twenty five

(GUILTY OF DRIVING) UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE

THE SICK DRISCOLLS. Words and Music by RUFUS LANGLEY

I CAN’T CHECK MY MIRRORS

COS THEY’RE ALL STEAMED UP

I KNOW I COULD BE HEADING

FOR A MOTORWAY PILE UP

MY TWO WINDSCREEN WIPERS

WON’T WASH AWAY THE RAIN

AND MY TWIN BEVERAGE HOLDERS

HOLD NOTHING BUT SHAME

(Bridge)

I CAN’T INDICATE

I CAN’T STAY IN LANE

THE ONLY SHOULDER I CAN CRY ON

IS THE HARD ONE JUST OUTSIDE BASILDON

(Chorus)

COS I’M GUILTY OF DRIVING

UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE

YES I’M A-GUILTY OF DRI-YI-IVING

UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE

(Verse 2)

I AIN’T GOT NO SPARE TYRE

AIN’T GOT NO FOOT PUMP OR WRENCH

I’M SNORTING UP CHEVRONS

LIKE COCAINE FROM A BENCH

MY SPEEDOMETER NEEDLE

IT’S DANCING TO IT’S OWN TUNE

AND MY LIGHTS AND INDICATORS

ARE ON MAGIC MUSHROOMS

(Bridge)

I CAN’T DEVIATE

FROM THIS MOTORWAY

MEMORIES FLASH IN FRONT OF ME

LIKE MY OIL LIGHT COS IT’S ON EMPTY

(Chorus)

COS I’M GUILTY OF DRIVING

UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE

YES I’M A-GUILTY OF DRI-YI-IVING

UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE

(End Bit)

GUILTY GUILTY GUILTY

GUILTY GUILTY GUILTY

GUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTY

GUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTY

(MY GEARBOX IS RED HOT!)

GUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTY

GUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTY

IT’S AN EMERGENCY

I NEED AN M.O.T!

   “Well?” says Ruff. “What do you think?”

   I shake my head in quiet disbelief, “These lyrics…are they the first draft? I mean, did you just write them this morning when you were on the toilet?”

   I’ve offended Ruff again and he looks suitably aggrieved. I just find it very hard to get excited by all of this. He leans over our pints and snatches the lyric book out of my hands and closes it.

   “I don’t know why I waste my time asking your opinion,” he says, finishing off his previous pint and reaching for the next.

   “I just think it’s a little bit…corny.”

   Ruff looks at me as though I’m barking.

   “It’s a rock song, man…an open road anthem.”

   “Well, maybe I need to hear the words sang to the music,” I say.

   Ruff shakes his head childishly, “Well, maybe I don’t want you to hear them sang to music. After all, you never seem to be arsed to make it to any of our gigs.”

   “That’s not true,” I say. But it is, mostly.

   Ruff sinks some of his drink, “Listen, if you think you can do any better than this song, feel free to audition for the Driscolls.”

   “Oh, no,” I say, pointing a finger at him, “I told you, I’m not available.”

   “I know,” sighs Ruff, “you think The Sick Driscolls are shite.”

   “No,” I correct him, “I’m shite. Why do you think I don’t do this kind of thing anymore? Enough people told me so.”

   “I never told you so,” says Ruff, crossing his arms.

   That is true, thinking about it. Ruff was always one of the few mates I had that patiently sat and listened to every song I ever demoed. But that was never enough for me. Maybe I just felt they were being polite. Maybe I just didn’t trust anyone enough.

   “I’m over all of that now,” I say flatly.

   “Oh yeh?” says Ruff in an unnecessarily high-pitched voice, “you still have your guitar.”

   “I don’t play it.”

   “Then throw it out. Or sell it.”

   “What for?” The idea is abhorrent to me.

   “Well, you don’t use it.”

   “You have a Soda Stream that you never use. Throw that out.”

   “That’s totally different,” says Ruff. “My old peg bought that in 1985 or something. It’s a curio.”

   “Right.”

   “But listen,” says Ruff, scratching his crotch, “I can’t compose a song on a Soda Stream, can I? It would just sound…fizzy. I’m not Scott Walker.”

   “Oh, look,” I say, putting my pint down on the damp table. “When are you playing next?”

   “Yeh, right,” says Ruff as he pulls some tobacco from his coat pocket. “I’ve heard all this before.”

   I do feel bad about never seeing his band. Kind of.

   “No, really,” I say. “When?”

   “A week Wednesday. At The Purple Pony.”

   I slap the table resolutely, “I’ll be there.”

   “Okay then,” says Ruff, and I’m almost offended by his lack of enthusiasm.

   “No,” I say, “I will.”

   “Okay.”

   Ruff rolls a cigarette in silence and slides it behind his ear. Then he gives me a sly grin.

   “What?” I ask.

   “If you don’t turn up to see the band play next week, there’s gonna be a forfeit.”

   “What, I have to come and see you twice?”

   I laugh and he doesn’t so I stop.

   Ruff leans forward, “You have to play on stage with us the next time.”

   “No way,” I say.

   “Coward.”

   “It runs a little deeper than that, Rufus.”

   “Just one song,” says Ruff. “I mean, if you’re intending to show up for next week’s gig then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

   He has me by the gongs there. He spits on his palm and extends it to me.

   “We’re not burying treasure, you know,” I say.

   “Shake,” says Ruff.

   I sigh, lightly spit into my hand and we shake firmly.

   “Nice one, brother,” he grins. He stands up and checks his pockets for his lighter. “I’m actually hoping you don’t turn up next Wednesday.”

   “I’ll bet,” I mutter into my drink.

   “I’m determined to find your rock and roll soul. Man.”

   he slaps me on the shoulder and heads out into the cold evening wind. My phone rings and it’s Meredith.

   “Hi, Meredith.”

   “Hello, you!” she says cheerily. “What you up to?”

   “Just on a bit of a bender with a mate.”

   “Cooooooool…” she says. “Are you free a week Wednesday?”

   I wish I was, I could do with a service.

   “No, I’m afraid not. I’, going to see my mate’s band play.”

   “Oh,” she says, “are they any good?”

   “They’re the new Walker Brothers.”

   “The shirtmakers?”

   “Yes.”

   “Coooooooooooooool…..“

twenty four

I meet Molly in The Cloisters, the pub opposite Gregg’s Bakery, that mid-morning Mecca for builders everywhere. As I pass a row of pasty chomping shaved heads in combat trousers and luminous waistcoats sitting on a bench I decide that Famous Army Stores has a lot to answer for.

   I find Molly inside just peeling herself away from the bar with two pints and I follow her to a table.

   “I laughed at this woman today,” I say. “I mean, literally, just laughed in her face.”

   “Really,” says Molly.

   “Are you still doing that creative writing course?”

   “Yes,” says Molly as she swallows some beer. “I did miss one week when I split up with Randolph.”

   I cough up some beer, “You split with Randolph? Why?”

   “I told you, he didn’t appreciate my shaved head.”

   “Well, neither did you,” I say. “That’s why you grew it back straight away. If it isn’t shaved anymore, then what’s the problem?”

   “Oh,” she sighs, “he just has a bit of a complex about it. Something to do with being startled by a bald au pair when he was a small child.”

   “Still,” I shrug, “you did have that issue with that squint of his. What goes around…”

   “Oh, sod off,” hisses Molly.

   The Cloisters is starting to get a little bit busier. I check my watch and see that it’s coming up to half eleven. I should go to work at some point.

   “So the course is still going fine?” I ask after a few mouthfuls of lager.

   Molly eyes me, “You want to do a creative writing course yourself?”

   “No,” I say. “I try and stick to doing things I can learn by myself.”

   “Like what? Drinking and masturbation?”

   “I’ve actually started writing a novel,” I say.

   Molly chuckles, as I thought she would, “What for?”

   I frown, “What do you mean ‘what for?’“

   “You can’t write a novel,” says Molly, leaning back in her chair and shaking her head at the apparent lunacy of the idea.

   “Thank you,” I say in my best hurt feeling voice.

   “Awww, come on,” she says, clutching my sleeve in mock reassurance. “I remember your little stories that you used to write when we were in school. They were soooo stupid.”

   “That was just for my mates,” I say. “I’m hardly going to write the same stuff I was writing when I was fourteen.”

   “Okay,” says Molly, holding up an appeasing hand. “What’s it called?”

   “Vancouver Hill.”

   “Vancouver Hill?”

   “Yes.”

   “Is it set in Vancouver?”

   “No.”

   “You probably should set it in Vancouver.”

   “Why’s that?”

   “It would at least give you an excuse to go there. You don’t do nearly as much travelling as you should do.”

   “I tell you what,” I say as I reach the halfway mark of my drink, “you go for me.”

   “So what is this magnum opus supposed to be about?”

   I really can’t be bothered to tell her and also I don’t really have a solid story.

   “I can’t be bothered to tell you,” I say.

   “You don’t really have a story, do you,” says Molly.

   I sigh, “Well, I’ll admit the details are a little sketchy. It’s a study of isolation, loss, what could have happened, fragmentation…the human condition. There’s also a damaged space craft with no means of communication racing towards Earth to warn everyone of impending doom.”

   I sit back, feeling quite satisfied with my brief synopsis. Molly doesn’t look that impressed.

   “So,” she says, “it’s science fiction then.”

   “No, it’s not science fiction.”

   “You just said it has a spaceship in it.”

   “I know,” I say, “but that’s just incidental. It’s what it represents.”

   “And what exactly does it represent?”

   “I’m not sure,” I admit. “Maybe it represents how easy it is to run out of time if you don’t try and get things done….or something.”

   Molly wrinkles her nose in indifference, “Well, I won’t hold my breath but you keep at it, Slick.”

   “Don’t worry,” I say defiantly, “I will.”

   Molly sniggers, “Vancouver Hill…”

   “Oh, get your haircut,” I say. “Same again?”

twenty three

“You’re sooooo pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

   Molly sucks red wine from her thumb as Murray inserts the DVD into his player. He looks round and grins broadly at her, “Damn right, baby!”

   “Don’t call me ‘baby’,” retorts Molly.

   I help myself to another glass of red and settle back into the armchair. I turn to Ruth, who’s sitting on the sofa snuggled up to Coy Johnson.

   “Looking forward to all this?” I ask.

   Ruth nods slowly, “Coy’s going to give Murray a professional critique…” she lifts her chin and kisses his face,”…aren’t you my little tangerine?”

   “Sure,” says Coy flatly.

   We hear the front door slam shut and Ruff plods into the lounge carrying a bag of supplies from the off-licence at the end of Murray’s street. He hands the keys back to Murray and pulls a bottle of vodka from the plastic bag.

   “Did I miss it?” he asks as he unscrews the bottle cap.

   “He hasn’t even started it yet,” yawns Molly.

   “Damn,” says Ruff and takes a huge gulp from the bottle.”So what are you waiting for, man?”

   Murray coughs into his fist and stands up straight with his back to the television. He looks more than a little absurd with his Brazilian tan and oversized white shirt.

   “I’m creating the impulse,” he says, “you know…building the tension.”

   “Oh, for the love of god, just put us out of our misery,” moans Molly.

   “Come on, leave him alone,” says Ruth. “I’m quite curious to see his performance actually.”

   Molly turns to her, “Well, that’s hardly surprising seeing as you’re engaged to a porn star.”

   “Ex-porn star,” I say.

   “Whatever,” says Molly, “the point is I’m about to see Murray doing it with some South American slag and I don’t want to but I feel compelled to because there is a definite possibility that he will look ridiculous and I had a really shitty day so I could do with a laugh. And if it means having to endure twenty minutes of his lardy rump rolling in and out, then so be it.”

   Murray slips a hand casually into his pocket and winks at Molly, “I think I know what you’re trying to say here, Molly.”

   “What? What am I trying to say,Murray?”

   Murray grins and nods around the room, “I think maybe on some small, subconscious level, you actually find me quite attractive. And it’s this very fact that is driving you to watch my debut feature. Am I right?”

   Molly stares him in the eye and whispers ‘noooooo’.

   “Listen to him,” I say. “He’s hung out the back of a couple of jazztarts and suddenly he’s Mr Dreamboat.”

   “Come on,”says Molly, “get on with it. It’s getting late and it’s going to take me well over an hour to get home because the tube is shagged again. And you still haven’t fixed your lavatory.”

   “Okay, okay,” says Murray and picks up the remote control.

   Ruff sits on the sofa arm next to Molly and leans in to her, “We could have watched this at my flat, you know. My bog flushes just fine.”

   Molly wrinkles her nose, “Your ‘bog’ is covered in stains. Why don’t you guys try cleaning it once in a while? It’s disgusting.”

   “I’ve tried cleaning it, but those stains just won’t shift.”

   “Yes, well, just aiming your wee at them isn’t really going to do the trick is it.”

   “Ladies, gentlemen,” interrupts Murray, holding both hands up. “If you don’t mind.”

   “Hurry up,” I say, downing the last of my wine and pouring another. I’m trying to get hammered so that the experience of watching Murray fornicating on film will later seem like some bizarre dream.

   “Alright,” says Murray, shrugging me off. He presses play and takes a few steps back.

   “And remember,” says Ruth to Coy, “to give us your honest opinion as a seasoned porn star.”

   “Ex-porn star,” corrects Coy Johnson.

   The main titles sequence to Rude Oil starts rolling. I point at the screen when the producer credit appears.

   “There is no way that that is his real name.”

   “Who?” says Murray. “Chess Pamplemousse?”

   “Yeh.”

   “Why can’t that be his real name?”

   “‘Chess Pamplemousse’?”

   “So?”

   “‘Chess Pamplemousse‘?”

   “Give the guy a break,” says Murray, “he’s in my crosshairs if I’m going to make it in the adult entertainment industry.”

   “Have you heard of him, honey?” Ruth asks Coy.

   “Sure,” replies Coy, “I’ve heard of everybody. I’m a porn star.”

   “Ex-porn star,” corrects Ruff.

   The film runs its predictably meagre story arc involving Texan spunk well disputes while checked-shirted ranchers and spunk magnates bang away at eachother.

   “Where do you come in?” I ask, starting on my sixth glass of red.

   “Anytime soon,” says Murray, keeping his eyes glued to the television screen.

   “Who do you play?” asks Ruff from inside the vodka bottle.

   “I play Toss Mahoney. I ride in and stop two ranch girls fighting and then it’s Hello Dolly!”

   Ruff burps, “So, what you’re saying is, you go from riding one set of saddlebags to riding…another set of saddlebags.”

   Molly leans over and smacks Ruff so hard on his shoulder that it sends him disappearing over the arm of the sofa.

   The scene with the two ranch girls scrapping starts roughly twenty minutes into the proceedings. Murray visibly starts to shake.

   “Oh, god…” he says excitedly,”here I come…here I come…”

   “Please let this be brief…” mutters Molly.

   Ruff and I swig our drinks as quickly as possible. The fight scene then suddenly cuts away before Murray’s character appears. Instead we are presented with a mature woman doing that Marilyn Monroe pose, only instead of an air vent she is standing over an active ’spunkwell’.

   Murray takes a couple of steps forward.

   “They cut my scene!”

   “Are you sure?” I say, just to be on the safe side.

   “Right there!” He points at the screen. “In the middle of the girly fight. That’s when Toss Mahoney turns up and proceeds to give them the business!”

   “Maybe they’ll cut back to it later,” says Ruth helpfully. “What do you think,honey?”

   “Sure,” says Coy Johnson, but he’s not sure.

   Murray hits the fast forward button and we all lean forward, studying the screen intently. Then the end credits appear. Murray presses the off button and sags on the arm of my chair.

   “They cut my scene,” he says, deflated.

   “Maybe they’ll stick it back in for the Director’s Cut,” I say.

   Murray ignores me and goes over to his drinks cabinet to pour himself a large scotch.

   “They cut my scene,” he says again. “I feel so used.”

   “Wow,” says Molly, “you must be the first person in the history of adult features to have a good penis for radio.”

   Murray turns and glares at Molly, “You make fun of me? In my own home?”

   “That’s right,” nods Molly sincerely.

   “You’re bloody lucky I let you in at all after murdering my goldfish.”

   “Yeh, it’s a personal high.”

   “I don’t believe this is happening to me,” says Murray. He sits on the edge of his coffee table and rubs his forehead.

   “Didn’t Bootie know?” I ask. “She is your agent, after all.”

   Murray shakes his head, “She didn’t say anything.”

   “Call her,” I say.

   Murray shakes his head again, “Nah, she said she was going away for a couple of weeks – you know, networking. She said she’ll call me when she’s done.”

   I glance at the others and we all appear to come to the same conclusion. Coy Johnson runs his index finger across his throat from ear to ear. Best not to say anything until Murray has worked it out for himself…

   “I reckon she’s fucked you over, mate,” says Ruff from the floor.

   Murray twists round, “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would she?”

   We all remain silent for a few moments until Murray works it out and realises Bootie has left him well and truly on the cutting room floor for good. He clutches his head with both hands, slips off the coffee table and crawls out towards the bathroom on his knees.

   “Jeeeez…” says Coy Johnson, “that guy is real upset.”

   “Maybe we should leave him on his own,” I say.

   Molly stands and puts her coat on, “We will leave. You should stay here with him.”

   “Me? Why?”

   “You’re the closest mate to him out of all of us,” says Ruth, detaching herself from Coy.

   “Thanks, thanks a lot,” I say, going to the kitchen and sliding out another bottle of red.

   Coy Johnson pulls Ruff to his feet and the four of them head in to the hallway. Molly grins at me over her shoulder so I give her a couple of fingers.

   “Don’t bother closing the door,” I call after them, “I’ll be right behind you after one more glass.”

   I head back to the lounge, sit down, and pour myself a glass of red. As I drink, I’m sure I can hear Murray sobbing softly in the bathroom. I pick up the remote and press play. May as well have another quick look.

   After a couple of minutes, I hear the bathroom door bang open and Murray bounds in to the lounge; stark naked and holding his penis in one hand and a Helix Shatterproof ruler in the other. He stands directly in front of me and lines them both up. I press myself as far back into the seat cushion as I possibly can.

   “Look,” he says. “This dick is porn star material, my friend!”

   “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at a pork pie again,” is all I can find to say, trying to edge it away from my field of vision.

   At that moment, Molly walks in.

   “I forgot my beenie hat and–”

   She stops dead in the lounge and looks at us, mouth wide open.

   “Ohh…” she says softly,”…this could be awkward…”

   There is an uncomfortable silence and then Murray steps forward and thrusts his crotch out towards Molly.

   “You telling me this penis is only good for radio, huh?! This penis could present News At Ten, BABY!!”

   Nice work, Murray. That’s telling her.

twenty two

Someone’s tapping me on the back. Things are coming back to me before my eyelids. Snakebite, depth-charged with vodka…people who drink vodka and Red Bull are all muffs…Fumbling with a woman in her late forties in the back of a taxi…Where’s Roper?…What’s the woman’s name?…Jora…J-O-R-A…she typed it on her phone and showed it to me. That’s it. Her mother …Colleen?…helped Roper out of the taxi…I’m in Jora’s bed and I feel like cold shit. Is she married?…No, wait, she’s divorced, that’s it! She left her husband and went back to live with her mother, which means this is her mother’s house. I pull the duvet tighter…it’s chilly in here and the alcohol is freezing in my bloodstream…there’s that tapping again…

   “Give me some of the duvet,” says Jora in her cigarette-ravaged voice.

   “I’m cold,” I mutter flatly. And I’m drunk. And I’m in a rotten mood. I pull the duvet tight around my throat.

   I feel her wrenching at it, “There’s enough for both of us; it’s a king size quilt.”                      

   “Yes, but you’re king size so that kind of cancels it out.”

   Time freezes. Oh, shit; I do believe I just made that remark out loud. I have my back to Jora and so have no idea what she might do next. I grit my teeth, expecting abuse of the verbal or physical kind. Or maybe even both. She looked pretty tasty last night, and not in the attractive sense. But nothing comes my way. Instead, Jora gets out of the bed. I hear her putting on a dressing gown and going downstairs. I sit up and hear the kettle coming on. How shit do I feel? I still have my watch on and I squint at it in the dark…4:47am. The room revoves slowly but I decide to try and salvage this situation. I slide from the bed and grub around on the floor for my clothes; they feel really uncomfortable in this state. I hobble downstairs and find her pouring herself a coffee in the dirty kitchen.

   “Do you want a cup?” she asks, not turning around.

   “No…thanks,” I reply meekly.

   Jora sits at the tiny breakfast bar and sips quietly with both hands. I lean awkwardly in the doorway.

   “Look,” I say, and then hesitate because I’ve never been any good and separating my foot from my mouth, “I’m sorry about what I said just then.”

   “Forget it,” says Jora coolly, “you’re still drunk.”

   “Well,” I say, “if it’s any consolation, I’ve slept with much chubbier women than you.”

   Ohhhh…

   “I think you should leave now,” says Jora as she flushes crimson. “There’s a cab office at the top of the road.”

   I can’t really argue with that. I say nothing and back away, heading up the stairs to the bedroom to check I haven’t left anything behind, aside from my credibility. I’m not a very nice person, I decide. As I stand on the landing I have vague recollections of us all throwing Roper onto a bed. I go to the next door, and as I get near I hear mumbling and squeaking.

   “Roper?”

   “Yeh…” I hear him say from inside, “come in.”

   I open the door.

   “Uuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggghhhh…” I groan.

   Roper is naked and on his knees at the foot of the bed and his face is bobbing up and down between the map-like legs of Jora’s mother. Colleen is lying back on the bed, arms folded behind her head. Her breasts, looking like two snooker balls in a pair of socks, are hibernating in her armpits. As Roper is going at it, her midriff ripples like sand in a desert storm. She looks at me and gives me a denture-less smile:-

   “You alright, luv?”

   I can’t answer. This is exactly one of those situations when you really should look away but for some reason you just don’t. Eventually, however, I manage to speak.

   “I have to go,” I say. “We have to go.”

   Roper mumbles something and gives me the thumbs up. With both thumbs.

   “I’ll wait for you outside, then,” I say.

   Another thumbs up and I leave them to it. I shudder and make my way down the stairs. It’s definitely time to sober up and get my act together. Jora is standing in the hall with her arms crossed.

   “I told you I wanted you to leave,” she says.

   “I was just letting my friend know. Sorry.”

   I open the front door.

   “Sorry,” I repeat pathetically.

   “Forget it,” says Jora, and closes the door on me.

   It’s freezing out here. I lean against the wall by the front gate and shiver in silence. After about half an hour the front door opens and I turn to see Roper kissing Jora’s mother goodbye. Even this makes me wince. He trots up to me, still clearly pissed, and puts his arm around my shoulder.

   “How’s it hanging?” he says cheerfully as we start up the road.

   “How could you?” I say.

   “What?”

   “How old was she? Seventy?”

   “About that, yeh.”

   “You filthy pig.”

   “Any port in a storm, mate. Rock and roooooll!”

   I shake my head and we carry on up the street of terraced houses.

   “Have you got any money for a cab?” I ask, realising I probably haven’t.

    Roper stops on the pavement and checks his pockets. He reaches inside his coat.

    “No, I don’t think so…ohhh…bloody hell.”

   “What?” I say, immediately deducing that he has left his wallet next to Colleen’s commode or something.

   “Tell me I didn’t…” says Roper and slowly pulls his hand from out of his coat. Between his thumb and his index finger are a set of dentures. Roper grimaces.

   “You stole her false teeth?” I ask incredulously. “I thought you’d given up this thieving lark.”

   “So did I,” says Roper, inspecting the teeth close up.

   “Come on,” I say, “let’s get a taxi and get out of here before they realise.”

   As we are walking, Roper holds the dentures up under the passing streetlamps.

   “There’s a fair bit of food in these,” he says and then puts them back in his pocket.

   Hold the vomit in, I tell myself, hold it in…

twenty one

“So how about it?”

   I smack water out of my ears and slide towards the tap end to try and keep my mobile dry.

   “Sorry?” I say.

   “Are you in the shower?”

   “Not anymore,” I say, clumping down onto the bathroom floor. I squeeze soap from my eyeballs, “What did you say?”

   “DInner and drinks at my place,” says Meredith. “Or your place, whichever is convenient.”

   “Well…”

   “I’ve got the flat to myself for a few days if you fancy a change of scene. Angie is on a 40th Birthday weekend in Newcastle. The whole weekend.”

   I give in; naked, wet and tempted by the dangling carrot of getting out of the flat for a night or two and getting pampered in Stevenage. And besides, my dangling carrot could do with the exercise.

   “Okay,” I say, “you’ve talked me into it.”

   “Great!” she squeaks, “You can come over any time you like.”

   “Okay,” I say, pulling a towel off the rail, “but for crying out loud Merry, go easy on me this time. My clockweights have only just regained their equilibrium.”

   “Only tender loving care this weekend,” purrs Meredith and gives me a mwah down the phone, “See you later.”

    She rings off and I stand there with the towel hanging over my shoulder. I casually look down.

   “I’ll make it up to you, gentlemen. Promise.”

   I put on some clothes in my room and head in to the lounge.

   “Up you get, Sleepng Beauty!” I say.

   Roper groans on the couch and lifts part of his head, leaving most of it on the cushion.

   “What time is it?”

   “Eight o’clock,” I say, opening the blinds. I go and stand over Roper. “Is that drool on the cushion?”

   Roper sits up, touches the damp patch on the cushion and puts his hand to his nose, “What did I eat last night?”

   I shake my head and go into the kitchen to make some coffee. Roper follows me, trying to straighten his tie. He rests his forearms on the worksurface.

   “Do you think I should give her a ring?”

   “Why bother?” I say, pouring coffee into the mugs without a spoon, “Gussie will no doubt take you back when she realises-yet again, I might add- that she has no one left to have a go at. Just lie low for a few weeks and have sex with as much as you can get hold of. But try and do better than last night.”

   Roper stands up straight as I slide his drink over to him, “What do you mean? What did I do last night?”

   I sip my coffee, “You can’t remember?”

   Roper shakes his head slowly and tries to squint his way into the past, “Nooooo….”

   I remember. He stood on a bin and tried to have sex with a police horse. Myself and two of his female work colleagues did at least manage to talk the police officer round, just. Still, if the other option was having sex with Gussie, I’d probably consider lowering my jodphurs.

   We finish our coffee in the lounge while Roper struggles with his memory.

   “I’m going to Meredith’s tonight,” I say over the breakfast news.

   “Uh-huh…” mumbles Roper, “thought you didn’t want to go down that alley…”

   “Yeah, well,” I stretch, “she’s not a horse is she.”

   “No,” chuckles Roper.

   “Come on, let’s go.”

   We head for the front door and I let Roper out first. As I lock it, Roper suddenly clutches his face and drops to his knees.

   “Ohhhhh…..nooooooooooo…..”

twenty

“You’re really getting married?”

   Ruth beams at me like a little kid and takes a huge gulp of her pint.

   “That’s right,” she says.

   This makes me feel a little uncomfortable.

   “Are you sure about this? I mean, marrying Coy Johnson. He is a porn star after all.”

   “Ex-porn star,” corrects Ruth. “And yes, I am sure. I do want to marry him. We are very much in love.”

   “Well, as long as you’re sure it’s what you want.” I’m not really convinced that this is such a great idea but I’ll go along with it.

   Ruth runs a finger around the rim of her pint glass, “I’ve got a massive favour to ask you.”

   “Name it,” I say, opening the pub menu.

   Ruth places a hand on my arm, “I want you to give me away.”

   I close the menu and look at her.

   “Me?”

   “That’s right,” she nods.

   “I always assumed it was the father of the bride that had the honour.”

   “I know, but he’s dead.”

   “No he isn’t,” I say, “he lives in Fulham.”

   “Well, that’s as maybe,” says Ruth, checking her mobile, “but I haven’t spoken to the dirty old git in nearly four years so he’s six feet under as far as I’m concerned.”

   “But I thought you and he had worked things out?”

   She shakes her head and spins her glass around slowly, smearing a ring of beer over the table, “He just couldn’t keep his grubby paws off Auntie Tina.”

   We both drink in silence. Her dad’s dalliances, even after her mum’s untimely death in the Log Flume Incident, still mess with Ruth’s head an awful lot.

   “Anyway,” says Ruth with a sigh, “will you do this thing for me?”

   I try not to appear hesitant, “Of course. I’d be delighted to. Of course I will.”

   “Oh good! Thank you, honey.”

   “No problem.”

   “You’re a sweetheart.”

   “I know it.”

   We drink in silence again. Then Ruth adjusts her V-neck and says, “Coy and I had a really great idea for the reception party.”

   “Go on,” I say.

   “Well,” says Ruth, “Coy is inviting a lot of people from the adult industry to the reception party.”

   “Wow,” I say, “I don’t normally like weddings as you know but this sounds like it could be interesting.”

   “Yes, well, at this particular wedding reception all the guests will be required to attend naked.”

   Naked?

   “You must be joking,” I say. She must be joking.

   “No, I’m not,” she says. No, she isn’t.

   “Why would you want to do that?” Right now I’m only concerned about my own personal dignity.

   Ruth shakes my arm, “Oh, come on! Don’t be such a miserable old prude. It’ll be fun.”

   “And where exactly are you planning to hold this matrimonial flesh fest?”

   “My mate Becky-Ann has got her licence back. She’s giving us the upstairs function room from friday afternoon to the early hours of saturday.”

   “Becky-Ann’s? How many pairs of buttocks are you guys inviting to this shindig?”

   “Around two hundred.”

   “Two hundred!?” I say, dribbling some of my beer back into the glass.”Two hundred naked porn stars dancing around to ‘Lady In Red’ is not my idea of a wedding reception.”

   “Oh, don’t be so bloody stupid,” says Ruth. “As if I’d have Chris de Burgh playing at my wedding.”

  

nineteen

“Oh, hey…” moans Ruff, holding out his hands, “it’s starting to rain.”

    “Who has the keys?” asks Molly, pulling her beenie hat down over her stubbly head and clinging on to her scarf.

   “I’ve got them,” I say, and open the front door to Murray’s flat.

   “I’m glad you’ve got them,” says Vance, “I thought I’d lost them for a minute.”

   “Why?” I ask, pushing the door wide open, “You never had them in the first place.”

   “That may be true,” says Vance as we all head inside, “but I’m always losing my keys.”

   ”I’m surprised you even have a front door,” says Molly under her breath.

   I turn on the lights in the hallway and lounge, “Don’t anybody use the toilet, Murray didn’t have time to get a plumber out before he went to Brazil.”

   We stand there silent in the lounge for a moment. I look at everyone.

   “Was it really necessary for all of us to come here?” I say. “We’re only feeding the bloody goldfish.”

   “The pubs are closing,” says Molly.

   “I’ve never been here before,” says Ruff, thudding down on the sofa and lighting up a Camel. “I’m just nosy.”

   I take my coat off and head over to the drinks cabinet, “Well, as long as we’re here who fancies a drink?”

   “Me,” says Molly.

   “I’ll have whatever you guys are having,” says Ruff, thumbing through Murray’s old copy of Vanity Fair.

   “I’ll get the drinks,” says Vance and I step aside as he bounces over. I walk over to the goldfish bowl and peer in at them. Molly comes and stands next to me.

   “What are their names?” she asks after a few moments.

   “Waldorf and Statler,” I reply.

   Molly laughs, “From The Muppets? I thought they would have had Star Trek names, seeing as Murray’s such a fan.”

   “Well, a conflict of interests can’t be helped sometimes,” I say. “I suppose he could have called them ‘Pigs In Space’.”

   “Yeh,” agrees Molly, “that’s probably what I would have gone for. I mean, for goldfish they are pretty ugly.”

   Ruff heads over and flicks a long finger of ash into the sink, “All goldfish look the same. How can those two be uglier than other ones?”

   Molly takes her scarf off irritably, “Well, why don’t you just go and write a song about it, Leonard Cohen?”

   ” ‘Leonard Cohen’?”

   “Drinks are served!” declares Vance.

   Ruff and Molly go back for their refreshments and I examine the bowl, “We should probably change the water too. It’s looking pretty murky.”

   “Good idea,” says Molly, raising her glass, “if the water’s clear they’ll be able to see eachother coming.”

   I take my drink from Vance and sit down.

   “Cheers!” says Vance and we all drink.

   “Are these Human Brains?” I say. I’m feeling lightheaded after seven hours in the pub.

   “Absolutely,” replies Vance. “What do you think?”

   We all nod in wincing appreciation. Vance downs his and strolls round the room, taking in his surroundings. “So this is where Murray has been banging my mate Bootie Hadley.”

   “I still can’t believe he’s dating a porn star,” sighs Molly.

   Ruff parts his legs and taps the sofa cushion, “I bet this furniture’s taken a right hammering.”

   “Yeeuugh,” groans Molly and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Can we not speculate on Murray’s lovemaking please?”

   ” ‘Lovemaking’ ?” I laugh.

   Ruff laughs too, “Yeh, I’m sure Murray and his porno star bird do a lot of lurve- making.”

   Molly puts her drink down on the coffee table. “What’s so funny about that? Okay, just because she’s in the adult movie industry doesn’t mean her relationship with Murray can’t have intimate moments made up of an emotional connection.”

   “Yeh, right,” I say and finish my drink.

   Vance passes around another batch of Human Brains and Molly hands him her empty glass.

   “So Vance,” she says, “do you have sex or do you make love?”

   “Come on,” says Vance, “everybody knows making love is just sex with extra kissing.”

   Molly gasps, “What a ludicrous statement to make! Honestly, why would you make a comment like that?”

   Ruff sinks his drink, “That’s how his species has survived for so long.”

   “What do you mean?” asks Molly.

   Ruff gets up and helps himself to a large vodka, “Believe me, if you’d seen some of the bargain basement, Poundworld old shitters he’s been with, you’d realise that for him kissing is practically a marriage proposal.”

   Molly leans forward and whispers to me, “Is that why he’s a bit backward?”

   Vance slaps Ruff on the back, “You know what, buddy, I think you’re right! I should really make a concerted effort to up my game.” He slides over to Molly and puts his arm around her shoulder, “What do say, babe, shall we disco?”

   Molly shrugs him off and looks at him with no small amount of detest, “‘Shall we disco’? Do I look like I do the bloody Hustle?”

   I look at my watch. It’s just gone one am. “Better get on with the goldfish.”

   I go to the sink and start running the taps. Molly comes over, “I’ll give you a hand.”

   She puts the kettle on to boil and looks for some bowls in one of the cupboards. My mobile rings and I pull it out of my trouser pocket.

   “It’s Ruth,” I say to no one in particular.

   “Take it,” says Molly. “I’ll deal with all this.”

   “You sure?”

   Molly wobbles a little on her feet, “Definitely.”

   I go out into the hallway, “Hi Ruth.”

   “Hey!!” screeches Ruth down the phone. She sounds really happy and drunk.

   “What’s up?” I ask.

   “I’ve got some big news,” she says excitedly.

   “Tell me, I’m interested.”

   “Nope,” she says playfully, “I’ll tell you when I see you. I just wanted to make sure you’re around for drinks next Monday.”

   “Probably.”

   “Cool! I’ll be in touch. Bye!”

   She rings off before I can say anything else.I stand there in the hallway rocking and trying to think of something witty to text her but after a couple of minutes realise that I have nothing remarkably clever to type so I return to Molly and find her standing there holding a wine glass full of water and in it one of the goldfish. Her mouth is braced in an apologetic grimace.

   “Oh, no….” I groan.

   “I’m sorry….” she says.

   “What happened?”

   “I was transferring this one goldfish but I made the transfer water too hot and I guess he must have died of shock. Oops.”

   “Great,” I say.

   Molly looks at the dead fish in the wine glass, “Which one is it?”

   I take a closer look, “That’s Waldorf. Statler is smaller than that one.”

   Vance approaches and puts his hands on his hips, “You cold-blooded murderer.”

   Molly punches Vance on the shoulder, “Shut up! It was an accident!”

   “Tell it to the beak, lady.” He turns to me, “So what are you going to do about it?”

   “Me!?” I say, “What am I going to do about it?”

   “Well, it’s your responsibility. You’re leading this little expedition.”

   “I didn’t ask any of you to come along!” I say.

   “What am I going to do with Waldorf?” asks Molly.

   “Well, we can’t flush it away,” I say.

   Vance takes the goldfish out of the glass and shakes it dry between his thumb and forefinger, “We could eat it; you know, put it in a sandwich or something.”

   “Don’t be ridiculous,” hisses Molly, flinging the contents of the wine glass into the sink.

   “No, I’m serious,” says Vance, “it’d be a genuine ‘Waldorf Salad’.”

   Ruff turns up drinking from a bottle of pernod, “What’s going on?”

   “Molly slaughtered one of Murray’s goldfish,” says Vance.

   “Oh, why don’t you just piss off,” says Molly.

   Ruff looks at the dead fish and then at Molly, “That was a bit mean, don’t you think?”

   Molly pulls her beenie hat down over her ears with both hands, “I’m leaving! I’ll see you losers later.”

   She marches out of the flat, slamming the door hard behind her.

   Ruff shakes his head and takes a long pull from the bottle, “Not a trace of remorse.”

   I put my hands in my pockets, “I may as well just put it in the bin, I suppose.”

   “Or just sling it out the window,” suggests Ruff.

   “Gentlemen, please,” cuts in Vance. “We can’t do either of those things. It’s bad karma.”

   “Oh, come on…” I say.

   “No, really. Think about it; Murray’s throne just happens to be on the blink? Coincidence? I’ll let you do the equations.”

   “He’s got a point, ” slurs Ruff.

   “Oh, what the hell do you know?” I say to Ruff, “You call your band Gulliver’s Navels.”

   “That’s where you’re wrong,” says Ruff, pointing the bottle at me, ” we’ve actually settled on a name.”

   “Oh, yeh?” says Vance, “What is it?”

   “The Sick Driscolls,” says Ruff, miming the name in lights.

   Vance clicks his fingers, “Genius!”

   “Guys,” I say, yawning, “can we please just dispose of the goldfish and get out of here?”

   “I know what’ll be good karma,” says Vance and turns the oven on.

   “Cremation?” burps Ruff.

   Vance rests the goldfish on a baking tray and closes the oven door, “No, no, no, I’m just drying him out first.”

   The three of us go back in the lounge and Vance pours us some scotch. We all sit on the sofa and stare at the blank screen of the TV.

   “You still seeing that mate of Molly’s?” asks Ruff.

   “Meredith?” I say. “Nah, I don’t know…”

   “I get it,” smirks Ruff, nudging me, “she wants to and you don’t.”

   I sip my scotch and picture Meredith, “She’s lovely, don’t get me wrong. And she’s really cool. It’s just that she’s so…muscular.”

   “I met her once,” says Vance, “she didn’t look too bad.”

   “Have you seen her naked?”

   “You’ve got pictures?”

   “Vance…”

   “Okay, okay. No, I haven’t seen her naked.”

   “She’s muscular. Trust me.”

   “What,” says Ruff, “like one of those body builders?”

   “She’s got more six-packs than Oddbins,” I say, belching into my glass.

   Vance stands up and heads for the oven, “So she’s a little toned, who are you to judge?”

   I finish my scotch, “I thought she was going to snap it off at one point.”

   We both get up and go over to where Vance is hunched over the work surface. We look over his shoulders.

   Ruff coughs, “What in the name of all that is fuckable are you doing?”

   Vance is steadily rubbing Waldorf up and down on a cheese grater, sending slivers of dead goldfish cascading down on to a plate below.

   “I’m going to commit his body to the deep,” replies Vance, wiping his brow,

   “I don’t know why I hang around with you people,” I say resignedly.

   Vance finishes scraping and then sprinkles the remains of Waldorf into the goldish bowl. Statler, blissfully unaware, begins pecking at the surface.

   “Job done,” says Vance, rubbing his hands.

   “Okay,” I say, “let’s get out of here.”

   I turn the lights out and we head for the front door.

   “What are you going to tell Murray?” asks Ruff, shoving the half empty bottle of pernod into his coat pocket.

   “I’ll tell him Molly slaughtered it,” I say, closing the door behind us.

   “Yeh”, says Vance, staring up into the rainy sky, “the cruel bitch.”

eighteen

“Gulliver’s Navels,” says Ruff down the phone.

    “What kind of a band name is that?” I say. This is the worst band name they have come up with thus far.

    “It’s a play on words.”

    “What words?”

    “The novel…Gulliver’s Travels?”

    ”No, it isn’t.”

    I hear Ruff inhale his roll-up and cough, “Well, it rhymes anyway.”

    “Navel does not rhyme with travel. I know you’re a budding songwriter with a keen sense of artistic licence, but don’t take the piss.”

    “Okay. How about ‘navvel’?”

    “What the hell is a ‘navvel’?”

    “I’m sure it’s something….”

    “Google it and get back to me.”

    “Yeh, right.”

    I hang up and get a bottle of red from the rack. Molly leans on the work surface. She is still having to wear a hat to hide the fact that she had all her hair cut off and then realised she hated it.

    “So,” I say, “Randolph didn’t like the new Alien 3 look?”

    Molly puts both hands over her face and groans, “What was I thinking?”

    “I quite like it.”

    “You do not!”

    “No, really, I do. I was running out of reasons to take the piss out of you and you just came riding to my rescue. That’s what I call a real pal.”

    “Thanks,” she says and pulls her beenie hat down a little tighter. “So…how’s it going?”

    As I’m slowly uncorking the wine, I notice Molly grinning at me and winking. I pour us both a generous glass of Pinot.

    “I’m fine, thanks,” I say innocently, “everything is fine.”

    She carries on grinning, “Reeeeeeeaaaalllly…”

    “Yes,” I say, “reeeeeeeaaaaalllllly. Unless, of course, you have heard differently.”

    “Well,” she says, standing up straight, “as a matter of fact I did hear differently.”

    Molly snakes along the work surface and wraps her fingers around the stem of the wine glass.

    “And what did you hear?” I ask, avoiding eye contact.

    “I heard you and Meredith got it on.”

    I don’t reply. I take my glass and head in to the lounge. As I’m sitting down on the sofa, Molly comes up behind me and slaps me on the forehead. This causes me to accidentally bite the inside of my cheek. And that bloody hurts.

    “What was that for?” I ask, running a finger along the inside of my mouth.

    Molly sits on the arm of the sofa, “Did you have sex with Merry?”

    “Define ’sex’.”

    She slides down onto the seat and leans in really close so that our faces are almost touching. I pretend she isn’t there and drink my wine in silence. After around half minute she sighs and pulls back.

    “Okay,” she says, “don’t tell me. But I know you did.”

    “Well, so what if I did? What’s it got to do with you?”

    “She’s a friend of mine, ” says Molly. “I have a duty to know these things.”

    “Duty schmooty,” I say.

    “What was that?”

    “What?”

    “‘Duty Schmooty’?”

    “Just a thing people say.”

    “No.”

    The doorbell goes and Molly gets up to answer it. She comes back with Vance.

    “Hey, Vance,” I say.

    “I’m just dropping by to remind you to be in later when the parcel people come with my delivery.”

    “Don’t worry, ” I say, standing up, “I’ll be here.”

    “Great,” says Vance, ” Right, I have to love you and leave you.”

    He leans in and starts kissing Molly’s cheek. She puts her hands up to stop him, “Hey! That’s a little too much loving and not enough leaving.”

    “Where are you going anyway?” I ask.

    “Didn’t I say?”

    I shrug.

    “My little rendezvous?”

    I shrug.

    “I’m going forklift racing.”

    “Forklift racing? Where?”

    “You know my friend, Gleeson? His wife Barbara is security at a furniture warehouse. It’s high stakes!”

    Vance waves and leaves. Molly and I sit down on the sofa.

    “I don’t know what it is about the name Barbara,” I say after a while, “but whenever I hear it I always picture it belonging to a woman with lots of curly dark hair. A bit like Jill Gascoine in The Gentle Touch.”

     “Forklift racing,” Molly says under a sigh.

     “Forklift schmorklift,” I say.

     “Don’t,” says Molly irritably, “don’t do that.”

    “What?”

    “That Jewish rhyming slang thingy.”

    “You don’t like it?”

    “It’s so not you.”

    I finish my wine, “I’m going to Google Jill Gascoine.”

seventeen

Molly and I are on our way to Slutzcutz.

    “I’m actually genuinely impressed,” I say.

    Molly is removing the black scrunchy from her auburn hair, “My impulse is at a maximum, so I may as well exploit it.”

    ”What does Randy make of all this?”

    “Don’t call him Randy,” she says, “his name is Randolph.”

    “Sorry,” I say. (Randolph!)

    “I haven’t told him yet,” says Molly, ” anyway, if he doesn’t like it he knows what he can do.”

    “I’m not sure I’d be too thrilled if my girlfriend shaved all her hair off,” I say. “I still have problems coming to terms with bald vaginas.”

    Molly turns to me, “Really? You don’t like shaven havens?”

    I shake my head, “No, I’m not keen. I mean, I wouldn’t say no, but I’d be secretly thinking about the privet.”

    ”But it can be said that shaven ones are more hygenic.”

    ”Why?” I argue.”I mean, as long as they’re getting a regular rinse there shouldn’t be a hygeine issue. It’s like all this business about circumcisions being more hygenic than non-circumcised. All a guy has to do is keep it clean and there’s no trouble.”

    “So you’re not circumcised then?” asks Molly.

    “No,” I say, “why would I be snipped?”

    “No reason. I just thought you were.”

    “Well,” I say, mentally adjusting my underwear, “let’s just say I don’t need a tee shirt; I’m perfectly happy with my turtleneck, thank you very much.”

     “Yeh, well,” says Molly, putting her scrunchy in her handbag, “I don’t blame you; we do get a lot of weather.”

     We reach Slutzcutz and head inside. Meredith looks up from a blonde mop of hair and smiles, “Hello, you two. I won’t be long.”

     She seems to be on her own here. Molly and I sit down and I start to thumb through Heat magazine. I hate these bloody cretinous magazines.

     “Ooooh!” I say, “that TV actress has cellulite! Well, I never!!!“

     “That is interesting to some people,” says Molly, entirely unconvincingly.

     I flick through a couple of pages, ” ‘My Secret Cheese Hell’.”

     “Believe it or not,” says Molly, ” there are people out there with problems.”

     “Tell me about it,” I say, ” most of whom are the ones that read this pile of monkey spunk.”

     Molly takes the magazine off me and opens it to a different page, “I see that singer is in the Priory again. Surprise surprise.”

     “Yaaaaaaawwwwwnnnnnn…” I put my hands behind my head and lean back in the chair, “Bloody A-list celebrities.”

     “She’s not an A-list celebrity,” says Molly. “She likes to think she is but she isn’t. She’s not even B-list. She’s a Z-list celebrity. She’s a Zelebrity.”

     Meredith finishes her client’s hairdo and takes payment. After the blonde leaves, she comes over to us. She really does have a lovely smile, even though you can still see the slight blemish where she split her cheek on the fireplace.

     “Same again, Molly?” she asks.

     “Errr, no…” says Molly, standing up. “I actually…want you to take it all off…”

     Meredith seems a little confused, “Take it all off?”

     Molly nods defiantly, “That’s right, Merry. All of it. I want the full Right Said Fred.”

     Meredith glances at me and I shrug. She doesn’t seem entirely convinced by Molly’s resolve, “Okay…come and have a seat over here.”

     As Molly sits and gets prepped by Meredith, I realise that I’m actually quite looking forward to this. I love Molly to bits, don’t get me wrong; but a tiny piece of me secretly hopes she freaks out at her new bald head.

    Molly reassures her once more that this is what she wants, and so Meredith plugs in the shaver and starts by removing part of the right side. It is then that I realise I need to be excused. If I go here, I can be back in seconds.

     “Meredith?”

     “Yes?” she replies with her back to me.

     “Would it be okay if I used your lavatory?”

     “That’s fine. It’s through the back there,” she says, pointing with her head.

     I get up and walk past the counter into the rear of the shop. There are boxes of hair products stacked up along one wall, a tiny kitchen area opposite, and then the toilet. I go in, turn the light on and sit down. The seat is loose and there is no lock. After a few moments, the light suddenly goes out and I’m left sitting in complete darkness. I hear Meredith shout “shit” and Molly groan. Not a power cut? Hang on, did I notice any bog roll when I came in here? Aaah, now…this could be inconvenient. I search all around me and then give a sigh of relief as my left hand lands on something soft, strong and hopefully very long.

     Just then, Molly springs through the door and closes it behind her. I can hear her breathing heavily in the dark.

     “Wow,” I say, “I didn’t realise this kind of thing turned you on.”

     “Shhhh,” she hisses.

     “What’s wrong?” I ask, never mind the fact I’m talking to a woman while sitting on a broken toilet in the dark.

     “Boxhead,” she whispers.

     “Really?”

     “Will you keep your voice down!”I hear Molly press her head to the toilet door, “I glimpsed her in the doorway and rushed in here. It’s quite dim out there so I don’t think she really saw me. We’ve had a power cut.”

     “Oh, I hadn’t noticed. I always go to the toilet in total darkness. Come to think of it, GET OUT!”

     “SHHHHH!!!” she hisses again. Then I hear her gasp as there is a sharp knock on the door.

     “Molly? Are you in there?”

     I hear Molly step away from the door, and then she sits on my lap.

     “It’s her,” she says.

     There is another knock, “Molly?”

     “The game’s up, ” I say, ” and this is really uncomfortable.”

     “I guess I’d better talk to her,” says Molly. She stands up and goes to the door. I feel my legs; I’m going to have red lines on my thighs now. Molly opens the door a fraction and slips out, closing it behind her. I finish up as quickly as possible and pull the chain. I might actually get the chance to see what this woman with a head shaped like a box looks like finally. She sounded quite sexy anyway. I exit the lavatory and immediately bump into Meredith who is holding a torch. I can hear Molly and Boxhead in the salon but cannnot see them.

     “Can you help me?” asks Meredith, smiling.

     “Sure,” I say.

     “I need a hand with the fusebox. Could you hold the ladder while I go up and take a look at it?”

     “Sure,” I say again.

     We go to where all the stock is and Meredith tugs a stepladder from a darkened corner. I hold it steady and she climbs, aiming the torch beam at the big black fusebox near the ceiling. I’m trying to crane my neck so I can see into the salon but Boxhead is out of sight.

     “Can you take a look aswell?” asks Meredith from above me, “Just to double check.”

     “Sure,” I say, and move out of the way so she can climb down past me. I take the torch from her and go up to the top. The step ladder is resting unconvincingly on the stacks of cardboard containers. I take a look at the fusebox. Just then, the cardboard gives way and I feel the ladder swing violently sideways, throwing me to the left so that my back hits the boxes and I slide to the floor. I hear Meredith say “shit” again just before something strikes me on the head and I get a sudden claustrophobic feeling. Then I feel the uncomfortable trickle and scent of shampoo on my face. Then I feel the ladder swing on to my legs. I hear footsteps get louder.

    “What happenned?” I hear Molly say.

    I hear high-heeled footsteps stop at my feet, “Well, that’s veeeerrry funny, I must say.”

    Wow, Boxhead really does have a sexy voice.

    “I am well aware that people think I have a head shaped like a box, but to do a hamfisted, ill-concieved, junior school impression of me just stinks! I hope you’re satisfied with yourself!”

     I hear the high heels turn sharply and click-clack out of the salon. I try and take the cardboard box off my head, but my face is packed in tight with bottles. Then I finally get some assistance from Molly and Meredith. They help me up and we go in to the salon. There is still some light coming through the windows. Meredith gives me a towel and I wipe the shampoo from my face and hair.

     “I should thank you, ” says Molly, “that really got rid of her. Nice work.”

     I wipe gunk from my eyes, “My pleasure.” I’ll see what Boxhead looks like one day. I look at Molly, and then burst into laughter.

     Molly puts her hands on her hips, “Come on then…laugh it up. Let’s go, let’s go.”

     The entire right hand side of Molly’s hair is missing, while the left hand side remains completely untouched.

     “I knew you were in two minds about this, ” I say.

     Meredith puts her phone away, “I can’t get an electrician until the morning.”

     “What?!” screeches Molly.

     “I could cut it but you’ll still need to come back and have it tidied up,” says Meredith. “I don’t have anything that runs on batteries.”

     “Molly’s got something that runs on batteries,” I say.

     Molly gives me the evils and then she turns to Meredith, “Well, I have to be somewhere soon. Do you have a hat I could borrow?”

     Meredith smiles apologetically and pulls a baseball cap from under the counter. Molly takes it with a disgusted expression on her face. I hate baseball caps too. She put it on, folding her Human League haircut up into it first. Then she looks in the mirror.

     “I look homeless,” she laments.

     And yet, I think to myself, strangely accessible.

sixteen

“You’re what?!” I put down my wine and switch the phone to the other ear.

    On the other end of the line, somewhere in Brazil, I hear Murray cough and repeat himself.

    “I’m making a movie.”

    I rub my eyes. I already know the answer to my next question, but I still find myself compelled to ask it anyway.

    “What kind of movie?”

    “Adult,” comes the slightly meek reply.

    I place my free hand over my face, “I knew it. Please, for the sake of our friendship, tell me you’re gainfully employed somewhere behind the scenes. Lighting, boom operator, towel folder…anything.”

    A degree of pride seeps into Murray’s voice and I swear I can hear him jangling change in his trousers, “I’ve actually got myself a modest – but pivotal – role in the picture.”

    “Modest?” I say, “There’s nothing modest about you.”

    “Modest,” says Murray, ” but pivotal.”

    I sit back on the sofa, “So you’ve become a porn star then?”

    “Why not?” asks Murray.

    “Do you have any previous experience?”

    “Hey! I’ve been around the block, my friend!”

    “Oh, yeh,” I say, “I forgot about your little list. So what’s the story? I’m assuming there is some kind of set up to this.”

    “Yeeesssss,” says Murray tiresomely. “It’s actually a re-imagining of the Rock Hudson/James Dean film Giant. You know the one where James Dean discovers an oil well and Hudson gets pissed off?”

    “I remember.” I sigh, “If this is a ‘re-imagining’, does that mean it’s being directed by Tim Burton?”

    “No,” scoffs Murray, “that’s just stupid. Anyway, in this version, the James Dean character discovers a semen well.”

     “Good grief,” I say. “So what’s the film called?”

     “Rude Oil.”

     “I hope you know I’m sitting here shaking my head in despair.”

     “I think you’re just jealous.”

     “No, I’m not.” (Not even slightly). “So, what does Bootie make of all this?”

     “What does she make of all this?” Murray laughs, “She’s my agent. She got me this gig!”

     “How thoughtful,” I say. “This must be love. So when do you start filming?”

     “Tomorrow morning,” he says, inhaling heavily. I’m sure I can detect a trace of dread there. I hope so.

     “Okay,” I sigh, ” well, I’d better let you go so you can learn your lines.”

     “Hey! Maybe when it’s all finished and released we can have a special premier with all our friends one night!”

     “I’m banking on all our friends being otherwise engaged that night.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “If you invite your friends to watch a film of you fucking for money they will no longer be your friends. They will just be people who point at you in the street and make cruel remarks about you at subsequent dinner parties.”

     “You think so?”

     “I know so.”

     “You wouldn’t happen to be one of those people would you?”

     “No, I don’t go to dinner parties.”

     “Hmmm,” says Murray, “interesting…Anyway, I’m not fucking for money. I’m on a kind of apprenticeship.”

     “Can you still claim Jobseeker’s Allowance?”

     ”Ho Ho Ho…Listen, I have to go. Bootie wants to talk me through a few positions.”

     “Give her my love,” I say cheerily and hang up.

     I sit there for a few moments. I was going to go to bed but now I have this horrible, involuntary image of Murray’s backside writhing awkwardly between a pair of Latino legs.

     The excuses I find to get drunk.