I like drinking late. I like the whole illicit nature of the thing. It’s part of the thrill. It’s like having to queue up outside a rancid urinal for thirty minutes just so you can snort a contaminated line of coke from the edge of a piss-soaked cistern. If they let you snort it off a bone-china plate balanced on the damp crack of a bent copper’s arse it wouldn’t be the same.
“No, it would be much better.”
“Better?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t mind snorting it off a cop’s arse. Obviously I’d rather snort it off Kylie Minogue’s arse but as long as it was the copper’s job to hand me a sheet of Kleenex Balsam to wipe me nose with afterwards I think I could definitely go for it.”
Vince launches into a detailed discourse on the pros and cons of coppers’ arses vis-a-vis the snorting of cocaine and I set about ordering us another round of ouzo. And some more beer. And a couple of Metaxa chasers. And a giant plate of runny hummus.
12.3o a.m.
“That was good stuff tonight, wasn’t it?” says Vince, tossing back the last of his wine. “Reminded me a bit of the old days.”
“Yeah,” I say, topping up our glasses. “We had some great times, didn’t we?”
“Yeah. Remember that time when you tried to crowd-surf at the Leadmill and the crowd just split apart underneath you—’
‘—and I fell straight on to the floor and hit my head?”
“Yeah. Fuck me, I laughed so much I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”
“Remember that time in Spain—’
“When we did that rock festival—’
“Yeah. We ended up driving all the way to Barcelona and back in three days.”
“How did we do that, then?”
“Three cheese pasties and a packet of speed, if I remember rightly.”
“Shit. We were nutters in them days, weren’t we?”
“Yes, mate, I suppose we were.”
“We thought we were going to be massive, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, we were going to be bigger than Uz.”
“Do you miss it?”
“What, the drugs and the pasties?”
“No, the optimism. Do you miss the optimism we had in those days?”
“Yes, mate. I suppose I do.”
i a.m.
“You’re a top bloke, Vince.”
“Yeah, well, you have your good points.”
“No, I mean it, Vince, you’re a top bloke… you changed my fuckin’ life… hey, shall we get some more hummus?”
“How?”
“We can order some. They’ll serve us all night if we want… they make great fucking hummus in here, though, don’t they… don’t they make great fucking hummus in this place?”
“No, you plank, how did I change your life?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “You just did.”
“How did I?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because I had this stupid bloody name and this barmy bloody mother who thought I was going to grow up to be Burt Lancaster or something… and I wasn’t … I mean, was I… I was crap … at everything. Crap at school, crap at making friends, crap at getting into girls’ swimming costumes and, I don’t know… you gave me something, I suppose.”
“What? What did I give you?”
“Something I could be good at. Getting in Code Red was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“You daft bastard.”
“I know. Shall we get some more zambuccas?”
“Yeah, come on then, why not.”
“And some more hummus. Don’t forget the hummus.”
1.30 a.m.
“I’m sorry about earlier, Danny.”
“What about?”
“You know, when I started giving you grief at sound check and that.”
“Forget about it.”
“No, I mean it, I was bang out of order. I don’t know what gets into me.”
“Yeah, well, we all lose it sometimes, don’t we … fuck me,
isn’t zambucca supposed to taste like liquorice or something? This tastes like lemons. It does… have a bang on it … it definitely tastes like lemons.”
“Yeah, it does, it does taste like lemons.”
“So what was it, then… was it your time of the month or something?”
“No … I just got to thinking… what would we do if we gave it all up?”
“At the end of the year?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m not sure I could take the slap, Danny. What would I be? Ten years’ hard graft and what would I have to show for it? Nothing. Just another sad fucker who thought he was going to turn into Kevin Rowland one day, but what am I really? Nothing.”
“You are, Vince. You’re better than Rowland… Rowland is nothing compared to you, he’s an impostor, he’s—’
“Don’t say that, Danny, it’s not funny.”
“Sorry, sorry, .. . shhh… oops… shhhh… didn’t mean it, Vince.”
“Yeah, well, like I was saying … I suppose it just wound me up when you said you weren’t arsed about playing properly, because this is it, isn’t it? This is our last chance. If we fuck this up then they were right all along.”
“Who?”
“Them ones that said we wouldn’t amount to anything.”
“Which ones are they, then?”
“All of ‘em, every single one of ‘em. Everyone we’ve ever known in our entire lives except for you and me.”
2 a.m.
“Is this the hummus?”
“No, it’s the taramasalata.”
“Which one’s that, then?”
“The one with the fish eggs.”
“Isn’t that the one with the yoghurt?”
“No, that’s Torremolinos.”
“Isn’t that on the Costa Brava?”
“Exactly.”
“And you know what else?”
“What?”
“It’s completely different for you.”
“How?”
“Well, you’ve got someone, haven’t you? If you give up the music at least you’ve got Alison to go home to. What have I got?”
“You’ve got your record collection.”
“Exactly.”
“And your Transit van.”
“Exactly.”
“And I could always let you borrow my Virgin Encyclopaedia of Rock and Pop.”
“I’m serious, Danny. It makes a difference having someone. I’ve been pretty miserable since Liz left me, as it goes.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, mate, I have.”
“Well, let me tell you, it’s not nearly as good as it seems.”
“What isn’t?”
“Having a long-term girlfriend. It’s a very tricky business. It’s racked with difficulties.”
“Is it?”
“Oh yes. I mean, take Alison, for instance. She pretends that she loves me but secretly she hates me a bit.”
“No she doesn’t.”
“She does, Vince, she resents me. She’s lost all respect.”
“Bollocks.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re a wanker.”
“Don’t call me a wanker.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
“Alison loves you, you mad fuck… she just wants what’s best for you, that’s all.”
“No she doesn’t. She hates me. She hates me on account of the prawn cocktail incident. She hates me because I can never afford to pay my share of the rent. She hates me because I’ve decided to go out on tour with you and Matty instead of buying myself a suit and jacket and getting myself a proper job.”
“Rubbish.”
“It’s true. I can’t seem to make her happy, Vince. When I told her about the tour she went all quiet on me.”
“No she didn’t.”
“She did. I mean, I thought she’d be happy about it… but she just went all quiet on me… she hardly even talks to me any more.”
“Of course she does.”
“No… she doesn’t… there’s all these long silences on the phone and she never asks me how rehearsals are going or if I’ve come to any decision vis-a-vis me and flared trousers, and the thing is, she’s probably too busy thinking about him.”
“Who?”
“Didier.”
“Who the fuck’s Didier?”
“The one she’s having the affair with.”
“She’s not having an affair.”
“Of course she is!”
“That’s it … I’ve had enough… I’m going to hit you now.”
“Don’t… don’t hit me. You’re my mate… you’re my best friend… hey, watch what you’re doing… look out, you’re going to spill the zambuccas… you’re going to knock over the hummus—’
“I told you before… it’s not hummus, it’s taramasalata: ‘ow… fuck me… that really hurt… you shit-bag… I’m going to have a bruise.”
“Yeah, well, you deserved it.”
“How, how did I deserve it?”
“Because you’re a moaning, self-absorbed little git.”
“What… ow… did you just hit me? … Why does my face hurt? .. . Why is my face hurting?”
“Because I just hit you.”
“Why? I’m nice. I’m a nice guy.”
“Because you piss me off.”
“Vince… what… why do I piss you off?”
“Because that’s the thing about you, Danny. You have absolutely no idea how lucky you are.”
I’m a lucky man. I am. Vince said so, so it must be true. No matter that I’ve borne the entire weight of my mother’s unfulfilled ambitions from the age of five and a half, no matter that I have a black eye and the kind of hangover that is making me want to kill myself, no matter that my girlfriend rang me from Bruges last night and told me that she didn’t want picking up from Waterloo this afternoon.
Why doesn’t she want picking up? Why doesn’t she want me to come and meet her? In what sense is she doing me a favour by getting a taxi instead? I wanted to pick her up. I like picking her up. It makes me feel important. It makes me feel useful.
“But you are very usefuls here, Danny.”
“Very nice of you to say so, Kostas, but frankly, if I’m pushed, I’d rather be fetching my girlfriend from the station than spending the afternoon reorganising the stockroom with you.”
“I am hurt, Danny,” says Kostas, puckering his lips and holding out his heavy arms. “I am very hurts that you don’t wants to spend your afternoons here taking stocks with me.”
“Very funny, Kostas,” I say, rubbing my eye with the back of my hand. “Very bloody funny.”
My eye is even more tender than it looks. It does look great, though. I have a purple-black bruise that runs from the edge of my right cheek all the way up to my brow bone, and the white of my eye is bloodshot and badly discoloured around the iris. Kostas was quite impressed. Maybe that’s because I
told him I’d fought off a gang of knife-wielding muggers who were intent on nabbing my boxed set of Godfathers i and 2 instead of admitting to a smack in the head with a hummus fork from my so-called best friend.
Maybe I should get some rare steak to put on it. I wonder if that even works. I quite like the idea of it, though. I quite like the idea of Alison coming through the door and finding me with a pound of raw steak strapped to the side of my head. I wonder if it would give her the horn. Maybe I should try the mugger story on her and see if she buys it.
“Danny, shit, what happened to you?”
“Vince hit me on the side of the head with a hummus fork.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Something to do with me being a self absorbed, moaning little git.”
“Right… well, you want to get that turkey slice off your eye. It stinks. It’ll probably end up getting infected or something.”
“It’s not a turkey slice.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s an escalope.”
“With breadcrumbs?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you meant to use steak?”
“Yeah, but it was four pounds a pound. Escalopes were much cheaper.”
“Right, that makes total sense.”
“Don’t you think it suits me, though?” I say, taking the turkey off my head and offering my profile to Alison.
“Suits you?”
“The bruise. Don’t you think it looks… sort of cool?”
“No, I think you look like a football hooligan.”
“Excellent.”
“Listen, chuck me my bag and I’ll try dabbing a bit of concealer on it. I’m not going out with you looking like that.”
“Out? Where are we going?”
“Don’t say you’ve forgotten. We’re going over to Ruth’s. I haven’t seen Ruth and Shelley since I went to Bruges and you said you’d come over with me.”
“Did I?
“Yes, Danny, you did.”
Great. Exactly what I need right now. A night in watching wee pies with Alison’s poncy girl mates.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t go along to one of Alison’s girls’ nights unless you told me they were going to dance around stark naked, covered in butter. And even then I still might turn it down. But this is different. I only have two days with Alison every fortnight and I want to spend as much time with her as I can. Even if it does mean having to put up with Ruth. Even if it does mean having to drink white wine and Bacardi Breezers and sit through Shelley’s holiday video of that time she went to Fuerteventura with her sister and had a ‘real laugh’.
“Does anyone want to see my holiday video?”
“Which one?”
“The Canaries, Fuerteventura. I went with my sister in December. We went on a glass-bottom boat. We had a real laugh.”
“Yeah, great, we’d love to see it … wouldn’t we, Danny?”
“Yeah, fantastic, put it on.”
We’ve been at Ruth’s flat less than half an hour and I’m already bored out of my mind. I had big plans for this evening. I was going to get Matty to phone Vince and tell him that I’d had a brain haemorrhage in the middle of the night. I was going to tell him I was in hospital fighting for my life and see if he bothered to come down with any flowers for me. I wonder what he would have brought. Carnations probably. That’s typical. I bet the bastard wouldn’t have sprung for roses even if he’d thought I was dying from a subdural haematoma caused by a vicious blow to the head.
I wonder what I’ll die of in the end. I hope it’s something cool. A gunshot wound or something. Or a disease that no one has ever heard of. I can see it now, a sexy Eft-style nurse mopping my brow with a damp swab dipped in rubbing alcohol and a room full of high-level medical types standing round my bed and rubbing their chins in confusion.
“I’ve never seen anything like this in my life, Dougal.”
“Nor I, Cedric. This goes against every medical convention we’ve ever seen.”
“Just so. I mean, who would have thought it, a man of his age dying of “turning into Christopher Walken” disease.”
“Terrible stuff, Dougal, terrible stuff. There’s only the hair left to go now. As soon as the hair turns thick and lustrous and black we’ll know he hasn’t long left.”
“I think it’s almost time. Perhaps you should call in his wife.”
“And his six children.”