Mardy- Part 2
Part Two of my novel. A mix of hope, despair and hedonism in early 2000s Nottingham.
Plumber’s Poems 2- Fiona
Oh Fiona,
I’d love to bone her,
One would like to own her,
How to tell her how I’m feeling,
Moist, untamed, appealing,
Her smell odour perfume has left me reeling.
Suburban Dictionary-Encore un Fois!
`A highly popular dance anthem of the late 1990s by Sash!
‘One more time’ in French.
What no-one has ever said after interviewing Alan Saunders.
What no-one has said after James Marsden has just done karaoke.
What Tony tells himself before visiting the bus station.
Pink on White Walls
He awoke with his head pounding like there was someone with a hammer inside, trying to break out.
Despite some fairly stuff competition, this might be the worst hangover of Steven Manson’s life thus far.
He slowly opened his eyes, to a scene of disbelief. He was in a pink bedroom.
From wall, to ceiling everything was pink. Including the duvet and the bedding. He was naked except his boxer shorts. Steven could say with jarring certainty despite his ridiculous level of hangover that this was not his bedroom.
The last he could remember, was staggering out of the pub upset. He remembered Fiona trying to follow him and talk him round, then nothing. God knows how’d he performed in the state he was in.
“Hey, you up?” Came a call up the stairs and through the door. That was not Fiona. It was all together too earthy and travelled in.
Steven’s somewhat dubious plan was to hide under the duvet and forget he hadn’t heard.
The door slowly creaked open. A nauseated, semi-conscious Steven looked up out of one eye. To his abject horror, there standing at the door looking like Les Dawson’s mother-in-law was Eileen from the Pot Black. “Hey sexy, I’m just off to McDonalds for breakfast, you want ought?” She breathlessly said in between drags on a sovereign, that filled the pink girlish bedroom with a contrasting musty odour.
“No thanks, “Steven reluctantly shared through Saharan lips.
“Okay, see ya’ soon for round two you naughty boy!” Eileen threatened.
__________________________________________________________
He had to get out of here, whilst she was out. Steven was desperately trying to bet dressed, but couldn’t find his shirt. Swearing under his breath, he put only his leather jacket on his top half, pulled on his jeans and trains and went to try the door.
It was locked from the outside. FUCK, he thought in frustration. Then FUCK again when he smashed his knuckles on the door. Realising he was far too hungover to even attempt escaping breaking the door down, Steven tried the window. It would open. He had never believed in god, but now seemed like a time to be tempted.
Steven climbed out of the window and started making his way down the drainpipe, in great trepidation expecting lose his footing / hand-hold.
At that moment, a good Samaritan or nosy old woman neighbour depending how you thought about it, called out from her garden. “You there, stop trying to break into Eileen’s house! I shall phone the law!”
“Mind your own fucking business you dosy old bat, I’m trying to get out not fucking in!” Steven retorted under very alcohol-heavy breath.
“Well really, I shall phone the constable right now!” Old bat hissed triumphantly, in absurdly outdated Z-Cars era English.
Steven was about to tell her where to go when to his horror, the drainpipe began to shake and give way from the wall. Too hungover and his reactions too dull to jump first, the best he could muster was “shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!” as he was deposited head over backside in Eileen’s privet hedge.
Tony and Dave
Tony had a good night the night of the karaoke.
The pub had made decent profits for the first time in at least 2 months, except for Thursdays which were pool league night and Saturdays which were the football.
He had to haggle with Dave over the price for the karaoke set, but then things had got even better.
Dave had spontaneously kissed him, and they had argued it out by having sex on the pool table.
Despite the excitement at this development, his mid-life crisis had now brought his previous indiscretions dangerously close to home.
That and they had not been entirely alone, as one of the late patrons from the karaoke night—tired and emotional before emerging from the toilet-- had glimpsed their illicit romp.
Frank Health
Queen’s Medical Centre, Nottingham
Name: Francis Michael Forrester.
Age: 52.
Diagnosis: Lung Cancer (Stage 3)
Prognosis: A year to 18 months, with convalescent intervention.
Signed: Brian Jensen (Dr. Brian Jensen)
Texts 1
Steven: Pub mate? TB Steven
Alan: Can’t mate, fuckin’ skint.
Steven: I’ll buy chief. TB Steven
Alan: Hmm, go on then. What time?
Steven: 3? TB Steven
Alan: Aye, go on. Gotta handle some shit first.
Steven: No wanking youthe TB Steven
Alan: Dickhead... L8ers
EastEnders and Benders
Steven and Alan were playing pool and drinking lager in the afternoon. They were currently the only ones in the pub. Their conversation was witty and expansive as ever.
“EastEnders? That’s grandma shit man,” Alan opined as he took his shot.
“That’s pure snobbery, son,” Steven argued back, “some of the greatest actors in the country got their start on EastEnders or another soap.”
“Such as?” Alan said, sinking another ball.
“Recently? Ross Kemp.” Steven offered, sparking up a cigarette.
“Ross Kemp? Fucking SAS my arse. Ultimate Farce. Looks like zippy from Rainbow.”
Steven pondered for a moment. “Well, Martin Kemp was in Spandau Ballet before he was in EastEnders. Got to be an actual star.”
“Shite music and shite acting? One more and he keeps the match ball!” Alan grinned.
Steven sighed. “Steve McFadden, plays Phil Mitchell. He’s a good enough actor to be in anything.”
Alan finally missed a shot, so stopped and lit a cigarette he had got from Steven. “Aye, true. He could play Mr. Potato Head in Toy Story.”
“Fuck’s sake. Sarcy twat. You want another pint mate?” Alan nodded in the affirmative, so Steven headed to the bar.
As it was the afternoon graveyard shift, Tony had been playing snake on his Nokia.
“Yes mate, same again? Right.” Tony said, now familiar with the pair’s drinking habits.
He went to pour the first of two pints of lager, when his Nokia blared into life with a text message. It still had the highly irritating factory ring tone.
The text message read.
“CONGRATS ON BEING A CLOSET BENDER. 500 QUID TODAY. OR I TELL YOUR MISSUS.”
Tony dropped the pint glass to the floor and it smashed, the broken shards mirroring how he felt his life was falling apart.
Come on Then
Paul stared into the mirror. Ten years ago, the bags under the eyes and the wrinkles had just been a sign of drinking too much the night before. But now they had become etched on his skin, like the scars of memory.
Since his Dad had died and the realisation had hit him that he was now the older generation in the family, depression had washed over him like a wave.
He had been made redundant from his long-term position as a mechanic after nearly 30 years too and that was the world that stuck with him the strongest. Redundant. Of no use, obsolete, worn out.
He heard the door go. It was Steven back from his shift washing dishes at the university.
Steven breezed up the stairs and past him towards his bedroom.
“Good shift son?” Paul asked.
The grunted reply seemed closer to a positive than a negative.
“You know, you could be a bit more civil.” Paul retorted towards his shadow.
“F----” Steven growled. He didn’t catch the rest but seemed pretty obvious what the guist was from the initial syllable.
“Don’t talk to me like that in my own house.” Paul spewed back.
“Come on then,” Steven snarled through the MDF of the door.
Something inside Paul snapped. Whether it was the loss of his father or nor having a job or the bad attitude of his son, he didn’t want to take it one moment longer.
He flung the door open and marched towards his eldest son.
Paul eyed him from head to toe. They were the same height, exactly. Which probably meant Steven would end up taller, with another year or so to grow. Paul was much heavier and well-built, largely due to a not outrageous but visible beer gut.
“What did you fucking say to me?” Paul yelled, right in his face.
All of Steven’s self-belief melted away. His Dad never swore and certainly not at him. For just a moment, despite his height and veneer of confidence, he was just a lost little boy.
“I asked you what you said, you little shit. Not so fucking brave now, eh? Little boys shouldn’t play grown up games.” Paul spewed at him. Steven could smell the stale white wine on his breath.
“Sorry Dad,” was the best he could muster, before sloping off down the stairs.
Paul only felt buoyant for a moment. He instantly regretted the words belittling his own son. And realised the boy was not so very different from him at the same age.
But like so many things in his life, it felt like it was too late.
Come on Eileen
Peggy and Eileen were in the Pot Black on their way to bingo once again. They were the only ones there, as Wednesday was always a quiet day in the pub. Tony had taken an eternity to serve them, seeming very distracted.
“Can’t believe you went with that kid,” Peggy accused her friend, taking a long deep drag on her cigarette.
“He was a good-looking boy,” Eileen retorted, also dragging Benson after Hedges.
“Yeah, a fucking boy. And no more than 10 stone wet through.” Peggy laughed in victory, as she took a celebratory drag.
“Well I’ll tell you what, if he’s ten stone then at least six stone of it is cock. Went at it like a rattlesnake all night! Well, the second time. First time he ruined my bloody nighty!” Eileen guffawed back, sensing the jealously of her friend who hadn’t had a young man in her bed since Ted Heath was in Downing Street.
“Didn’t they say that about Frank Sinatra?” Peggy recalled a comment from a celebrity magazine she had once read.
“What, he went at it like a rattlesnake? Nah, he was a rat, weren’t he?” Eileen replied, stumbling off towards the bar.
Tony was idling with his phone and took an age to serve her.
He was looking at a text message, it read.
CLOCK TICKING OR WIFEY HEARS ABOUT DICK LICKING.
Come on Home
Frank sat at the bar, very slowly and deliberately sipping on a whisky. Bad news tended to come in threes and his health and his son were already problems. He was fatalistically contemplating another.
“Hey Frank, how’s it going? “Tony made inane landlord chitchat.
“Aye, no the bad,” Frank liked.
“How’s your son?” Tony asked, more out of self-preservation and suspicion that actual concern.
“Oh, he’s gone away for a while. With a lassie,” Frank lied again.
“Good for him! Nice to be young!” Tony pronounced.
“Aye, suppose it wes.” Frank remembered, regretted and retorted.
Texts 2
Steven: Want to go pub tomorrow night? TB Steven
Alan: Fucking skint youthe
Steven: I’m alreet, got ya. Did overtime at the weekend TB Steven
Alan: Why? Not like you mate
Steven: Old man being a tw@t and I want to see Oasis next month TB Steven
Alan: Ah, that will be mint pal. Your old fella is alreet though
Steven: Aye mate. So beers after the college? TB Steven
Alan: Go on bud, but I’ve gotta pay nxt time
Steven: Sound son. See you around 4ish TB Steven
Alan: Sweet l8ers
College- Ms. Tunbridge Wells
It was the first day of term and Lakeside College (spuriously named as it was next to a glorified pond) was a hub of activity.
Imogen and Fiona—along with the other girls in their cohort—were dissecting the merits of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as the first example of modern horror.
The loathsomely nicknamed ‘Cunnilingus’ Cal—Callum Carruthers—due to his disproportionately oversized tongue and lies about sexual exploits, was attempting to get the attention of every female that moved. Without success but figuring that playing the percentages of persistence would eventually pay off.
Stuart Plumber—without his close associate since nursery school James Marsden—was attempting to play it cool, but more skulking in a corner without anyone to really speak to.
The bell rang for the first lesson and the various students headed to their classrooms. Plumber, Imogen and Fiona were all in English Literature first, double lesson.
They made their way to the classroom. Imogen, Fiona and another couple of girls sat together in the corner of tables, which were in a horseshoe structure. Plumber sat down in a corner with only one free chair to his left.
To his astonishment and to Fiona’s secret delight, the chair was almost instantly filled by a leather-jacketed figure, smelling of recent and acrid cigarette smoke, Steven Manson. As with most of his actions, he had not discussed applying for college. He just did it.
Momentarily, the newly arrived students were joined by Ms. Partridge-Wallis, (secretly called Ms. Tunbridge-Wells by all the students.) She was a late middle-aged woman of a reputedly batty disposition, who was a ‘Ms.’ ever since her husband—Mr. Partridge / Tunbridge—the randy former Head of Media Studies—had caused a great scandal by not only having a secret affair with the Head of Maths and then drunkenly bragging about ‘smashing her back doors in’ at the staff party, but also being caught in flagrante delicto with one of the prettier A-level students four years previously. Tunbridge-Wells had turned to drink to cope and her daily/weekly consumption rivalled that of Messrs. Saunders and Manson combined.
“Right then, let’s get down to it, “Tunbridge-Wells warbled, “no time for any more dilly-dallying.”
Steven raised an eyebrow at Plumber, who telepathically told him to leave it as she’s nuts.
“As we have some new faces, lets’ go around the class and introduce ourselves to each other. Your name and one interesting thing about you. Yes, good, great, marvelous!” Tunbridge-Wells also liked answering her own questions, unless interrupted very quickly.
“I’m Imogen and I enjoy reading classic literature, whilst applying a modern feminist or post-modern cultural reading.” Imogen began, despite the fact it shouldn’t have been her turn first. Steven rolled his eyes subconsciously. He’d only been here ten minutes and he already fancied a cigarette.
“Lovely, lovely. Who’s next?” Tunbridge-Wells chimed in.
“I’m Stuart Plumber. People usually call me by my second name, although I don’t fix toilets,” Steven laughed in support of his mate, “but I generally like a lot of modern stories, especially Zadie Smith recently.”
“Ooooooh, White Teeth, marvelous!” Tunbridge-Wells opined, loudly.
“I’m Fiona and I enjoy romance novels where the heroine is swept off her feet, like Jane Austen.” Fiona shared, subliminally glancing at Steven, who was too busy playing with the lighter in his pocket.
“Ooooooooooooh, who doesn’t love a bit of romance!” The teaching harpy shrieked.
“She falling down a fucking hole?” Steven whispered to Plumber, although louder than intended.
“I’m Carly, I guess I like reading but I’m not so hot on the deep intellectual stuff.” Carly declared self-deprecatingly. She was slightly plump, with pretty eyes and long, silky golden hair.
“Welllllll you’ll get plenty of chance to learn heeeere, deeeaaar!” Tunbridge-Wells gargled, barely keeping in whatever marbles remained.
A suddenly slightly nervous Steven Manson began. “I’m Steven. I like real shit, like Irvine Welsh or George Orwell back in the day. Shit, sorry for saying shit. Shit.”
“No worries on the language here, dearie. Ohhhhh noooo, we like real shit here!” Tunbridge-Wells harangued conspiratorially at Steven, who was paying more attention to Carly.
A few more students completed the introduction of shame before Tunbridge-Wells moved on to the main theme of the lesson.
“So, moving on from Fowles, what did everyone think of the curious case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde A terrifying tale of intelligence and vanity gone awry!?” Steven was beginning to think it was more like the curious case of Tunbridge-Wells, but luckily, he had read the book a while ago, enjoyed it and hoped he could hang in the class.
“Well, I think it’s saying firstly that there is no god and ultimately man is responsible for his own deeds; good or evil.” Imogen opined, without invitation.
“Imogen there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try.” Steven cracked wise and got the giggle from Carly he was looking for.
“It’s possible to read it as the base desires of the id in Hyde vs the Morals of Jekyll’s superego,” Plumber snootily shared. He was well versed in both psychology and SparkNotes.
“It’s also possible to read as a battle between good and evil, that is in the nature of all toxic masculinity.” Imogen shot back, jumping into one of her favourite themes, gender.
“Shite. It’s about hypocrisy of the rich in Victorian society represented by Hyde. He’s supposedly this respectable doctor, yet he has these hidden, repressed desires. Maybe he’s a closet bender, maybe a drug addict. Ultimately, it’s about being true to your sen’ or it will destroy you in the end.” Steven internally admitted to himself that he was enjoying this more than he anticipated.
“Bender is a derogatory term,” Imogen countered.
“Ascribing everything to male characters with toxic masculinity is a derogatory term,” Steven fired across the boughs.
“Ooooooh, I’m all a quiver. Whaaat a discussion to start the term!” Tunbridge-Wells chundered, seemingly on the brink of creaming herself.
Steven and Imogen exchanged hostile, although slightly admiring glances, at an even and enjoyable battle. Fiona gave a longing gaze at Steven, who tried to gauge Carly’s reaction, whilst Plumber stared hopefully in Fiona’s direction.
“Wellll, let’s take a break and re-set our big old brains! Oooooh, lovely!” Tunbridge Wells stood and turned out of her seat like a slightly rusty aircraft carrier moving out of port, wandering off to attempt to locate her hip flask.
MESSENGER
Imogen: You there chick?
Fiona: YEAH BABE.
Imogen: Whatya doing?
Fiona: WATCHING EASTNDERS BABE.
Imogen: Just started Wuthering Heights.
FIona: HARD TO GET INTO BABE?
Imogen: Nah, easy enough. Steven will hate it, lol!
Fiona: BEST ONE IN CLASS BUT YOU BABE.
Carly has entered the chat.
FIONA: JUST TALKING ABOUT STEVEN BABE @Carly
Carly has left the chat.
Fiona: SHE’S WEIRD BABE
Imogen: Yeah chick.
Fiona: ANYWAY, GOTTA TO POP OUT BABE. L8ERS BABE
Imogen: Bye chick.
Secrets and Lies
“How was your poncey college then mate?” Alan said, half mockingly and half out of genuine care.
“Ah, it was alreet you know. The teacher is a reet character though.” Steven informed.
“Plumber said you and Imogen arguing again.” Alan chortled, finishing his pint.
“I mean to be fair it was a discussion about a book. And her default position seemed to be men and male characters are shite.” Steven replied, on behalf of male integrity.
“Default? Well la-de-fucking-dah! Another libation, your majesty?” Alan said, scraping and bowing as he headed to the bar.
“Prick, aye.” Steven replied, but with a wry smile.
Alan ordered two more pints from a decidedly weary looking Tony. Dave was setting up the karaoke again for later that night. He had been around a lot lately.
Tony was now trying to expand his business and had taken on a chef—Mark—to cook regular, traditional pub food. He had given a few of the locals a free sample.
Frank was at the bar in his usual spot. It became clear that criticism of modern haute cuisine was one of his hidden talents.
“How was the burger, Frank?” Tony eagerly asked.
“It tasted like a mixture of dead pigeon and shit, even Aberdeen got better scran than that shite, likesay,” Edinburgh’s finest food critic appraised with aplomb and witty denigration.
“Well, we’re still finetuning the kitchen situation,” Tony shared without recrimination, “how’s your son?”
“He’s doing better, aye. Working away on one of they big oil rigs.” Frank lied with almost Jackanory levels of implausibility.
“Oh wow, sounds great.” Tony closed things down before pigs started flying by.
“Yes, Alan, what’ll it be?” He said, doing his job and changing the subject.
“Two more pints, please Tony,” Alan asked. He was the only person Steven had told about his encounter with Frannie in a bus station and he had kept the confidence.
“Why you always in here, no fucking job the now?” Frank asked, not out of malice but just being as subtle as his usual ten round brick.
“Well, I’ve got an interview tomorrow. It’s for a sales job.” Alan lied, scuttling off back to his mate as quickly as possible to avoid any follow up questions.
“Plumber was saying some nice-looking girls at the college,” Alan enquired.
“Didn’t really notice mate,” Steven lied.
“Yeah right, like a dog doesn’t notice its own bollocks,” came the graphic retort.
“He likes Fiona, I reckon,” Steven tried to deflect.
“Hmm, maybe. He said he thought you might be keen on some bird called Carly,”
Alan probed. For him, this was subtle.
“Ah, I just helped her a bit with the text we’re studying. Nothing like that mate, of course,” Steven lied.
In truth, he’d been thinking about her a lot and the fact she had decided he was bright and wanted his help had boosted a fragile ego.
“We gonna eat here?” Steven asked.
“Your man Frank was saying it’s rubbish. Wanna head to Luigi’s?” Alan said, fancying some chips.
“Well, never doubt the word of a Scotsman when it comes to fine dining! Let’s head, come on you bender!” Steven elbowed him in the ribs.
Tony gave a suspicious glance as the pair departed the pub.
Remand Order 1567292727
HMP (Youth) Mansfield
Prisoner: Francis Michael Forrester (Junior)
Age: 17.
Requested Visitor: Francis Michael Forrester (Junior)
Relationship to Offender: Father.
Request Status: Approved- Supervised.
A waste of space
Alan Saunders had tried everything he knew to find a job. He sat in his bedroom surrounded by rock posters on the walls and well-thumbed porn mags under his bed.
It was becoming critical now, as his Mum was pregnant with her new man’s baby and she wanted him out the house.
A typical—almost daily exchange—generally looked like this.
“Mam, can I borrow a fiver? I want to go down the pub with the lads.”
“Again? I’m not a bloody cash machine. What happened at the latest interview?”
“Er, it didn’t work out.” Alan concisely summarised.
“Why not? You can ride a bike. I’ve seen you.” This was about the nicest compliment his Mum had paid him in quite some time.
“Yeah, I can.” Agreeing was usually the best course of action.
“So, what happened?”
“I may have called accidentally insulted the interviewer.” Alan somewhat understated.
“What did you say?” His Mum demanded.
“I disagreed with him saying young people are lazy.”
“Well, he’s right as fair as I can see. What were your EXACT words?” His Mum—who’d pit Colombo to shame—demanded.
Alan said, quietly in the faint hope of telling the truth and his mother not hearing. “I said you can shove your job up your arse, you fucking helmet.”
Mum again, “Sorry, what was that?” He was sure she’d heard it, she just wanted to revel in his humiliation.
“I said: YOU CAN STICK YOUR JOB UP YOUR ARSE, YOU FUCKING HELMET.” He decided to truth it, loudly and brazen it out.
“That isn’t a wise move, now is it?” She asked.
“No Mum.” Alan replied, utterly dejected.
“So, what are you?” She pushed him, fully convinced he knew the answer after the same conversation a thousand times.
“A waste of space.” Alan dejectedly replied.
“A what?”
“A WASTE OF SPACE.” Alan—abject humiliation the watchword—shouted back at her.
“Now, if you want a fiver; I suggest you head down the bus station and suck off an old man before what remains of your hair falls out. You waste of space.”
Unrequited 1- College coaching
It was Steven’s 17th birthday and you’d expect him to be in the pub with the lads. But here he was, coaching Carly on the finer points of King Lear, which she had been unable to make head nor tail of.
“So, you are both supposed to dislike Lear and feel sorry for him?” Carly finally twigged.
Steven—sans leather jacket for the first time in living memory—nodded proudly at his sage pupil. “Indeed. It’s a story of how a flawed, destructive parent can destroy not only themselves, but also the following generations and indeed their entire kingdom. Pretty brave in a way for that time, as Kings were thought infallible.”
“Why were Kings inflatable?” Carly questioned.
Steven laughed, but not at her. She had started to make him bring his guard down and be comfortable with being intelligent. It was a nice feeling.
Unrequited 2- Messenger
FIONA: HI BABE.
Imogen: You alright chick?
FIONA: I’M KIND OF BUMMED OUT BABE.
Imogen: Why sweetie?
FIONA: STEVEN JUST GOING ROUND AND ROUND AFTER CARLY BABE. DOESN’T EVEN KNOW I’M ALIVE.
Imogen: Ignore that pig! I really can’t stand him chick.
FIONA: I KNOW YOU’VE SAID THAT BABE. BUT HE IS CLEVER AND A LITTLE BIT OF A REBEL BABE.
Imogen: Stuart Plumber likes you. James told me.
Fiona has left the chat.
Unrequited 3- Plumber’s Poems 3
Acquiring knowledge,
Whilst in pain at the college,
Reading Chaucer or Lear,
Going unnoticed or queer,
Which it wasn’t my nature to agree,
Wish someone would notice me.
Frankly Tunbridge-Wells
It was Friday afternoon and College had just ended. Tunbridge-Wells hated having a double lesson last thing on a Friday. There were less students every week. And Steven—secretly her favourite—hadn’t turned up, so Imogen (irritatingly punctual and reliable) had run roughshod over the remaining students with her feminist critique of King Lear, although Carly had shown some pleasing and unexpected improvements. She had decided to venture forth for a drink, but rather than drinking alone was wandering to the nearby Pot Black. “Oooooooh, time to wet the old whistle!” The be-purpled freight train had decided to inform a highly baffled passing elderly couple as she slowly walked the 800m or so from the College to the pub.
Steven had bunked off college that afternoon to be in line for Oasis tickets at Rock City, one of the official outlets. There had been some bad-tempered pushing and shoving in the line and Alan—a reliable back-up in a ruck—hadn’t been available so he’d had to rely on a reluctant Plumber as wingman. Despite this, they had managed to secure 4 tickets and were highly excited. They had decamped to the Pot Black for a few pints in celebration, although Plumber had to pay as Steven had spent all his remaining cash on the tickets.
“Fucking Oasis, can’t wait!” Steven enthused.
“Yeah mate, it’ll be great!” Plumber agreed.
“You should ask Fiona to go mate.” Steven encouraged.
“What? Don’t be daft. I’m not interested in her.” Plumber weakly protested.
“Yeah, okay pal.” Steven didn’t push too much, as firstly he knew it wasn’t true and secondly, he didn’t like it when others did it to him about Carly.
“I hear Cunniingus Callum been sniffing round her.” Plumber shared, trying not to sound concerned.
“Probably just thinks she’s an ice cream and wants to lick her with his massive tongue. Total helmet.” Steven said supportively.
“Yeah, but a mate of James. Might end up at Oasis too.”
“Fuck’s sake.” Steven said very honestly. He thought Callum was the biggest dickhead in the college, despite some stiff competition.
To their horror, their musings were broken by a truly terrifying sight. A huge purple aircraft carrier with feral hair trundled round the corner towards the pub. Despite it’s slow pace, they knew they only had a few seconds. “It’s fucking Tunbridge-Wells, leg it lad!” Steven shouted. There was nowhere for them to go.
“Mate, under the pool table!” The shorter Plumber offered. Steven—over six foot tall—wouldn’t have it so easy. But, seeing his friend had correctly appraised the situation, Steven uncomfortably dived under the pool table.
Tunbridge-Wells crashed into the Pot Black like the Ultimate Warrior entering a wrestling ring. She was just as loud, twice as colourful and nowhere near as popular.
“Welllllll, it’s been sooooo many years since I was in this particular watering hole! Oooooh, lovely!” She half said and half guffawed.
Frank looked up from his scotch and for the first time in his life, he was genuinely dumbfounded.
“Excuse meeeee, landlord, one of your finest sherries, just to wet the whistle, ooooh marvelous!” Tunbridge-Wells mouth-farted.
“You alright missus? Something wrong with your coupon, likesay?” Frank finally managed.
“Ooooooh, what a lovely accent, I love that Scottish burr!’ Tunbridge-Wells flirted and threatened.
“Okay sure,” Tony agreed, not wanting any trouble.
Mark’s mobile pinged in the kitchen.
Steven: Mate, it’s Steven. Me and Plumber stuck hiding under the pool table. You see that big purple monster? That’s our fucking teacher! We bunked off her lesson to buy Oasis tickets. Can you create a diversion to get us out the shite pal?
The drink had flowed and tongues had loosened. Tunbridge Wells and Frank were still the only two in the pub, despite it now being past 6 o’clock.
“I was feart for my bairns, likesay. Growing up in a shite world like this, wifey.”
Tunbridge-Wells could only follow about forty 40% of what Frank was saying, but was enjoying both his company and the fact he seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.
“Oooooooh, you are so right, I wouldn’t swap with my students, though I envy all that sex, ooooh marvelous!” Tunbridge-Wells chundered.
“I’m no having that, you’re no a shan looking lass!” Frank opined, genuinely. He liked a bit of meat on the bones and she definitely qualified.
Tunbridge-Wells, flushing said. “Ohhhh, get away you naughty man! Well reaaallly, marvelous!”
Frank downed a double whiskey and made his move, Edinburgh death or glory style. “Look, I’m no being radge, but you’ve put a smile on my old coupon. I wanna insert. I’m feart I’m being too forward likes, but what about if we get ooota here and back to the ranch?”
Tunbridge-Wells—half frisky and half whisky—was off the stool with a speed that belied her size. “Ooooooooh, lead on my gentleman caller, you’re in for a brisk ride! Marvellous!” They started leaving arm in arm.
“Just noo sitting on my fiss, you’re a bonny lassie after all!” Frank set down some ground rules. Fortunately, Tunbridge-Wells had even less idea what he was talking about than earlier.
Steven and Plumber had listened to the bizarre and insane middle-aged courting ritual unfold before them. Mark had unhelpfully had a spliff outside and fallen asleep on the job in the kitchen. However, they were on the brink of escaping unscathed.
Steven lit a cigarette and began to puff away, not realising the danger.
He turned around to blow the smoke out from under the table. There, staring him right in the face was a very drunk, very embarrassed and very angry Tunbridge Wells.
“You bellend.” Plumber furiously directed at his friend.
Steven was forced to nod in agreement.
Panic in the Pot-wash
It was early Saturday morning at the University of Nottinghamshire and the students were just leaving after their breakfast. A heavily hungover Steven Manson was busy loading plates and cutlery into one of 2 very outdated, large dishwasher machines.
The boss, Jane, came in flapping like a trapped pigeon, “Oh god, what will we do? We are short staffed yet again!” Steven had been working here for just over a year and they were consistently understaffed on weekends. The regular, weekday staff couldn’t be bothered and wanted time off with their families—even if it was for extra money—whilst university and college kids wanted to party and didn’t like the dirty nature of the work in the pot wash and the kitchen.
Even under the fugue of eight pints of lager, Steven’s brain could move reasonably quickly. ‘I’ve got a mate who really needs a job and you always want casuals. You want me to call him?” Steven asked hopefully.
“Oh yes, that would be great as long as everyone’s okay with it?” Jane asked, feigning that it was a democracy. She was from a middle-class background and had done a business degree at the community college, so she had no interest in what the grunts in the pot-wash thought. Simon, an Afro-British man of nearly 30 and a friend of Steven, simply shrugged. Wayne, a rotund, lazy middle-aged man and allegedly a reformed alcoholic, spent most of the day leaning on his mop and perfecting a constipated hippo look at his face. He was all for anything that meant he had to do the absolute minimum humanly possible. He nodded seemingly miserably, although that was his default.
“Okay, please call your friend!” Jane prompted Steven, now that a faux egalitarian consensus had been reached.
Steven headed outside to make the call, pretending it was for the purposes of privacy but mostly because he was gasping for a smoke. After furnishing himself with an Embassy no1, he pulled out his mobile and called Alan.
“Hey mate, they’ve got some shifts going at my place, you interested? We’re short-staffed.”
“No, it’s not a wind-up.”
“Yeah, I’m serious.”
“I’m not lying to you, I’m serious. “
“Yes mate, that’s right. But please don’t call me or anyone else a fucking helmet once you get here. Or call it a poofter’s potwash paradise.”
“Ok mate, see you in half an hour.”
Alan’s vernacular had largely consisted of insults and skepticism, but he had agreed to head over for the first work he’d had since leaving school the previous summer.
___________________________________________________________
It had been a long shift that day and very busy, with a university open day in addition to the regular students. But Alan had worked hard and enjoyed the banter between the lads, although he thought that Wayne had much in common with a troll under a bridge in children’s fairytales.
Simon, Steven and Alan had decided to pop outside for a quick smoke, in a lull between activity. They were all sweaty, smelly and tired, but had begun to bond over a job well done. Wayne had joined them, still leaning on his mop. Smoking was the only vice he didn’t have, but he was damn sure he was working alone whilst they had a break. If he had a code or the brainpower to think of one, it would have been against it. The four were stood smoking next to the bin shed, as it was outside Jane’s vantage point further up the corridor and they were unlikely to be encroached open by-passing students.
“Ah, only thing Beckham has except crossing is his athleticism,” Simon conjectured, as he took a surreptitious and deep drag on his self-rolled cigarette.
“Great passer too though mate and also works hard defensively,” Steven offered.
Simon, who was a dyed in the wool Arsenal fan, was not ready to concede the point, “More interested in his haircuts and being famous though, innit. Looks like a batti boy.”
Steven had no real argument with this although he thought Beckham a good player.
“Scholes is brilliant though, he won them that Champions League with his all-round skill,” Steven attempted to change the subject slightly.
“Ah, is a good job he can play football. That ginger got special needs. You can’t even train him to fucking mop our corridor floor, boy!” Simon triumphantly conjectured.
Again, Steven had to admit he had a point. Alan, never big on football, stayed mostly silent in his new environment and dragged through his second cigarette. Alan Saunders, working man. It sounded great to him. Maybe he could even finally move out and get shot of the matriarchal taunts that he had to endure.
Their repose was broken by the bin shed door being opened by Mark Amary, one of the chefs whose orange medical spectacles and short balding stature gave more than a passing resemblance to Elton John. He had brought a tray with four open cans of cold coke. “A drink for the working men, “he offered in a veneer of friendliness. In truth, he hated the pot-wash lads. Especially Steven, who had pulled a pretty student who worked as a waitress and the lecherous Amery had had his eye on, despite being married with a child and another on the way. A cold coke was not as good as a cold beer, but it was much appreciated by three of the four men, except for Wayne who objected to moving his hand from the handle of his mop.
Amery very deliberately handed each of them a can of coke. Alan drank shallowly, whilst a thirstier Steven took a deep, greedy gulp. Amery made an exaggerated exit back through the door, as the four drank.
Suddenly, Wayne and Alan were in fits of hysterical laughter. Steven was highly confused. Simon, stoical to the last, informed his friend. “You need to look in the glass, man.”
Steven lent down land looked into the glass handle of the bin shed door. His lips and the whole of his mouth were jet black. Amery had slipped food dye into his drink.
Without a word, Steven dropped his can on the floor and began marching down the corridor towards the kitchen like a man possessed.
Alan went to stop his friend, as he knew were this was going. A terse word from Simon stopped him. “Fuck him, man. Let him take his medicine. No one likes a bully,” before lighting another cigarette. Simon knew that despite Steven being younger, he was much taller and stronger than Amery and if sufficiently angered, would teach him a suitable lesson. Wayne simply shrugged and went back to holding his mop.
Steven charged into the kitchen. A moment of laughter passed over Amery’s lips, before abject terror as he realised the teenager wasn’t playing. Steven grabbed the much shorter man by the lapels of his chef’s jacket, swung him very hard onto a large Bratt pan, before both of his hands came to rest on Amery’s throat.
Steven took a moment to make sure Amery’s shorter arms couldn’t reach him, then squeezed. Hard.
Ten seconds, twenty, thirty.
Amery’s face went from red, to purple, before starting to turn blue. The fear on his face said they he knew that the young man before him had completely lost it and he was in severe danger here.
Steven balled up his right fist, continuing to squeeze with the left as he did so. He was about to start smashing Amery in the face when a voice behind in a Scottish accent coughed. “What the fuck?” It was Paul, the jovial and robust second chef who had been taking a shit for a seeming age when all these fun and games began.
Steven, finally coming to his senses, let go his vice-like grip on Amery’s trachea.
“Are you insane lad? You could have killed him!” Paul opined.
Steven saw himself, sweaty, black-lipped and with snot and tears rolling down his face in the glass faced of the kitchen wall. He defiantly spat back, “Next time, I fucking will.”
But this latest loss of temper and control had even frightened him. For a moment, it was like he had been outside himself. He hadn’t cared about the consequences, hadn’t considered where he was and even Amery’s life.