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This
is the start of my first novel - 'The Wag'.
It'll be on sale soon as an e-book. If you want to read the whole
novel (or publish it!), contact me... THE
WAG An Erotic Novel about Show BusinessBy Dave Thompson. Disclaimer: We can’t censor our dreams. They
may use landscapes and characters from everyday life, but the situations
come from our unconscious. This
story is a fantasy from and for the imagination. It’s
not an instruction manual on how to behave… THE WAG. A joker in the spotlight, a lover
in the shadows. PART ONE. The Nineties. Chapter
One. Mummy’s knife
is cradled in my hand as I walk towards the plane.
I squeeze it as it nestles in the front left pocket of my jeans.
The brass rivets are flush with the wooden handle, which is warmer
than the steel blade. It’s a
pruning knife, and I can feel the blunt part of the blade, which is folded
into its brass-lined groove in the handle. I
love squeezing Mummy’s knife, because after a while it feels like the
warmth is flowing from the knife into my hand, and not from my hand into
the knife. Mummy was with
me the first time I went on a plane. I
was three or four, and my earliest memory is of sitting in her lap to look
out of the window. My tummy is
churning with excitement now, because I’m about to fly, and I’m
performing tonight. Flying and
stand-up comedy are two of my favourite activities.
I emerge from the shadow of the terminal building, and the sunlight
hits my eyes. It’s a short
walk to the plane, and I let go of the knife in my pocket to put my
sunglasses on. The pilot is
visible through the cockpit window, preparing for the flight to Wow!
The flight attendant is young and blonde and fresh.
The red airline dress hugs her lush figure.
My friend Neil Gosling would consider her fat, but then he hates
women. To me she’s cuddly
and fertile. Our fingertips
touch and linger as she checks the stub of my boarding card.
I hope I don’t look pretentious in my sunglasses.
Otherwise, I feel confident about my appearance.
Trainers, blue jeans, and a black long sleeved T-shirt.
My hair is brown and short. I’m
6’3” tall. That’s 1.91
metres. I’m used to writing
my measurements down on casting forms when I go to auditions. “Seat 1D.
First row on the left,” she beams. My leather
business class window seat looks wide and inviting.
I’ve chosen the right hand starboard side of the plane because it
affords the best views during the flight.
I remove my notebook, a pen, and a novel from the flight bag, and
deposit them in the pocket in front of the seat.
This is my standard procedure when flying.
After stowing
my black leather flight bag in the overhead locker, I settle down with
‘High Wire’. I’m sure
they won’t be able to start new airlines soon, because they’re running
out of names for the in flight magazines.
Glimpsing through ‘High Wire’ to kill time before the tug
pushes the plane back, I silently swear.
Arnold Shanks smiles from the glossy page.
I don’t know what it is about flying that makes people’s
fingers get very greasy, but when I hold an airline magazine I have a
nagging urge to wash my hands. The
slick, shiny glamour they try to project is undermined by the sordid,
greasy edges of the pages. This
well-thumbed, travel-worn quality is in perfect accord with the face of
Arnold Shanks, who, the magazine informs me, is the “Maverick owner of After that, he
realised promoting comedy is a lot easier than doing it, and got into
running gigs. Three years
later, he’s made enough money to buy the lease on a derelict warehouse,
and convert it into a comedy venue. Now
he’s using it as a hook for his own self-promotion.
Remembering to think positively, I tell myself that Outside my
window the baggage handlers are still loading the luggage into the hold.
The plane is small enough for me to hear the thud of the heavier
cases as they’re thrown in. I
flip to the next article. It’s
about how nice The Isle of Man is. Unsurprisingly,
the airline flies there. My
eyes open wider as I see Kev Knight, a stand-up on the comedy circuit,
wrote the article. That’s
amazing. Then I remember that
Kev was a freelance journalist before moving into stand-up comedy.
Even though Shanks books him to play his club, and the other venues
he books for, Kev is still keeping his hand in with the journalism.
Hence this article in ‘High Wire’.
A man outside
with a talkback plugged into the plane guides the pilot as the tug pushes
us back from the parking place. A
Boeing 747 looms over us as it sidles past the terminal building, on its
way to another gate. I wonder
if it’s got anyone famous on board.
The man with headphones disconnects his wire from the side of the
plane, and waves the pilot goodbye. The
engines get louder, and we move forward towards the runway.
I can’t
understand why my friends complain about how much flying they do.
For me, the novelty has never worn off.
I love flying, especially on sunny days like today, with a
beautiful girl demonstrating the emergency procedures about three feet
away from me. I watch the
demonstration for the first time since I last fancied the flight attendant
like mad. I remember the
flight, even though it was a month ago.
KLM to We lurch along
the runway, and Gatwick airport drops behind as we head west.
Shortly afterwards, we turn south, and I recognise the waters of
Southampton as my reverie is interrupted by the delicious young flight
attendant as she offers me refreshments.
I take a small bottle of champagne, and smoked salmon sandwiches.
The “More coffee,
Sir?” My God this
flight attendant’s beautiful. “Mm yes
please.” She smiles as she
pours coffee into my Business class china cup.
There’s something about the energy of this girl.
She pulsates with vitality. “How many
flights have you done today?” “This is the
fourth. We started in “Wow.
It must be very complicated, working out the timetable.” “It’s
beyond human capability. Only
a computer can do it. It’s
so complex a computer programme had to write the programme that writes the
schedules.” “I thought
the same planes just shuttled back and forth between their home airports
and their destinations.” “They do
where they can. But often the
plane might fly to several destinations in one day.
And spend the night in a European airport.” “So you’re
staying in “At the Hotel
Bristol.” “I am too.
I might see you there.” She smiles
shyly and moves on to offer coffee to a fat, ugly businessman two rows
behind. I’ll swear she made
her tits wobble slightly before leaving me. Chapter
Two. The top of the My face is
glued to the window as I watch Gradually we
get lower, until we touch down at Some fluffy
white clouds float high above us as I walk towards the little terminal
building. The air has the
salty tang of sea in it. Our
luggage is already being manhandled out of the hold.
I hope the people I’m working for have a car waiting to collect
me… Chapter
Three. I check my face
in the mirrored wall of The Hotel Bristol’s lift.
Unfortunately that stubble will have to come off before the gig.
When I’m doing a comedy club, I go on stage with one or even two
day’s beard. It suits my
weirdo persona. But when the
BBK Bank of The Channel Islands pays a thousand pounds, plus hotel and
business class flights, Doug Tucker gets his razor out. As I walk along
the yellow carpet of the corridor, I play the usual guessing game with
myself. Left or right?
Will my en suite bathroom be on the left of the door, or the right
of the door? As someone who
sleeps half of my nights in hotels, I know what the layout of the room
will be. I’ll go through the
door, and there’ll be a bathroom on the left or the right.
There will be a space for hanging clothes, possibly with a safe,
opposite the bathroom. Beyond
will be a double bed on the same side of the room as the bathroom.
Opposite the bed will be a colour TV and mini bar.
The window will be straight ahead.
Depending on the quality of the room, I’ll have anything from a
small chair and occasional table up to a three-piece suite.
I guess the bathroom will be on the left of the door, and stop at
room 331. I like the blue
colour scheme. The
bathroom’s on the right. What’s
this! The window offers a view
of the rear car park, and when I open it I can hear the hum of the air
conditioning machinery. When I
asked the receptionist for a room with a nice view, I wasn’t thinking of
an assortment of cars, and a vile 1960s office building.
I phone reception, and politely insist that I be given a better
room. Before I leave room 331,
I relieve it of all coffee and sugar sachets, little plastic milk cartons,
and miniature shower/bath gel bottles.
You can never have too many of them, and it saves having to ring
down and request them later. No
matter how expensive the hotel, it’ll probably take half an hour for
them to send an underpaid, reluctant, no hoper with bad skin up to the
room. Room 462 has
the bathroom on the left. It
was a good ploy to remind the receptionist that the BBK Bank of The
Channel Islands is paying a lot of money for me to stay here, because the
sea view is great from the full-length window.
And it’s even better from the private balcony.
I relax in the white plastic chair, and admire a yacht anchored in
the bay. Balmy southern air
wafts into my face as a seagull cries overhead.
I’m about to check the huge TV works, and what satellite channels
are available, when the phone rings. It’s
Melissa, my agent, in “Good news,
Doug. You’ve got a recall
next Friday. Apparently it’s
down to three of you.” This is
good news! Like every stand-up
on the comedy circuit, I’m aware that nobody’s going to give me a gold
watch when I’m sixty-five. I
want to get rich and famous on telly, or (even better) the cinema screen.
Performing stand-up in the clubs is good for a while, but it’s a
plateau. Everyone’s trying
to be funny on the screen. When
you get famous, if you still want to do stand-up, you can do it on your
own terms. In theatres, to
audiences who’ve paid a lot of money, because they love your comedy. The alternative
to becoming a star is to tramp round and round the circuit as a hack
nobody’s heard of. You
perform to groups of drunken office and stag parties who are spending a
fortune on entrance, food, and drink.
Especially drink. Club
owners like Arnold Shanks become millionaires in the comfort of an office
chair; whilst creative people like me stand out there in the firing line.
Half the time it isn’t even about being funny – it’s about
controlling the crowd until the show’s over and the dancing starts.
Live comedy is a tough business, but compared to television comedy
it’s a womb. Television is
all about getting high ratings, so as many people as possible see the
adverts. Live comedy is about
selling beer. Television
comedy is about selling beer and cars.
I’d rather be selling beer and cars. Two weeks ago I
auditioned for the part of Cedric in a new sitcom, called ‘Bare in
Mind’. It’s not the main
part, but big enough to be in every episode.
If I get the part, and the show is a success, it could be the break
I’ve been waiting for. They
auditioned a hundred actors and comedians, and Melissa is telling me
I’ve made it to the last three. If
I was a TV star, I could charge ten thousand pounds for doing a corporate
gig like the one tonight. “More good
news, Doug. Your mate Arnold
Shanks phoned. He’s
programming the comedy at The Ming Club in “Were you
really with Arnold Shanks in the Groucho Club?” I ask, impressed that
Melissa’s getting off her backside and schmoozing on behalf of her acts. “Not me,
Doug. I thought you were.” “I don’t
know Arnold Shanks that well. And
I’ve never seen him at the Groucho Club. I’ve
only been there four times.” “My sister
thought she saw Sunita sitting at I put the phone
down and return to my balcony. Melissa’s
a lovely person, but sometimes it bothers me that the ideal agent isn’t
necessarily an ideal person. How
can she think I was at the Groucho Club on Saturday night, when she knows
full well I was working in Gazing at a
white sailing yacht slipping her moorings and sliding effortlessly towards
the open sea, I drift into a reverie in which I get the part of Cedric in
‘Bare in Mind’. How
delicious life would be. But
now I’ve got to go down and meet my contact from the bank so he can
brief me for tonight’s gig. When
I leave my balcony and go back into my room, I turn the telly on just to
make sure it works. I’ve
been caught out too many times by rooms that seem luxurious, only to get
back after the show and find the telly doesn’t work properly.
Typical! Every channel
is fuzzier than if the arial was a safety pin.
I ring reception and they tell me a maintenance man will be up
soon. I go into the bathroom
for a shit and a shave, knowing that he’ll probably knock on the door
when I’m on the toilet. Luckily, he
doesn’t. Showered and
shaved, I look for my notebook to take down to the Brunel Suite to meet Mr
Laroux, my contact from the bank. I
can’t find it in my flight bag, and I realise I left my notebook, novel,
and a pen in the seat pocket on the plane.
Damn. I feel naked
without my notebook. I can’t
believe I’ve been so forgetful. I
always keep a notebook, pen, and novel with me when I’m on a plane.
Some of my best jokes come to me whilst gazing out of aeroplane
windows. Cursing myself, I get
some Hotel Bristol stationary from the desk, and go down to be briefed by
Mr Laroux. He’s older
than I am, and probably earns more than me.
Nice guy, though. He
offers me a drink, and I take a coffee.
The Brunel Suite is the hotel’s biggest conference room, and has
a high vaulted ceiling. That
isn’t good for comedy, which needs a low ceiling.
The exception is if it’s in a theatre, in which case the building
will be designed to have good acoustics.
Unless it was built for a council in Mr Laroux, who
is Swiss, explains to me that most of the audience will be employees of
the bank. A few will be from It gets even
worse when Mr Laroux shows me the ‘stage’.
There isn’t one. I’ve
got a corner of the room next to the doors the waiting staff use for
entering and leaving the kitchens. I
ask about stage lighting. There
isn’t any of that either. The
PA system looks like it was designed for use in a cloakroom. “Oh, I forgot
to mention. There will also be
twenty of our Japanese clients from Now I’m angry
with Melissa for putting me in this situation.
It couldn’t be better set up for a spectacular death if they’d
hired a feng shui expert. “How long do
you want me to do?” I’ve
read the contract and it says half an hour, but I always ask the client
how long, in case they say a shorter time.
Mr Laroux ponders the question.
“About forty
minutes?” “The contract
says thirty minutes.” “Well in that
case, thirty minutes. Whatever
you feel comfortable with.” No stage, no
lighting, and an audience who doesn’t speak English.
I’d feel comfortable staying in my room watching telly.
Assuming they repair it. “I’ll see
how it goes. Can I sound check
the PA?” As I suspect,
the length of the microphone lead is more appropriate for that of a
dog’s lead. If I were any
taller, I’d have to stoop to hold the mike.
And I’ll have to hold the mike, because there’s no microphone
stand. “Will there
be a sound man?” “A Deejay,
yes.” “If you could
get me a radio mike, it would help. I
think the situation will require me to walk around, work the room.” “I’ll see
what I can do. By the way,
this table is where the bank’s President will be sitting.
Please don’t refer to him or even look at him.
His wife died yesterday.” So I’m here
to make a man whose wife has just died, laugh.
I go back to my room for some serious editing of my comedy
material. When I put my dress
shirt on, I discover my cufflinks are still at home in my flat in Lambeth
Walk, Chapter
Four. As I stand near
the ‘in’ and ‘out’ doors of the kitchen, I hear the anticipatory
hubbub of two hundred employees and clients of the BBK Bank of The Channel
Islands, in the conference room beyond.
The enamelled cuff links I’m wearing glint beneath the
fluorescent strip-lights. They
are hideous little effigies of footballs, which a waiter lent me at the
behest of the duty manager, who hadn’t offered to lend me his own gold
ones. I rang reception when I
realised I’d forgotten to pack my cufflinks, hoping to borrow a pair.
The receptionist had told me the hotel kept several pairs of
cufflinks to lend to guests who’d forgotten their own.
Unfortunately they lent out more pairs than they got back, and
their stock had dwindled to nought. There
was a selection of cufflinks for sale in the jewellery display cases in
the foyer, but the cheapest pair was £85.
I would have been happy to buy them, but I didn’t like the look
of any of the cufflinks on sale. They
were all too modern and chunky. In
the end, one of the waiters had substituted bent paper clips for his own
cufflinks, which the duty manager had sent up to my room. I’m cross
with myself for forgetting my cufflinks.
Like many comics, I’m a bit superstitious.
I’ve got a lucky pair of silver cufflinks that I always wear if
I’m doing a gig that requires a suit.
I bought them in an antique shop in The clatter of
plates and metal food containers surrounds me, and whenever I try to move
out of the way of the overworked waiting staff, the leather soles of my
shoes stick to the floor. I’m
wearing my best dinner jacket with a Harrods dress shirt and silk bow tie.
I’m nervous, but not so nervous that I don’t notice several of
the waitresses are so gorgeous I’d kill a dragon to taste their
delicious bodies. A lot of the
“Guten Abend
Dammen und Herren. Good
evening ladies and gentlemen. Please
welcome, top I can’t
believe it! The stupid wanker
is putting me on stage without checking I’m ready.
It’s ten minutes before he told me I’m on, and I need a poo.
The waiting staff are still clearing the desert plates and serving
coffee, and I’ve wandered twenty feet away from the doors.
In a panic I dash towards the conference room, and nearly try to go
out through the ‘in’ door. As
I walk the short distance across the polished wooden floor to the stage
area, I look down at my watch and start the stopwatch function.
The next thing I know, I’ve stepped on a greasy patch where one
of the overworked waiting staff has spilled something very slippery, and I
go arse over tit. As my skull
hits the floor my overwhelming concern is that my expensive dinner suit
might be irrevocably stained. I
wasn’t impressed with what I saw coming out of those saucepans.
And the kitchen smells of something rotten.
I’ve already had second thoughts as to whether I should breakfast
elsewhere in the morning. My reverie is
interrupted by a crushing sensation, followed by a scalding pain, and
sounds consistent with those of a metal coffee pot and crockery clattering
to a parquet floor. A fusion
of beer and tobacco breath penetrates my disorientation, and I look into
the retreating face of a waiter as he removes himself from my chest. The strongest
Liverpudlian accent I’ve ever heard whispers “Sorry mate.
I never had time to stop.” As I get to my
hands and knees I realise that the Scouse waiter didn’t whisper.
He spoke very loudly. It
just sounded like a whisper, because the room is full of two hundred
people helpless with laughter. “That’s
okay man,” I say privately to the Scouser.
He’s got a shaved head and bright blue eyes.
He looks more like a prison inmate than a waiter in a five star
hotel. He gathers his silver
tray and coffee stuff, and retreats into the kitchen from which he so
recently emerged. When I stand up
the audience sees the extent to which my attire has been splashed by
coffee. The piping hot liquid
makes contact with more of my skin, and involuntarily I wince with pain.
The laughter doubles in volume.
Even the waitresses are pissing themselves.
Several tables of Japanese men are having convulsions.
One of the Germans has fallen off his chair, and remains on the
floor, tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks.
I grab the radio mike from the top of the loudspeaker, and look at
the room. The hilarity still
has the momentum of a large wave before it starts to break.
I look down at my previously white dress shirt, and exaggerate the
pain with my facial expression. Surreptitiously
I glance at my stopwatch. One
and a half minutes. The
audience is still in hysterics, and I haven’t said a word.
I notice the president’s table.
A silver haired older man is chuckling and smiling at me.
My comedic instinct takes over, and as the laughter shows the first
sign that it’s beginning to subside, I take a few steps and fake another
slip. Just enough to lose
balance for an instant. They
laugh louder. Whilst my back
is turned I discreetly twist my bow tie so it’s skew whiff.
If I’m going to look stupid, I might as well go the whole way. I tap the mike
slightly to check it’s switched on.
I look towards the kitchen doors with mock anger. “I said I
wanted my coffee white!” Huge laugh.
I look to the audience and smile.
Then look down at my black coffee soaked shirt.
“I’m not going to milk it”.
Another huge laugh. The
Japanese, Germans and Swiss haven’t even understood the play on the word
“milk”, but they’re so keen to be involved they pretend they
understood. “It’s great
to be here in There’s only
one terminal at “I flew into Big laugh.
That’s my first joke, and I’ve already been on for three
minutes. I casually walk
towards one of the tables, cheating another slip as I approach.
The whole room loves me. I
just have to talk to them, and they’ll eat out of my hand.
I can do no wrong… Half an hour
later, I’ve taken the piss out of the Japanese clients to the delight of
everyone else. I’ve offended
one of the Germans, but I think he’s forgiven me.
And out of the corner of my eye I’ve monitored the President of
the bank rock back and forth with laughter, and applaud several gags.
Maybe he didn’t love his wife that much.
I thank the audience and exit to the kitchen, with one table giving
a standing ovation. Shouts of
“More” come through the doors, and that’s what I’m going to leave
them wanting. I’m quitting
that party whilst it’s still swinging.
I feel stupid in my horrifically stained suit, but for a thousand
pounds I don’t mind looking stupid.
I was lucky to have slipped over on that greasy spot.
It broke the ice at what promised to be a very tough gig.
There’s a distinct aroma of marijuana smoke in the kitchen.
Mm, interesting… The really
young Latino waitress smiles shyly from near the cutlery trays.
The blonde one walks past me and pouts.
Little minx! I’d like
to do some very rude things to her. The
Liverpudlian waiter I had the collision with comes over and shakes my hand
with a firm grip. “Spot on,
mate. I really enjoyed dat.” “Thanks.
We had a successful double act, there.” I like his easy
Liverpudlian manner, but we’re interrupted by Mr Laroux holding a pint
of lager. “Thank you,
Doug. Your performance
couldn’t have been a bigger success.
Mr Yelland is delighted with how it went.
The clients loved it too. Is
Stella I accept the
pint of Stella from him and take a slurp.
It’s delicious. “This is
fine. Thank you.
Is Mr Yelland the president?” “Yes.
For a while there, he forgot that his wife has just died.” “Thirty-seven
minutes, actually.” I always
time how long I do. I don’t
mention the forty-three seconds. “Look, we’d
be flattered if you’d join us for a drink.
A lot of people would love to meet you.
And by the way – a young woman called Alison was asking for you.
She says she’s got some things of yours.
You left them on the plane?” “Oh yes.
That must be the flight attendant.” “She asked me
to tell you she’s in the “Thanks.
I’d better go upstairs and get out of this suit.
I’ll be down later. I
have to make a phone call.” One drawback to
doing corporate gigs is that they want a piece of you afterwards.
It can be fun, but more often it’s as boring as talking to a herd
of be-suited wage slaves who’ve sold their souls to the money devil.
I’m sure they’re all very nice people, but I’ve got more
interesting things to do than answer the same old questions people like
that always ask. Like having
the shit I was going to have before this plonker put me on stage without
any warning. Mr Laroux shakes
my hand. “Thanks once
again, I follow him
out of the smelly kitchen, and drink the pint of Stella quickly.
I make my way out of the nearest door into the corridor.
I have no intention of going back into the Brunel Suite.
I’ve earned my thousand pounds and now my time is mine.
I don’t want to go into the Clifton bar with my clothes in this
state, so I’ll go upstairs and change quickly and then pop down to get
my notebook, pen, and novel from the flight attendant.
I’ve already made up my mind to talk to her briefly, and then
retire to my room. I’m going
to phone Sunita up, and watch telly before going to sleep.
I fancy the flight attendant like mad, but I love Sunita and am
faithful to her. In my room I
feel the results of knocking a pint of Stella back quickly.
I give myself a large gin and tonic from the mini bar, and
immediately the phone rings. It’s
my darling Sunita. There’s a
phone in the bathroom as well as the one in the bedroom, and I multitask
by having that poo I wanted whilst talking to her. We have a cosy
lover’s chat for ten minutes. She’s
got to be up early in the morning, so can’t talk for too long.
I love her so much. I remove the
suit and have a quick shower to get rid of the stickiness of the coffee.
I must have taken a good litre of it, and am amazed I wasn’t
seriously scalded. Back in
jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, I feel a lot more comfortable.
I finish the gin and tonic, and go down to the Clifton Bar.
I’m going to have one drink, and then come up to my room and
watch TV. The pretty
blond flight attendant is sitting at a table with a man and the other
flight attendant, who is also pretty.
It’s just that the blonde one is so pretty she eclipses the other
one. She stands and greets me. “Hi, I’m
Alison. Did you get the
message?” “Yes thanks.
My name’s Doug.” “We know
that. We were watching you do
your show. We sneaked in the
back. You’re brilliant.
We were debating if you were supposed to slip over and have that
waiter trip over you, or if it really was an accident.” “Thanks.
I can assure you it was an accident.” “This is
Chris, by the way. He flew us
here today. And this is
Jackie, who you probably recognise.” I shake hands
with them. I’m always happy
to meet a pilot. It’s one of
my ambitions to learn to fly. When
I’m rich and famous. “What flight
are you getting back tomorrow?” Asks
Chris. He’s a typical pilot.
I can’t say why, but something about his short brown hair and
medium build screams out that flying planes is how he makes his living.
I can also tell that he’s ex military.
I guess that he either flew transports for the RAF, or helicopters
for the Royal Navy. I’ve met
quite a few of both whilst performing to the troops in The Falklands and “I’m
getting the four-thirty afternoon flight to Gatwick.
I don’t like getting up too early in the morning.
I thought I’d do a bit of sight seeing before I go.
I love the beaches here.” “I’m out of
here on the seven-thirty, I’m afraid.” Replies Chris.
I notice his glass holds what looks like a soft drink.
He must be observing the ‘twelve hours from bottle to throttle’
rule that pilots are supposed to abide by. “The girls
are off to An involuntary
jolt in my being takes delight in the fact that Alison doesn’t have to
go to bed so early, and therefore might be material for rumpty tumpty.
I fight down the urge to try to sleep with her.
I’m in a monogamous relationship with Sunita.
Whilst Jackie
gets a round in, I make polite talk with Alison and Chris.
There’s definitely a spark between Alison and me.
She gives me a lot of eye contact, and my notebook and pen. “You left
these in the seat pocket.” “Thanks. Did
you find a book as well?” “Oh I’m so
sorry. I left it in the crew
room at the airport. It’s
‘Nana’ by Emile Zola, isn’t it?” “That’s
right. Have you read it?” “No, but it
looks interesting. I’m
afraid I was reading the bit about the author, and forgot to put it with
these.” She indicates my
notebook and pen. I wonder if
she’s read anything in my notebook.
One of the first rules of comedy is that you always carry a
notebook. Every vaguely funny
idea, you write down. Brilliant
jokes emerge from stupid, insignificant little thoughts.
The thoughts you think you’ll remember, but forget if you don’t
write down. I’m on notebook
number 73. I’ve been keeping
them ever since I was doing A level drama, before I knew I’d be a
comedian. In those days I
wanted to be a playwright. Alison seems
embarrassed, and I wonder if it’s because it looks like she forgot to
bring my novel from the airport so we’ll have an excuse to meet again.
I decide not. She seems
too genuine to contrive anything like that. “I’ll leave
your book at the ticket desk. You
can collect it tomorrow.” I thank her and
ask Chris how he started flying, and sure enough, he used to be a
helicopter pilot for the Royal Navy. I
enjoy a second pint of Stella As I walk to
the lift, a pang of remorse churns my viscera.
I’m trying to be good and monogamous, but a huge part of me wants
to know if Alison would let me go to bed with her.
An even bigger part of me is desperate to explore her body with my
tongue. Now! I flop down on
the bed and turn the telly on. I
don’t believe it! The
picture is still so fuzzy it’s unwatchable.
I crossly ring reception and ask why the maintenance man hasn’t
sorted it out. “We’re
sorry, Sir. The maintenance
department has been very busy this evening.” “Can they
send someone up to make it work now?” “Sorry, Mr
Tucker. They went off duty at
ten.” “So I’m
stuck with a television that doesn’t work.” “I’ll leave
a note for the manager. He
might be able to get a reduction off your room.” “The BBK Bank
is paying for the room. So I
can watch a decent telly.” “All I can
do, Sir, is apologise on behalf of The Hotel Bristol.” Fantastic!
I put the phone down. I’ve
got a TV that doesn’t work, and my novel is locked up in I throw the
magazine aside and resign myself to going to bed, even though it’s only
eleven 0’clock. I’ll get
up early tomorrow, and go for a walk along the beach.
Then wander around the marina and admire the yachts.
I return from the bathroom after cleaning my teeth, and see the
novelty football cufflinks on the dressing table.
It was nice of the hotel to arrange for me to borrow them.
I want to make sure the waiter who was pressured into lending them
to me gets them back. They
might be important to him. For
all I know, they could have been a present from someone he loved, and is
now dead. A lot of my
colleagues on the comedy circuit wouldn’t bother, but to me it’s clear
that the moral thing to do is to return them to their owner before I go to
bed. At the very least, I’ll
deliver them to the reception desk. Chapter
Five. The staff that
was on earlier has retired for the evening, and the girl at the reception
desk can hardly speak English. When
I say the cufflinks belong to one of the waiters, but I don’t know which
one, she points towards the kitchens.
“The waiters is in kitchens.” I wander back
through The Brunel Suite, hoping not to bump into Mr Laroux or any of the
BBK Bank employees. As I
assumed would happen, the DJ has given up and gone home.
Bank employees want to drink in the hotel bar, not dance in the
same function room they had to sit through dull presentations in.
It’s empty but for one member of the bar staff, who’s clearing
dirty glasses from tables. He
directs me to the kitchen. If
the kitchen reeked of dope smoke earlier, it’s so thick with it now I
need extra muscular effort to walk as far as the cluster of waiters and a
waitress, who are sharing a perky looking joint.
I didn’t bring anything with me, because airports and marijuana
don’t go together very well. I’d
kill for a smoke right now. They
jump when they see me, as though I’m an authority figure who’s just
caught them red-handed. Except
for the Scouse waiter I had the collision with.
He’s cool and calm, his bright blue eyes radiating
mischievousness. As I
approach, he offers me the joint. “Is there
tobacco in it?” “Some, but
not much.” “I’m okay,
thanks. I don’t smoke
tobacco. Smells good,
though.” “It’s the
only skunk weed on the island.” “Have you got
any to sell?” “Not tonight,
but you’re welcome to a smoke. Have
you got a pipe?” I shrug my
shoulders “I flew in.
Not good to have pipes in your luggage.” He nods in
assent. “I’ve got a
pipe at home. The name’s
Mick, by the way.” The same firm
handshake he gave me earlier, before Mr Laroux interrupted us.
As he turns to introduce the others, I notice a recent scar going
down the back of his shaved head. A
shaved head that hasn’t been shaved for a day, the stubble of which
lends that ‘recently out of prison’ look. I shake hands
with the others, and instantly forget their names.
When I produce the football cufflinks from my pocket, the other
waiter, who’s Portuguese, smiles and nods.
He shows me his cuffs, which are fastened with bent paperclips.
I thank him and give them back. Mick the
Liverpudlian chimes in “Do you want an E?”
As he says this, his hand reaches unthreateningly towards my mouth,
a small tablet nestling between his fingertips.
The decision is made before I have time to consider it.
I say “Alright”
and don’t close my mouth. Mick’s
tobacco-flavoured fingers pop the ecstasy tablet into my mouth, and I
swallow it. Almost with the
same movement he swoops a glass of lager into my hand, so I can help it
down. The other waiting staff
all smile their approval. “I’ve got a
place a little ways away. We’ve
just dropped our E’s a few minutes ago.
Come back with us for a smoke and dat.” Mick’s one of
those charismatic people I can’t help feeling comfortable with.
I don’t know him or any of the people I’m going back with, or
whether I can get back to the hotel from there.
But I’m a bit pissed, and I feel like an adventure. “Okay.” “We’re just
waiting for Maria and then we’ll be in the motor, like.
Talk of the devil…” The gorgeous
young Latino waitress I fancied earlier wanders in.
She’s still in her uniform, and carries a bag on her shoulder. “Doug, meet
Maria. Maria, this is Doug.”
We smile and shake hands. We
say goodbye to the guy whose cufflinks I borrowed.
Apparently he lives in the hotel’s staff accommodation.
Mick, Maria, the other waitress whose name is Susan, another bloke,
and I all make our way out of the back door and emerge in the car park.
As we walk past an array of Mercedes, Porsches, and a couple of
Rolls Royces, I ask my new friends why they haven’t changed out of their
waiting uniforms before leaving work.
It’s because they want to get away quickly, before their boss
asks them to help out in the We pile into
Mick’s old Ford Fiesta, and a few minutes later we’re on an unlit
country road with lots of hills and bends.
Mick’s girlfriend is called Susan, and she’s in the front.
I’m sharing the back seat with Maria and another member of hotel
staff who’s cadging a lift for some of the way.
Mick’s cornering is vigorous, and the three of us squeezed in the
back, are thrown hard against each other in the darkness.
I’m next to Maria, and as soon as our hips touch, I feel heat
radiate from her body. |
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Updated 22/11/2006 |