a soft
pool of white. I'd like to think I looked Dean Martin or

Sinatra-like, to say I was hip and cool and calm, but I've no
idea, no real image of myself, it all just rolled.

'Listen, I can't remember what I was going to say, I hope I

remember how to play it, but . . . well, I learnt this for you.'
BTB looked unimpressed. 'I learnt it because you love it,

because it says what I wish I could say, but most of

all because it's the last thing you'd expect me to do.'
The drink must have helped. My nerves were replaced by
the notes, which came unconsciously. The same understated
tinkling introduction, leading unavoidably to the words,
which can't be spoken, let alone sung without emotion.

'The very thought of you makes my heart sing,

Like an April breeze,
On the wings of spring,
And you appear in all your splendour,
My one and only love . .
.'

I hope she liked it. It's impossible to explain the feeling of

spending so much time doing something you're not naturally
gifted at in an effort to surprise, to express feelings which

292
would fail to carry the weight of the sentiment by using any
other means. They clapped, but then friends do. Maddy
whistled, shouting, '
'Atta boy, Johnny,' and Merlin shouted,
'More,' annoyingly failing to realize that this one song, BTB's
favourite song, was the limit of my repertoire. But
BTB's damp cheeks were the only reward I wanted, the only
response that mattered. Beyond that, who could tell?

293
D-Dayed

So that's it. That's the story so far. Here I am, sitting on a pew

at the front of St Luke's, in Clapham, sweating. Gothic arches

straddle the plain wooden seats and simple white flower
arrangements are spread throughout. A stiff collar silently

scythes intomy neck, while hard, shiny black shoes strait-

jacket my feet. I'm not at all convinced that Merlin has
attached my buttonhole correctly, nor, more importantly, that
BTB will turn up.
I'm trussed up like a penguin - not an emperor or a king
penguin, or the grand aloof penguins that stand tall like the
aristocrats of the bird kingdom, more of a rock hopper
penguin. Have you seen them? They look sort of scatty, a bit
like odd yellow tufty bits on top and
joke penguins, with
colourful markings on their beaks. Penguins wearing
Groucho masks, the clowns of the bird kingdom.
hope my flies are up. I hope I don't barf, or faint or fart.
I

I hope I don't look too much of a wazzock in this garb. But

most of all I just hope she bloody well arrives. Come on . . .

Come on, Merl, give me the signal. Give me the thumbs-up

that means and then get your Welsh arse down
the car's here,
the aisle, pronto. This is like being an astronaut after the
. . .

bloody T-minus has finished, still sat on my backside in

the rocket, wondering what the hell's going on. She's half an
hour late and I'm losing it, logic going AWOL.
294
 I mean, I know I shouldn't worry. She'll come. At least I

think she'll come. Will she come? I was worried back in

March. Granny Victor's funeral was a watershed that

coloured our minds in different ways. We both arrived at the
simple fact that life's too short, but seemed to latch on to
opposite conclusions about what to do next. I realized how
important it was to spend a life doing the things that matter
with the people you love. While BTB's version went, 'Ever
and ever, Amen, is a long, long time, and is Johnson Riley
(the boy-child) the right guy?'
And then there was the Italian incident. For a long time I

wondered if it was fair to entirely blame Stefano. I mean,

BTB had flirted with him; she hadn't exactly discouraged all
the innuendo over the years, the 'Ditch Johnny, love, and
come and see what you're missing' lines that I'd learnt to

laugh off. But I don't really reckon anyone else but me was
behind her doubt.
And then there was Tina's dance. I'll never forget the image
of Muttley, jaw clamped on garter, swinging his head, a
nodding dog, moving in time to a sordid strip show.
Come on. Jesus, hurry up. Trying to hold a cool, assured
expression with the congregation watching my every move
was getting harder by the second.
With the May sunshine streaming through the stained-glass
windows, the familiar faces look almost luminous at the
thought of a wedding. Broad smiles, nods and winks cascade
down on me like confetti, and I try to respond individually,

helping me to relax and forget BTB's increasing lateness.

I guess the people you would expect to be here are here.

At least, I think they are. Merlin, Colin and Ratty are linger-
ing at the back, watching their watches, looking official and
formal, and huddling around the earpieces of Colin's per-
sonal stereo. I glance at my bruised knuckles and wince at the
tenderness which reminds me of Stef's absence. I don't regret
what I did on the stag last week - I'd do the same again - but

295
 '

it still feels weird. In my mind's eye, he was always going to

be here, one of the morning-suited ushers. Now he is a place
name scrubbed off a map, not just today, but maybe perman-
ently. I mean, I can't exactly see myself popping down the
Blue Boy for a pint with him, but who knows, time might
soften me, like old leather in the rain.
At the back of the church, Mr Big bobs like an iceberg,
sitting alone in his pew, everyone else unaware of how much
he's contributed, unseen. In front of Norbert, we step
through rows of Blue Boy football lads, wives and girlfriends,
Frankie the landlord and Jean, colleagues and friends, and
Uncle Alfie, camcorder at the ready.

Crowding me at the front, my parents are looking on

proudly. Mum with a gentle smile, whispering, 'Don't worry,
Johnny, brides are always late.'

Earlier, Dad had patted me on the shoulder and leant close.

'Your gran, and dear old Dad, too, they'd have all been
proud of you, son.'
I don't think they knew just how much Granny Victor had
done, and I hoped her ghost was smiling and swearing
somewhere, 'Well done, Johnny-bloody-bladder-pants! No
dawdling, oveny-bun time for tea.

On the bride's side, Mary Donnelly looked fragile, with

Paddy and Jack on one side and Seamus on the other, next to
Trish, tissues at the ready. They, too, had all smiled and shaken
my hand when they arrived. I'd got a warm, welcoming hug
and a kiss on the cheek from Mary, unaccompanied by the
Jaws theme.
Behind me, the round, jolly Father Derek fusses behind the
altar, popping over sporadically and whispering, 'Don't worry,

Johnny, plenty of time. Don't have to be at another wedding

until four.'

I gulp and look at my watch. Twenty to three, forty

minutes late, with the seconds ticking away loudly in my
mind like a platform clock. It was the first sign of weakness

296
in a previously confident groom. Eyes front, a wave of watch-
checking spreads through the pews as I check mine.
'Yeeeesssss!' Ratty leaps about at the back as Merlin tries

to calm him, forcing his hand over his mouth while smiling
pleasantly at the people who turn round, women tutting, men
holding back the urge to ask the score. Great, my wife-to-be
isn't here and Italy are in the lead. Great, we're off to Italy
tonight, the fans will all be leaving and the Italians will have
bloody won. Two weeks of piss-taking Italians, or am I being
paranoid? Bloody great.
Come on, where are you?
Maybe I scared her off last night with my singing. Maybe
London's Yearning offered her broader horizons than I could.
Maybe she's done a Ruth on me and buggered off abroad.

In fact, she could have gone already. The tickets, the

packed bags, the car, the currency are all with BTB at our
house. Maybe she's gone to Italy without me . . . and with . . .

'We are the self-preservation society

We are the self-preservation society.'

Stef drives the red-and-white Mini Cooper through the hack

alleys of Turin, while BTB navigates, twisting and skidding
past coachloads of England fans and horn-blowing Italians
stuck in the city's gridlocked streets, chased by tinny-looking
Fiat Poliza cars and macho motorcyclists.

'Left. Left, Stef. up the ramp. The Mini sweeps

Right . . . '

over a ramp, revving wildly, and jumps between buildings,

cars and bikes crashing and colliding in their wake.
'We did it, Stef. We fooled him, we pulled it off .' The . .

Mini drives across a empty roads leading

weir, before joining

to the Alps, leading to escape and Michael Caine on a cliff-

teetering coach saying, 'Hang on a minute, lads I've got . . .

a great idea

297
'She's here.' I hadn't even noticed Merlin walk briskly down
the aisle to join me.
'You what?' I jump, shaking away paranoid dreams.
'You know, wife, wedding. Hello, Johnny?'
The organ music takes a while to crank up, and I can't

resist turning to watch her enter the church. No way are this
rabble seeing her before me.
I gasp. I think everyone did, but I couldn't see anyone else,
or hear anyone else, or think anything else. The image will stay
with me for ever, but I don't think I could ever recreate it in the

mind of someone who hadn't seen it through my eyes. She

shone, shone with her eyes and her smile and her skin.
Shimmering, silvers and greys and white, marble shot with
quartz.
The details take a while to break through, but eventually
they begin to register. Gerry Donnelly is proud, like a lion on
her arm, his own arm through hers, delicate and pale in the

low-cut dress. Maddy, subtle and demure some distance

behind, noticeably holding all of Merlin's attention.
Rewind . . . low-cut dress? Tattoo! Scab, mess, blood,
bruising. Believe me, I know, thanks to Eddie the Rainbow,
they might look great after a month, but only a week after the

needle, it is not a pretty sight.

But I can't see it, I can't see it anywhere. It must be plaster-

covered on her left side, hidden by her father, or some

decorative armlet or bangle, or silk tie, or something.
Something must be hiding it. Please, Jesus. Her mum'll keel
over on the spot.
As she arrives at the altar, unable to help myself, I crane my
neck trying to look at her left shoulder. Nothing. Make-up
can't be that good. As the congregation bustle behind I

whisper in her ear, 'You look staggering. Where's the tattoo,

though?'
She smiles and winks. 'Didn't fall for a bit of body paint,
did you, darling?'

298
 'Please be seated.' Father Derek begins the service.
A second of silence.

'Yeeeesssss.' Colin leaps out of his pew at the back. 'Sorry

. . . sorry.' One all.

I smile to myself. I wouldn't have it any other way. It's all

perfect, in a flawed, clobbered type of way. The image of my

tattoo, permanent, for ever there, hidden beneath the white
cotton and gauze padding on my shoulder, forms in my mind.

Caitlin
 INCONCEIVABLE
Ben Elton

'EXTREMELY FUNNY, CLEVER, WELL-WRITTEN, SHARP

AND UNEXPECTEDLY MOVING THIS BRILLIANT, . . .

CHAOTIC SATIRE MERITS REREADING SEVERAL

TIMES'
Nicholas Coleridge, Mail on Sunday

Lucy desperately wants a baby. Sam wants to write a hit

movie. The problem is that both efforts seem to be unfruitful.
And given that the average IVF cycle has about a one in five
chance of going into full production, Lucy's chances of getting
what she wants are considerably better than Sam's.

What Sam and Lucy are about to go through is absolutely

inconceivable. The question is, can their love survive?

Inconceivable confirms Ben Elton as one of Britain's most

significant, entertaining and provocative writers.

'THIS IS ELTON AT HIS BEST - MATURE, HUMANE, AND

STILL A LAUGH A MINUTE. AT LEAST'
Daily Telegraph

'A VERY FUNNY BOOK ABOUT A SENSITIVE SUBJECT

BEN ELTON THE WRITER MIGHT BE EVEN
. . .

FUNNIER THAN BEN ELTON THE COMIC

Daily Mail

'A TENDER, BEAUTIFULLY BALANCED ROMANTIC

COMEDY'
Spectator

'MOVING AND THOROUGHLY ENTERTAINING'

Daily Express

Now filmed as Maybe Baby.

0552 14698 6

*
V. BLACK SWAN
( STARCROSSED \
A. A. Gill

'BRITAIN'S FUNNIEST AND LEAST POLITICALLY

CORRECT AUTHOR'
Daily Mail

Like Byron, John Dart, poet and bookshop assistant, wakes up

one morning and finds himself, if not quite famous, then the
next best thing: in bed with someone famous.

'REVERBERATES WITH LOW HUMOUR AND LURID,

EXTRAVAGANT SEX EVERY PAGE EXPLODES WITH
. . .

THE GAUDY COLOURS OF EXOTIC METAPHOR'

Independent on Sunday

'GENUINELY ENJOYABLE, OFTEN FUNNY AND

SOMETIMES TOUCHING'
Sunday Telegraph

'FIRING OFF HIS CAUSTIC, CYNICAL OBSERVATIONS

AND WITTY EPIGRAMS, HE COMES ACROSS AS A
MODERN DAY OSCAR WILDE, A CURIOUS MIX OF
NAKED AGGRESSION AND HIGH CAMP'
Daily Mirror

'HIGHLY RECOMMENDED'
Sunday Express

AND BRAVURA ARE WHAT ONE EXPECTS

'THE WIT
FROM HIM, BUT HE HAS ADDED A BROADER
EMOTIONAL RANGE AND ENGAGING CHARACTERS'
Lynn Barber, Observer

'CAPTIVATING STORYTELLING PEPPERED WITH

PERCEPTIVE HUMOUR AND THE OCCASIONAL
PHILOSOPHICAL GEM. THIS IS A.A. GILL AT HIS BEST -
FUNNY AND IN FULL FLIGHT'
Sunday Business Post, Dublin

552 99751 X

*
V BLACK SWAN
I LOVE IS A FOUR LETTER WORD \
Claire Caiman

Sex. Yes. She remembered that.

Wasn't that the thing that happened somewhere between the

talking-and-going-out-to-dinner bit and the sobbing-and-
eating-too-many-biscuits bit? Still, Bella was sure she could
handle some - preferably before her as yet unopened packet of
condoms reached their expiry date. She must be practically a
virgin again now, all sealed over like pierced ears if you don't
wear earrings for too long.

But the 'L' word? Uh-huh. No way. She never wanted to hear it

again. There were things in her past which needed to be put

well away, like the 27 boxes of clutter she'd brought from her
old flat. And having changed her job, her town, her entire life
- the only thing she wasn't about to change was her mind.

'SIMPLY WONDERFUL! I WAS TOTALLY ENCHANTED'

Fiona Walker

'A WARM AND FUNNY FIRST NOVEL'

Elizabeth Buchan, The Times

'FUNNY, CLEVER AND MOVING'

Sunday Mirror

552 99853 2

*
BLACK SWAN
r THINGS CAN ONLY GET BETTER
Eighteen Miserable Years in the Life of a Labour Supporter
John O'Farrell

'Like bubonic plague and stone cladding, no-one took

Margaret Thatcher seriously until it was too late. Her first act
as leader was to appear before the cameras and do a V for
Victory sign the wrong way round. She was smiling and telling
the British people to f * * * off at the same time. It was
something we would have to get used to.'

Things Can Only Get Better is the personal account of a

Labour supporter who survived eighteen miserable years of
Conservative government. It is the heartbreaking and hilarious
confessions of someone who has been actively involved in
helping the Labour party lose elections at every level: school
candidate; door-to-door canvasser; working for a Labour MP
in the House of Commons; standing as a council candidate;
and eventually writing jokes for a shadow cabinet minister.

Along the way he slowly came to realise that Michael Foot

would never be Prime Minister, that vegetable quiche was not
as tasty as chicken tikka masala and that the nuclear arms race
was never going to be stopped by face painting alone.

'VERY FUNNY AND MUCH BETTER THAN ANYTHING

HE EVER WROTE FOR ME'
Griff Rhys Jones

'VERY FUNNY'
Guardian

'EXCELLENT WHATEVER YOUR POLITICS THINGS

. . .

CAN ONLY GET BETTER WILL MAKE YOU LAUGH

OUT LOUD'
Angus Deayton

552 99803 6

M
BLACK SWAN
 A SELECTED LIST OF FINE WRITING
AVAILABLE FROM CORGI AND BLACK SWAN
THE PRICES SHOWN BELOW WERE CORRECT AT THE TIME OF GOING TO PRESS. HOWEVER
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS RESERVE THE RIGHT TO SHOW NEW RETAIL PRICES ON COVERS WHICH
MAY DIFFER FROM THOSE PREVIOUSLY ADVERTISED IN THE TEXT OR ELSEWHERE.

99830 3
 .

Skirting thirty, Johnny Riley thought he was clear about his

priorities in life - keeping his place in the Sunday league team,
hanging out with his mates, toilet training his dog Muttley, finishing
that film script.. .oh yeah, and getting hitched to his girlfriend.
Christ, where the hell did that last one come from?

And as if the chaos of the countdown for the wedding isn't enough,
everything else in Johnny's world begins to go pear-shaped. So he
does what any self-respecting man would do when faced with
impending catastrophe - he buries his head in the sand.

He's about to throw away the best thing in his life. But will Johnny
wake up in time and realise that sometimes reality can be better
than living in your dreams?

'Memorable characters . .

sure hand at the comic set-piece'

DAILY MAIL
'Well-written and very readable'
THE TIMES
V male Bridget Jones' elle

'This excellent book had me in fits

r»« h%# s teria (much to the annoyan^
of other commuters)'
YOU AND YOUR WEDDING

9 780552"K7545 >
www.booksattransworld.co.uk