“Yes, you did. You told me all about his job and his car and his six-bedroom house in Barnes and all about his air-hostess girlfriend called Elaine.”
“I always hoped you’d do something like that one day.”
“What, date an air hostess?”
“No, darling, work in film. He was quite interested to see what you were up to, as a matter of fact. He’s always on the lookout for bits and pieces of incidental music for his soundtracks.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and he’s buying himself a second home, you know, in Malaga.”
“I bet he is.”
“Your aunt’s so proud of him, Steve. He’s sending her on a cruise. To the Caribbean.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, and he’s paying for her to have a brand-new kitchen put in.”
“Is he?”
“Yes. It’s got a slide-out larder.”
“You don’t say.”
“And a halogen hob.”
“Really?”
“And a fridge that makes its own ice.”
That’s it, I’ve had enough. I promised myself I wasn’t going to tell her about this, but enough is enough.
“Mum, have you any idea what kind of films Jason makes?”
“No,” she says, “I’m not sure. It’s art-house stuff, isn’t it?”
“No, Mum, it’s not art house, it’s porn. Jason makes hardcore porn films.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. We got a bunch of them offered to us at the video shop a couple of months ago.”
“Well, well, well,” she says, lowering her voice and taking it all in. “The little so-and-so. I knew it. I always said he was a little sod. Didn’t I? Didn’t I always say he was a little sod? Just wait till I tell your aunt.”
“Listen, Mum,” I say when she finally stops cackling to herself. “I ought to be getting off. I’m meeting Vince for a drink a nd I don’t want to be late. I was just checking in to see if you were OK, that’s all.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Mum, don’t start.”
“No, if you don’t want to talk to me, I understand. Why would you want to waste your time? You’re young. You’ve got your own life to lead.”
“It’s not that, I’m happy to talk to you. It’s just that I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’ll give you a call next week. Maybe me and Alison could pick you up in the car and take you to see a film or something. I think North by Northwest is still showing up at the Phoenix.”
She pauses for a second and I hear her take a short puff on her cigarette.
“North by Northwest?” she says, tapping her fingers on the side of the phone.
“Yeah.”
“With Gary Grant?”
“Yeah.” I
“The one where they try to kill him with a crop plane f and he ends up fighting for his life on the edge of Mount |
Rushmore?”
“Yeah.”
“Neurghggh…” she says. “I don’t think so. I don’t really like leaving the cats.”
I know when I’m beaten. I put down the phone, pick up my jacket and head off down the pub to catch up with Vince.
“Yees… excellent, four pounds, the last point at which we could go home empty handed.”
“Fuck, the next question’s cookery. We don’t know anything about cookery.”
“I do.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do … shit… the timer’s running out… quick, push the phone-a-friend button.”
“Arse.”
“Arse.”
“Shall we put in another quid?”
“How much have we spent?”
“Nine quid.”
“How much have we won?”
“Two quid.”
“OK, let’s have another quick go.”
“Right then, fastest finger first: “Starting with the earliest, put these Dexy’s Midnight Runners songs in the order they were first released.”
“Unbelievable. Unbelievable. Fuck me, this never happens… I can’t believe it.”
“Vince, stop freaking out and get on with it. We’re running out of time.”
“Right then, OK, OK… ahh… shit… well, “Dance Stance” obviously, A, then “Geno”, D, then “Come On Eileen”, B, then “Jackie Wilson Said …” that’s it, that’s it, press it … press the buttons
.. . ADBC… ADBC!”
“I’m pressing it, I’m pressing it.”
“Got it, got it. Nice one. All three lifelines intact. Shooting, my friend, shooting.”
“Right, it’s a question about tropical fish.”
“We don’t know anything about tropical fish.”
“I do.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yeah I do … shit… the timer’s running out… quick, press the phone-a-friend button.”
“Arse.”
“Arse.”
“Shall we put another quid in?”
“How much have we spent?”
“Ten pounds.”
“How much have we won?”
“Two pounds.”
“Fancy a go on the Addams Family pinball?”
“Yeah, go on then. Why not.”
This is great. This is really helping. We’ve spent the last hour and a half shovelling pound coins into the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? quiz machine and we’re about to spend the last half-hour before closing time stuffing fifty-pence pieces into my favourite pinball machine of all time. I’m going to get multi-ball any second. I’m a wizard. I am deaf, dumb and fucking blind. Get in there… come on … get in there… here comes Thing, look out for Cousin It… get up the ramp, get in the hole, get in the bloody hole. What do you mean, tilt? No way tilt. I never touched you. I never even touched the fucking sides. Bastard.
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? The flippers are duff.”
“No they’re not.”
“Yes they are, look, completely unresponsive, completely fucked.”
“No, mate, it’s you. You’ve obviously lost your touch. Step away from the machine. Make room for the master…
woah… multi-ball… check it out, check it out… extra multi-ball … oi, look at this, mate, six balls, six fucking balls at once… yeees, get in there, get in there. Lovely! .. . quick… give us another quid, I might be on for top score here.”
“We’ve run out, Vince.”
“Well, go and get some change…”
“What shall I buy?”
“I don’t know… does it matter? .. . just get some fucking crisps or something.”
“What flavour?”
“Danny… I’m running out of time here… just get us some fucking change, will you.”
“Sorry, mate.”
That’s all right, mate.”
“Do you fancy another pint?”
“Yeah, go on then, why not.”
That’s the great thing about Vince and me. We don’t even need to talk. We don’t need to ‘express our feelings’. We don’t need to sit here all night talking about women and our careers and our rapidly deteriorating mental health. We can just be ourselves. We can play a game of pinball and drink a pint of beer and while away the hours discussing the pros and cons of mini-disc recording and it makes us happy. It’s the small stuff. Sometimes the pleasure is in the small stuff.
“Vince?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you stop going on about the new Studio Spares catalogue for one second and let me get this Kate thing off my chest.”
“I thought you’d decided that you didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Yeah, well, I think I do now.”
“I thought you said you’d rather forget all about it.”
“I’ve been trying, but it’s nagging at me.”
“Come on,” he says with a sigh, ‘let’s hear it then.”
“OK. Firstly, do you think she’ll tell Matty what happened?”
“No.”
“Do you think 7 should tell Matty what happened?”
“No.”
“Do you think I should tell Alison what happened?
“Not in this lifetime… no.”
“Do you think I led her on a bit?”
“Course you did.”
“Should I feel guilty about it?”
“No.”
“Not even a bit?”
“No.”
“I think I was a bit flattered.”
“Course you were. Who wouldn’t be?”
“That she fancied me more than Matty.”
“I hear what you’re saying.”
“What do you think it was?”
“You what?”
“That she fancied about me.”
“Who knows? There’s no accounting for taste with some people.”
“Do you think it was my haircut?”
“No.”
“Do you think it was my hooded top?”
“No.”
“Do you think it’s my charismatic, existential, “man alone” demeanour?”
“No, mate, I don’t. I reckon it’s probably the fact that you let her witter on about flying saucers for six hours straight without feeling the need to give her a swift clout round the head.”
“Maybe it’s my passing resemblance to Phil Daniels in Quadrophenia.”
“Danny.”
“Maybe she was awestruck by my naked male form.” “Danny.” “What?” “Leave it now.” “But maybe she was—’ “Leave it.”
“But what if she was—’ “I’m warning you… leave it.”
“OK. Perhaps you’re right. Maybe we should move on to the things she said about Alison.”
“You hesitated, you definitely hesitated.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes you did. I definitely sensed some hesitation.”
“I was swallowing my beer.”
“So that’s it, then? You think she’s having an affair?”
“No. I said no. Did I or did I not answer “no” when asked if I thought Alison was having an affair?”
“But you hesitated.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I was swallowing my fucking beer.”
“But Vince, you were the one who suggested it in the first place.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That time in All Bar One. Before she went away. “Maybe she’s having an affair,” you said. You did. I remember. You definitely said it.”
“I was winding you up.”
“Why would you wind me up about a thing like that?”
“Dunno. It amused me. It amuses me to wind you up.”
“So you don’t think she’s having an affair, then?”
“No, Christ almighty, for the last time, Danny, I don’t think Alison is having an affair.”
“OK then.”
“OK.”
“So why not?”
“Why what?”
“Why don’t you think she’d have an affair?”
“Fuck me … I don’t know. I don’t reckon Alison’s the type, that’s all.”
“Are you saying my girlfriend isn’t attractive enough to have an affair?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You think she’s just a bit fed up with me, then, do you?”
“Mate, she’s been going out with you for five years. Of course she’s fucking fed up with you.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“What now? What can’t you believe?”
“I can’t believe what you just said.”
“All right then… maybe she’s not fed up with you, maybe she just wishes—’
“I mean, I can’t believe it, I can’t believe you don’t think Alison is attractive enough to be having an affair.”
“That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m going back on the quiz machine.”
“Yees, excellent… four pounds… the last point at which we could go home empty handed.”
“Fuck, it’s a question on rowing. We don’t know anything about rowing.”
“I do.”
“No you don’t.
“I do … shit… the timer’s running out… quick, push the phone-a-friend button.”
“Arse.”
“Arse.”
“Shall we put in another quid?”
“How much have we spent?”
“Eleven quid.”
“How much have we won?”
Two quid.”
“Maybe we should think about calling it a night.” “Yeah, maybe we should think about calling it a night.” “Maybe we should have one more go.” “Yeah, good idea. I was hoping you were going to say that.”
I know it’s hard to believe but these last two weeks have been full of good things: band rehearsals are going exceptionally well, I’ve written a brilliant new song provisionally entitled “Get Off Me You Loony’ and, despite all my fears, there’s been no detectable fall-out from my recent debacle with Kate. Things are beginning to look up on the money front, as well. Kostas is giving me two extra shifts a week, Sheila is paying me (in Mr. Kipling’s cakes mostly) to keep her garden in good shape, and after some protracted negotiations involving myself, my cousin Jason and my mum, I am now proud to announce that I am singularly responsible for creating the entire musical soundtrack to Gang Bang Lavatory Lust 3 (The Poo Chute Years).
It was great. Me and Matty spent the whole of last weekend looping bits of the Shaft soundtrack on to his sampler and knitting them back together so that they were in perfect time with the on-screen humping. It was a bit tricky at first, what with all the speeding up and slowing down, but Matty proved particularly useful in making sure that everything was right on the beat. We spent all of Monday night editing the final mix and, in what I consider to be something of a masterstroke, we ended up splicing some top-quality BBC sound effects onto the finished version right at the last minute. These included: various cats shagging, various football crowds cheering, trains going through tunnels, waves lapping against sandy shorelines and I’m particularly fond of this one the sound of a praying mantis feasting on the remains of its partner’s recently severed head. All in all I’d say we added a potent sense of ironic, postmodern gravi tas to the ambiance of the finished film.
I’m not entirely sure that my cousin Jason saw it the same way. In fact, he said the praying mantis sample made him feel sick. Still, he’s not got much choice really: either he pays me five hundred pounds for all the hard work I’ve done this week or I give my mum the go-ahead to have a deeply incriminating conversation with my aunt.
That’ll show him. I’d like to see him try to fob his mother off with a fridge that makes its own ice after that.
And there’s more good news: Sheila has lent me a book of top-ten chess moves so that I can give Rufus a run for his money next time we play, and Matty phoned up yesterday afternoon to say that we’d been given a small mention in the local press. OK, it was just the North London Herald. A free paper. That no one reads. But it was quite a big piece. It took me a while to find a copy, but when I finally managed to salvage one from the communal dustbins outside Sheila’s house I was quite impressed by the extent of the coverage: a whole page, with photos, dedicated to the upcoming Scarface tour. Our bit was right at the bottom of the page: after the bit about Scarface being nominated for a Brit award, after the bit about Ike running into Julia Roberts at a film premiere, after the bit about ticket sales being quite poor because Scarface are still largely unknown in this country, after the bit about Ike sending his mother on a holiday of a lifetime to the Azores: