three

   “You’re joining our band,” says Ruff, “we need you.”

   “I’m not joining your band,” I tell him, and I really mean it this time.

   “Come on, man,” he moans, lighting up his Camel. “We need you, seriously.”

   “You don’t need me. And I don’t need to be in a band called Bronchitis.”

   “Bronchitis is just a temporary moniker,” says Ruff, struggling with the latches on his bass flight case. “We were actually thinking of calling ourselves The Scurvy.”

   Henwood the drummer comes into the rehearsal room eating a pasty. He acknowledges me with a brief nod and sits behind the drum kit.

   “I have to go,” I say. “I’ll see you later, Ruff.”

   “Wait a minute!” says Ruff, “You haven’t heard my new song. I want your opinion.”

   I really don’t want to hear his song right now. I give him my best ‘oh-yes-sorry-I-forgot-go-on-let’s-hear-it’ facial expression but I don’t think he was fooled by it. I try to over compensate.

   “So what’s it called then?”

   Ruff doesn’t answer immediately, and I can see he’s still not convinced. All I can hear is Henwood and his constant nom-nomming of that bloody pasty.

   “Is it like the last song you played me?…er, ‘Golden Shower’…?”

   “‘Meteor Shower’,”says Ruff. He shakes his head, “If you don’t want to listen then all you gotta do is say. It’s no drama. I’d rather you were just straight with us-with me- and say you don’t like it than standing there pretending. It’s bad for my soul. Man.”

   I’ve been exposed as a phoney once again. I smile apologetically and back towards the door, fumbling for the handle. I look at them both as I leave; Henwood picking up pasty crumbs from the snare drum with both his index fingers, and Ruff with his back to me tuning his Fender jazz bass. I close the door and head out of the rehearsal room which by day is a church youth hall. The last thing I want to do is be bad for anyone’s soul. Actually, that’s not strictly true. The last thing I want to do is drown in a vat of sweetcorn, but a quick sweep of my surroundings reassures me this is unlikely.

 

two

Drinks with people I hardly know. Apart from one person I used to work with, everybody else is a complete stranger. My ex-colleague, Mel Delahunty, introduces me to everyone and I dutifully shake a dozen hands.     

   The only hand I don’t shake belongs to an oily stain of a man who’s called Rod or Rob or Dobbin or something.

    “Sorry, mate,” he grins, “I’d love to shake your hand but I’ve still got sexfingers from last night, know what I mean?”

    I go and stand somewhere else, away from Sexfingers and decide I feel like getting nuked. I order a beer and a vodka. As I knock them back, Mel Delahunty drops onto my shoulder. 

   “Heyyyy,” he drools, “it’s been months, mate. How’s work?”

   “Dragging like a snake’s bollocks,” I say, catching the eye of the barman again and reloading.

   “Fancy getting wrecked tonight, I see. Top man.”

   ”Everyone else here is already pissed,” I say, pocketing my meagre change, “I’m playing catch up.”

   “”There’s a girl over there who wants to know what your name is,” says Mel, pointing me towards a shady corner of the jammed pub. There are four or five women standing in a tight circle, just to the right of the fireplace.

   “Which one?” I ask, as the music gets louder.

   Mel balls into my ear, “The one that looks a bit like Stacey Slater!”

   “Who?!”

   “Stacey Slater! From Eastenders!”

   Now I don’t watch too much television, and I think the last time I saw Eastenders Doctor Legg was still the main druid in town. Mel sees me shrugging in ignorance.

   “The one with her arm on the mantle shelf, with the big bongoes.”

   Ah, right.

   At that moment, she looks up and our eyes meet. I turn away first and finish my drinks.

   “You going to go over then?” asks Mel.

   “Let me just get a drink,” I say.

   “Okay, mate,” says Mel, “and by the way, her name is Angharad.”

   I nod as Mel squeezes back into the human wallpaper and I order a repeat prescription which disappears in moments. Not sure if it’s really hitting me yet. I decide to go out for a cigarette but then decide that I can’t be bothered so I stay at the bar. Same again, cheers.

   Four rounds of drink gone, I decide to approach Angharad. I weave and stoop through a group of people who all appear to be talking to eachother at the same time. As I emerge into a clearing I see Angharad looking in my direction and I wave. Then I lose my balance on someone’s shoe or bag and stumble forward, somehow managing to do a forward roll into the fireplace.

  I’m aware that I am now a laughing stock, but a couple of guys do help me to my feet and pat me on the back. And then I am standing there in front of Angharad, and she avoids eye contact. Now I feel stupid, and the booze has suddenly gone straight to my head.

   I shuffle my way back through the crowd to get out of the pub as quickly as possible, being met with cheers, handshakes and backslaps as I go. Mel Delahunty taps me with a “you off?” and I smile apologetically. Just as I get to the door, another hand grabs mine and I look up to see Sexfingers winking at me and laughing. I pull my hand free and stagger out into the refreshing night air.

   I look at my hand for a moment, then decide that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

one

I have a mate who has a mate who likes to be known as a professional mugger, but apparently on the weekend he robbed a guy because he thought he had a BlackBerry in his trouser pocket but it turned out to be a late-eighties science calculator.

   “He should stick to lying in bed til four in the afternoon,” I say as I uncork a fresh bottle.

   I hear Wurzel grunt on the other end of the phone and then a familiar rush of noise.

   “Are you on the bog?” I ask.

   “I was,” coughs Wurzel.

   “You sound terrible,” I say, “I don’t think you’re looking after yourself.”

   I pour my eighth glass of red of the afternoon and take the phone in to the lounge and sit on the sofa.

   “Actually,” says Wurzel, “I’m thinking about taking up rock climbing.”

   “You?” I say incredulously, “Why don’t you just cut some of the gear out?”

   “I will…some time…”

   I check my watch and then remember it doesn’t work. The battery in my watch stopped a couple of months ago and even though I haven’t had it replaced I am still wearing it to avoid that nude feeling. Not wearing a watch feels like I’m going around with my pink bling hanging out, except that watches tend to have two hands on them.

   “Well, I’ve got to go,” I say.

   “So soon?”

   “Yes. I was in the middle of reading a book when you called.”

   “A book?….Wow….” says Wurzel, without a shred of sarcasm.

   “Yes, a book. You remember what a book is, don’t you, Wurz?”

   “Hey,” replies Wurzel defensively, “I read.”

   “You?” I say. “You don’t read. You think Waterstones is a genital infection.”

   I purchased two novels recently and I’m just starting on the second, “A Curious Earth” by Gerard Woodward. I prefer this to the first one. The first one ( I won’t reference author or title just in case he’s listening) I had a problem with as it was written in first person but I didn’t particularly like that person – misery guts. I was very careful as I was reading it and as it still looks new someone will be receiving it this Christmas with love.

   “Listen, I have to go.” I say.

   “Okay, but are you still going to come for drinks next week?”

   “I’ll let you know,” I say and hang up.

   It’s well-documented that I don’t like my job very much. I don’t smoke during the day much anymore. I think I just get stunned into boredom quite quickly and I don’t recover until I’m either in the pub or at home.

   I drink my wine and realise that whenever I speak to Wurzel on the phone I’m left with ringing in my ears. I’ll finish this glass and then call work to tell them I’ll be back in tomorrow.