Vince and I are winding Bertie up. — You mean to say that you’ve never had a homosexual experience in your life before? I ask him.
— Course I haven’t, Bertie says, all offended.
I’m shaking my head, looking at the dross I’ve got in my hand. — How old are you, you’ve got to bleedin thirty-seven and you’ve never had a gay experience?
He looks to Vince who smiles and shrugs, which freaks old Bert right out. — Of course not… you’re bleedin tapped, he goes, then he turns to Vince again. — Have you?
Vince looks at him with his big hooded eyes. — Of course I have, he says in that Manc voice, — I mean, you got to try everything once, aven’t ya?
Poor Bertie almost chokes on his beer. He puts the glass onto the table, looking at Vince all sorta weird. — But… I can’t believe I’m hearing this… he says and turns to me. — What about you?
— I’m thirty-nine for fuck sakes, I tell him, — I mean, we ain’t all led sheltered lives.
— I ain’t led no sheltered life… he protests, his voice going all high.
— Yeah, sure, Vince shakes his head.
— Well, no, he starts, all hesitant, — cause there was once…
And we’re all ears as he only goes and describes this encounter with a bentshot at some bleedin queer bar down in Clapham. Well, Vince and I just let him finish and then shout together: — WE’RE ONLY FARKING JOKING, YOU FARKING GREAT BIG POOF!
Outed! Always knew he was bleedin suspect. I point at him and shout, — File under arse behnnndit!
Bertie begs Vince and I to say nothing, insisting that he was just a bit freaked at our so-called disclosures and making it all up so as to fit in, which knowing Bert is quite possibly true. We’re having none of it though, the dirty bleedin arse bandit. But the geezer’s pretty distressed so the only thing to do is tell him we’ll keep shtum about the whole thing.
Of course, it’s only all around the bar the next night, innit. Somebody obviously kissed and told but mum’s the word on that one.
Thing is, it fair sets old Bertie off on the warpath with Vince and I as main suspects. Marcia’s only gone and heard all about it and kicked off about Aids, putting poor old Bert on an indefinite no nooky ban. Not that she gave him that much in the first place, by all accounts, or rather by Rodj’s account. Now Bertie’s gathering evidence for his appeal. But this one ain’t going to go to Stewards, not if I can help it.
After closing time he only goes and comes round to mine with a bit of attitude on him. — One of you two has been blabbing about the other night! It’s all round the bar, Marcia’s heard all about it!
— Bollocks. I ain’t said nothing to Marcia. Who told her then?
— One of the geezers at the bar, Bertie says, open-gobbed.
— Who?
— I dunno, do I? he whines. — She won’t say.
— Well, that covers a multitude, don’t it? I shake my head. — Why won’t she say? I ask. Thing is, with geezers like Bertie, it don’t really matter how pissed off they are, you just keep asking the questions and you soon draw their sting.
— I dunno, do I? he repeats like a flaming parrot, all flustered.
I shake my head. — Sounds suspect to me, mate.
— What? What sounds suspect?
I feel like saying, ‘You, you fucking dodgy little arse bandit, you sound farking suspect,’ but I explain it to him. Bertie, God love him, he ain’t the sharpest needle in your old mum’s embroidery kit. — If my missus had told me that she’d heard that I was an iron, I’d want to know who’d told her. I wouldn’t be happy hearing that it was just pub talk. I’d be asking myself: who stands to gain from her thinking that you’re bottled beer?
You could quite literally see the coin drop. — Was Marce on with Rodj the other day? he gasps.
— I believe that to be the case.
Then he headed off, eyeballs bulging out like a Jack Russell’s bollocks. As if he was planning to do some serious damage. Not that he’s the sort, really, but there’s no telling what some geezers will do over skirt. Crimes of passion n ah’ll. Think ancient Rome; Caesar, Mark Antony and Cleopatra. And it ain’t just big empires what’s been brought to their knees by minge; some tidy little businesses in the licensing trade have gone right down the flaming Swanee when the guvnor and or his missus have been caught on the wrong side of the duvet. See, I’d mentioned Bert’s little secret to Rodj earlier, knowing full well that, in turn, he’d be compelled to tell Marcia. So my hope now is that Rodj does a runner and Bert’s sine die, leaving the field clear for yours truly to fire into Marce.
I’m sitting back feeling pleased with meself, when me mobile sings out, signalling a text coming in. It’s Trees-the-ex. Her message reads:
Bell me on the landline
between 4 and 6. Urgent.
Tight-arsed cow. I have a shower, make myself a sandwich of cheese, tomato, lettuce and mayo, then pick up the blower and dial, getting a funny farking tone. Forgot to knock off the zero on her number after 0044. I try again and get her voicemail. — Neither Teresa nor Emily are in at the moment. Please leave your number and we’ll try to get back to you.
I leave a message. — Trees, it’s Mickey. You wanted me to call between 4 and 6, from your text. You said it was urgent, so I called right away. Do you want to get back—
— Michael, she says and you know that the cow was sitting there all the time letting me farking rabbit on like that. — How are you?
— Busy, I tell her. — What’s up? Is Em okay?
— Oh, well, I ain’t gonna be popular, am I. Thing is, Em’s been playing up so I’m sending her over to you for a bit.
It might be hot here but ain’t nobody told my blood that right now. The farking cow. — What do you mean? You said some orf the holidays. I got a flaming bar to run, I can’t—
— You can’t make time for your own daughter. Fine. I’ll tell her.
She’s loving all this, the farking cow. I take a deep breath. — You say she’s coming for a bit. What is a bit?
— Dunno. She’s flying out tomorrow on the 8.15 from Gatwick, gets in at 12.30.
— You can’t do this without bleedin well sortin it with me, that is bang out of order. I got things to do!
— N I ain’t?
That bleedin cow is in her farking element. She knows that I can’t knock Em back. — You know what I mean… I need notice, you can’t just hit me with a fait accompli like that. C’mon, Trees, give us a break—
— Nah, you give me a break, Mickey, she whines, that adenoidal tone squeaking down the blower, like a proper Hardwick. Forgot just how much it does your crust in. Patience of a saint I must have, putting up with that all them years. — She wants to see ya. She’s been a proper narky little cow and I ain’t havin her sitting around talkin the hump with me and Richie…
Surprise, surprise. — So this is what all this is abaht, you and some farking trouser—
— I’ve said my piece, she says, all cool, but she can’t keep the smugness out of her voice. — Be there at the airport to meet your daughter.
— Trees… I’m pleading now, — Terry…
Then she only goes and puts the farking blower down on me!
I dial her number again but it’s only the flamin voicemail, — Neither Teresa nor Emily…
— Farking cow, I spit and head downstairs to the bar. Knockout blow to Hardwick, Baker left KO’d on the canvas. It don’t bare thinking about. I pour myself a double Scotch. Cynth’s in and she’s watching me. — Bit early, isn’t it?
— Been a funny old morning, I tell her, heading down to the cellar, leaving her standing there, hands on hips like a big, shapely vase. It’s always nice and cool down here, just the place to go when you wanna charge the old calmness and serenity batteries. Suddenly, I hear a rustling sound and I see a big furry rat; long-haired cunt, marching across the floor. He vanishes behind a stack of beer on pallets. I pick up the brush. Then I hear the tinkle on the mobile: another flaming text message coming in. Bleedin hell, it’s only from Seph, this farking hairy little Greek gel I was nailing last summer. Telling me that she’s only here on Friday for two weeks. How farking complicated can life get?
Old Roland seems to have scarpered. So down here in the cellar I’m taking stock of my life. It’s all here in the barrels and the stacked pallets of bottles: piss. My assets all converted into a supply of alcohol to sell for profit. Disinhibition, good times and hope; that’s what I peddle. How many birds have I nailed through them over-imbibing that most glorious of drugs? Too many to count.
I shake off my thoughts and get upstairs. Cynth comes over and sidles up to me. I know by her look what she’s got on her mind and she opens her mouth to confirm that I ain’t wrong. — When we gonna see each other then?
— Tonight round mine. Eleven forty-five, I say, but it comes out all wrong, as I ain’t making much eye contact, I’m warily checking the bar for strangers.
Nothing will alienate skirt quicker than your distraction. You gotta at least provide the illusion of the old undivided. — Anything wrong? she asks.
— Nah… well, yeah, I come clean. My gut’s still blistering from that phone call with Trees, even if Seph’s text just proved that you just have to tough out the bad till the good comes round the corner, which it always does. Didn’t take very long in this case. I should be chuffed, but there are practical affairs to put right. — The ex is only sending the bleedin kid over tomorrow, ain’t she. I mean, what am I gonna do with a young teenage gel here? I look around the boozer, then nod upstairs. — You know the flat, it’s tiny.
Cynth rolls down her bottom lip. — You got a spare room.
— Yeah, but it ain’t got no bed and it’s got all my gear in it.
— I’ve got a fold-down bed; you can have that. When I come up to yours later we’ll go through your stuff and sort it out, she cheerfully volunteers. — How old is she?
Good sort, Cynth. I’m looking at those stiff red lips of hers and she’s got me all ears now. — Thirteen. Going through the narky little cow stage by all accounts.
— And she’s gonna be here most of the school holidays?
— The ex ain’t said but I believe that to be the case, yes.
Cynth seems to think about that one. She never had no kids but I think she always wanted them. No luck with the geezers though; told me once that her first fellah was a cunt, a proper tightwad, who didn’t want no breadsnapper around. Number 2’s been shooting blanks for years and is now any roads settled into a golfing life. She seems too bleedin keen on the idea of Em being here though. But it don’t half get ya thinking; if these two hit it off, it gives me a bit of time to be indulging in some extra-curricular activity with a certain young lady from Greece.
Interesting gel, young Seph. We met the other winter when she was over here. To be honest, a bird with a tash don’t do nuffink for me, but after a few Jack Daniel’s she could have been farking Taliban for all I cared. Bottled her up a few times last summer, then again in November over there when Chels was at Olympiakos in the Champions League. Made some of the geezers pretty green that day, swanning round Athens with a young thing like that on me arm, tash or no bleedin tash. Lovely long black hair; all the way down to her arse. Even them big Nana Mouskouri glasses couldn’t keep the old fellah down. In fact, you get to a certain age and that thing starts to appeal. That’s what happens when you’ve watched too many stag vids and seen too many facials.
I might suggest a waxing.
— Penny for em? Cynth asks, and I’m looking at that great expanse of doughy gut between the bottom of her top and the top of her shorts. Plenty of the old cellulite in the mix, but it’s funny how it don’t look half as bad on tanned skin.
I pinch a fold of belly lightly between forefinger and thumb. — I do believe that you are losing weight, gel, I tell her.
She puts her hands on her hips and does a little swivel, giving herself the once-over in the bar mirror. — You really think so?
— I believe that to be the case.
— It ain’t what the scales say, she goes, spinning round and looking at that fat arse. Rodj sees this from the bar of the public, raises his brow and gets back over to pulling pints for two old geezers that’ve come in with their wives. Looks very guilty n all. I’m wondering whether he and Bert have had words.
— Bathroom scales, I scoff. — Always bleedin farked, ain’t they. Can’t rely on em, can ya, I tell her, taking a slice of pizza from the glass display case and sticking it into the microwave. — You need fattening up, you do.
— You’re so sweet, Mikey. You know, when I was with Ben I was never good enough for him. He always used to moan about my weight… and Thomas, he doesn’t even see me as a woman…
I move over and pin her against the bar. — Some geezers don’t know when they’re on a good thing. I tug down the zip of her shorts and slip my hands in and start touching her bush lightly.
— Michael…
— You’re a naughty gel. No knickers, I say, thinking, bleedin hell, no prizes for guessing what she was after all along!
— Stop, Michael, somebody might come, she gasps as I pull up her top to expose those big tits, flopping away without a bleedin bra in sight.
— I believe that to be the case, I murmur, as she pulls the top back down before Rodj comes round.