Part 11 (1/2)
This heralded another volley of mirth. (”Oh noo, it was his his fault!”) Alan looked like he was ready to punch someone, probably me. fault!”) Alan looked like he was ready to punch someone, probably me.
”It's all right,” laughed Mega City Four bloke. ”They weren't proper narked off, just taking the p.i.s.s, y'know.”
”You can apologise to them at the gig if you like,” suggested the girl.
”Ah ...” I began. ”The problem is, we're not actually going, um, to the gig ...”
”Why not? Come on, it's only three quid.”
I turned to Alan again. If I'd spent much of the evening feeling relatively grown-up, I now felt about twelve.
”I haven't enough cash ... have you?”
”Um, yeah ... but ...”
”We're on the guest list,” the girl continued. ”We could try sneaking you in too if you like?”
Once again, all faces seemed to be on us. Alan was clearly finding the situation very tricky to deal with.
”Um ... I think we need a private meeting for a moment, man.”
”Okay,” I nodded, and followed him to the door.
”I can't go,” he hissed into my ear.
”Why not?”
”I promised my mum I'd be back by ten. I've got a mock tomorrow.”
”A mock?”
”Mock A-level, dumbo.”
Blimey. First the wrong pub, and now this. The famous Alan Potter was seriously starting to ruin my week. I suddenly caught a mental image of Billy Flus.h.i.+ng, grinning stupidly as he always did-but also leading me to the correct pub and then on to the gig, chuckling like a lunatic, arm in arm with the mad blonde girl. I shook my head and he vanished.
”Sorry,” Alan murmured. ”I'll make it up to you. We don't have to leave just yet anyway. I'll buy you another pint.”
The Carter guest list crowd had finished their drinks and were now gathering by the door to leave.
”What's the verdict, then?” beamed the girl. ”Are you there, or are you square? Hahahaha!”
The final nail in Alan's coffin of credibility was still to come. After we'd made our excuses to the group I sat back in one of the pub's well-worn seats, contemplating this impressive start to my career as a music journalist while Alan went to buy another round. A minute later he was back.
”c.u.n.ts wouldn't serve me,” he announced, flopping down on the seat opposite.
We stared at each other for a moment, swirling the incalculable futility of the evening around our heads like a vintage cider. But I had a plan.
”Shall I have a go?”
”No,” Alan stated firmly.
”No, really. It might be all right for me. You're taller, but I've got an older face.”
”That's utter b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.”
”Just give me the money. What have we got to lose?”
I didn't tell him I'd suddenly remembered I had a dog-eared photocopy of Billy Flus.h.i.+ng's brother's driving licence lurking in one of the pockets of my bag. Billy had made one for each of us (with little thought for what would happen if we presented both at the same time). He used his regularly to buy certain extreme items of literature; I had never tried using mine. It put me, if memory served, just a few days shy of nineteen, but was worth a go.
”Two pints of cider and black, please.”
This particular girl behind the bar had a permanent frown, a fierce-looking nose ring and a GBH T-s.h.i.+rt, none of which a.s.sisted my acting skills.
”Got any ID?”
”Yeah,” I replied, scrabbling around in my bag and hoping the thing was in one piece. Just about. I presented it to the barmaid.
”You're almost nineteen,” she noted, scrutinising the threadbare doc.u.ment.
”Yup.”
She shrugged and handed it back.
”Okay, whatever.”
The thrill of having trounced Alan Potter at the booze-buying game sent a flood of confidence through me. I looked over at him (he was flicking through the jukebox selection) and winked. He mouthed ”f.u.c.k off” and turned away.
”Did you put something on?” I asked, as I returned with the drinks and a packet of Quavers.
”Yeah.”
”What?”
”You'll see,” he grumbled, taking a gulp, as the intro to something I didn't recognise started up. We sat and listened in silence. ”Did I get any change?”
”Yeah,” I replied, handing him a few coppers.
”f.u.c.k's sake.”
More silence.
”f.u.c.king hate not getting served, man.”
”That's okay, I did!”
”That's not the point,” he glared.
I was starting to get the distinct impression Alan was slipping back into school mode. The guy on the record seemed to be singing ”Why can't I get just one f.u.c.k,” but ”Why can't I get just one f.u.c.k,” but I was sure I'd misheard. I was sure I'd misheard.
”So who is this, then?”