— Bullshit. Tinder rules. You need at least the veneer of the romance. The intrigue of seduction is the best part of the whole enterprise. The hump at the end of it is just simple bag emptying. The process of allurement and inveigling always provides the bulk of the magic. Not that I generally use Tinder for sexual purposes, it’s more of a recruitment tool for the agency. You know, I’m thinking of opening a branch of Colleagues in Manchester. Well, with the BBC now in Salford… Simon has his phone out and is skimming through what appears to Euan to be headshots of women, and mainly young ones.
— What… that’s a phone dating application?
— What a shite name for an escort agency, Terry contends, as the taxi rumbles towards the city centre.
— Is it fuck a shite name, Simon protests to Terry, ignoring Euan. — It’s not a hoors’ agency, Terry, it’s designed for the business professional. Anybody can get sex now. This is about surface, image: businesspersons wanting to make the right impression. Nothing says success like having bright and gorgeous associates. Thirty-two per cent of our girls are MBAs.
— Mooth Before Erse? Ah should hope so!
— Masters in business administration. At Colleagues we like them to be able to talk business as well as get down to it. It’s all about sophistication.
— Aye, but they still ride them. That’s hoorin tae me, ay.
— That’s for the girls to negotiate, Simon says impatiently, looking at his app. — We take our fee as an agency and get client feedback to ensure the girls maintain the standards we expect. Enough of this, though, he gruffly declares, — on to affairs festive. His eyes scan the screen. — Three prospects in the Counting House: two young things and a seasoned pro that looks good value. Simon sticks the headshot of a pouty brunette in front of Euan. — Would you? Assuming, of course, you were single?
— I don’t – well, I suppose –
— You’d fuckin ride it raw, mate, Terry sings from the front seat. — It’s the wey wir hard-wired. Guaranteed. Ah’m only gaun by Richard Attenborough. That cunt’s been aw ower this fuckin planet, watched everything that moves n analysed its cowpin behaviour. Scientific. He taps his head. — Trust in Dickie.
Simon is looking at another incoming text message. — Hunting the women you want, avoiding the ones you don’t, it’s such a drag… He glances up at the back of Terry’s head as they roll over the North Bridge into Princes Street. — And it’s David Attenborough, ya fucking docile mutation. Richard was the cunt that died. The actor. Humped Judy Geeson after strangling her in 10 Rillington Place. Mind, kenning you, ye probably did mean Richard, Simon asserts, setting off a round of laughing and bickering with Terry, which to Euan’s ears is both pointless and obscene.
They fight their way to the bar of a George Street pub packed with festive revellers. Christmas songs of the seventies and eighties blast out. As Euan gets the drinks in, Terry immediately hooks up with a woman whom, Simon explains, he arranged to meet on Slider. In truculent entitlement he manoeuvres elbow room at the bar, Euan deploying polite diligence to attain the same result, as Terry vanishes with his consort. — And that’s it? He’s off with her? Euan asks.
— Yes, done deal. He’ll probably bang her in the back of the taxi. Simon holds up his glass. — Happy birthday!
Sure enough, Terry returns fifteen minutes later, a smile etched on his face. His companions are only halfway through their beers. — Mission accomplished, he winks. — Slide it in, slide it oot, git thum frothin at the mooth.
With their hard-won advantageous position at the bar, Euan anticipates another round, but Simon, checking his phone, suggests they move to an establishment down the street.
Outside, the cold is starting to bite. Euan is relieved that they don’t wander too far down Hanover Street before Simon leads their descent into a basement space. As his brother-in-law hits the bar, Euan turns to a yawning Terry. — Are you and Simon old friends?
— Kent Sick Boy for years. He’s Leith, ah’m Stenhoose, but we eywis goat on. Baith shaggers, baith Hibbies, ah suppose.
— Yes, he’s taking Ben to Easter Road at New Year.
— You follow the fitba, bud?
— I do, but I don’t really support any team. On my island, passions weren’t highly aroused.
— Keep aw that for the cowpin, mate, right? Country birds ur meant tae be game as fuck. Suppose thaire’s nowt else tae dae but, ay-no, mate?
Euan can only force an awkward nod, but his blushes are saved as Simon returns from the bar, carrying incongruously summery-looking drinks. He steers them over to a relatively quiet spot close to the toilets. — Time for a sneaky wee guzzle of the most vile cocktail ever. If you can knock this back in a oner, you are fucking men, he declares, thrusting beverages that look like pina coladas at Terry and Euan.
— Fuck… it’s Christmas but, ay, Terry says, holding his nose and knocking his back. Simon shadows him.
Euan sips at his drink. Despite the pineapple, coconut and lemonade, it has a rank but metallic bite to it; there is something bitter and evil at its centre. — What is this?
— My own special recipe. Designed for your birthday! Drink, drink, drain your glass; raise your glass high! Simon commands in song.
Euan gives a well-it-is-my-birthday-and-it-is-Christmas-Eve shrug and swallows it back. Whatever abominable concoction lies in the fabric of the cocktail, it’s easier to down it in one.
Simon eyes are diverted from the phone’s screen to look over to a woman wearing a green top, who is scanning the bar. — That one’s probably been on the prowl in the same spot since I rogered her last Christmas!
Terry swiftly looks across. He puts on a David Attenborough voice: — If the beast is at its watering hole, it’s about to get its hole watered… and he sweeps back his corkscrew mane, winks at the woman and heads over to her.
Euan and Simon watch him in action. When the woman starts giggling at some comment, her hand reaching to her hair, they know the deal has been sealed. To Euan, Simon’s rapacious eyes scrutinise Terry as much as his new companion. — Terry is phenomenally effective. With a certain type of woman, he spits out bitterly.
His reaction makes Euan uncomfortable, and inclined to change the subject. — You were up last Christmas to see your mum?
— Yes… Ah ha, he says, his busy index finger flicking through an on-screen catalogue of girls’ faces, most of whom seem to be in their twenties, — a Ghost of Christmas Tinder Present!
— I can see why it would be a powerful dating tool, Euan says nervously. He is suddenly aware of nausea in the pit of his stomach, followed by a tingling in his arms and chest. He feels warm and he is sweating. After a brief panic clashes with this excitement, he succumbs to a strange glow coming over him, like a golden cloak of levity has been lowered onto his shoulders.
— Euan, you can download this app in seconds, Simon urges. — Seriously. Or I’m happy to shop around on your behalf, and he casts his eye over a group of women, compelling Euan to follow.
— I can’t! I’m married… he says wistfully, thinking of Carlotta, — to your sister!
— Jesus fuck, am I in the wrong century, or what? Simon snaps. — Let’s enjoy the benefits of neoliberalism before it goes tits-up, finally detonating this wretched planet from under our feet. We have a perfect synthesis of the very best of the free market and socialism, right here on our phones! It’s the answer to the greatest problem of all time – the loneliness and misery caused by not getting your hole at Christmas – and it’s free!