Romance is dead - for me, anyway

Wall-Street Phil and Mee-chelle get married six days from now. So on Saturday Phil had his stag night. It wasn't going to be a particularly crazy affair - Mee-chelle had banned what she termed "funny business" ("funny business" in this case meant shaving Phil and tying him to a lamp-post or hiring a stripper). Just some drinks in the Swan to start, then up into town to go to a club. But it turned out to be a notable evening for a number of reasons.


Firstly, it reminded me of my almost-wedding. Which so very nearly happened that I even had a stag night of my own. And that was a crazy affair. Cigars, cocaine and strippers. Doing body shots off the tits of blonde beauties. Going fucking crazy. All my then-mates (and Jasper) telling me to enjoy my freedom while it lasted. Having the mother and father of all hangovers the next day when Nell rang to tell me that I could enjoy my freedom as much as I liked because she was calling off the wedding. Setting me off into a spiral that found its end in a wine-merchants in the arse-hole of London. So being at Wall-Street Phil's stag do didn't bring back the most pleasant of memories, to say the least. Still, by liberally lubricating my insides with John Smiths and vodka I managed to blot out most of the bad stuff and have something approximating a good time.


Then there was Enzo. It was the first time we'd really hung out since the Carol débacle in the Swan, and I was keen to broach the subject. Principally because I really didn't want to believe that Enzo had been boning one half of Curl Up 'N' Dry. I waited until we were in the club. Which was probably a bad idea, because the conversation had to be bellowed above the music.


Me: Um, mate, I've been meaning to ask you...


Enzo: WHAT?


Me: I'VE BEEN MEANING TO ASK YOU...


Enzo: SORRY, WHAT?


Me: CAROL!


Enzo: WHAT ABOUT HER?


Me: DID YOU... HAVE YOU EVER...?


I did a little bit of mime here. You can probably guess what. Enzo grins and gives me the thumbs up sign.


Enzo: SHE'S FUCKING WELL UP FOR IT! DIRTY BITCH!


I returned the thumbs-up, but inwardly shuddered and felt faintly nauseous at the idea of Carol astride Enzo. Riding him like a skinny, leathery succubus. Sweet Jesus. I let the matter drop. Otherwise I may have brought up my dinner. And I'm stunned at Enzo - the guy can get any girl he likes, and he decides to shag Stan's 80s throwback wife. The mind boggles. Still, he's obviously not serious about Carol because he effortlessly pulled some long-legged lovely later on in the evening and went home with her. Jealous? Me? Never. I feel for Stan though. Next time he drags me in for a trim I won't be able to look him in the eye.


Enzo's description of Carol's energetic infidelity, coupled with my own disastrous attempt at matrimony, meant that my attitude towards Phil's forthcoming nuptuals soured a little as the night dragged on. The fact that I was necking beer and vodka at a rate that would have put Oliver Reed to shame didn't help matters. I recall pushing Phil against a wall and slurring that he should "get out now, before she rips your heart out and sets fire to it". And I recall helping to strip him bollock-naked and tape him to the door of a phone booth. And I'm pretty certain that it was me who wrote "Wanker" on his forehead in permanent marker. 


I hope to Christ it comes off by Saturday. Otherwise their wedding photos are going to look a trifle strange.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Château Méaume 1999 (France). A rich, plummy claret. The colour of your heart's blood when your fiancée has just ripped it out and trampled it with her Jimmy Choos. £4.99
3.11.03 16:59


Weasel Bland

Wall-Street Phil came into the shop last night. He still had "Wanker" inked faintly across his forehead. He looked very pissed off. I was profuse in my apologies and gave him a free bottle of wine. Phil hinted that Mee-chelle wanted my guts for garters. Actually, he didn't hint. He told me. "Mee-chelle wants your guts for garters", he said. Thinking on my feet, I gave him the patchouli-and-ylang-ylang candle (the one that Lucy had rejected) to give to Mee-chelle.


Me: Well, I... uh... I got her this. To, you know, say sorry for being a twat.


Phil: Oh. Right. Oh, well, she'll love this. Mee-chelle loves candles.


Inner Voice: Yeah, I thought so. And you're marrying her. More fool you.


Me: Oh. Good-o.


I have no shame.


It got me thinking that maybe I should start getting myself organised for this whole wedding malarkey. I went through my wardrobe (for "wardrobe", read "pile of clothes in corner of bedroom") and pulled out my last remaining suit. Which would be ideal to wear to the wedding, were it to be a themed event. The theme being "Tramps and Dossers". Shit. So I've had to call Jasper to see if I can borrow one of his Armani numbers. Oh, how I enjoy looking like a total loser in front of my rich, successful cousin. I've also not even thought about what to get them as a wedding present. I'm thinking just a few bottles of fine wine. Not that they'd appreciate it, being a pair of Jacobs-Creek-swilling philistines.


And then there's Screw Lucy. She can't fucking wait. She informed me yesterday that she's already bought her outfit. I tried to generate some enthusiasm.


Me: Oh. Really. (pause)


Inner Voice: She wants you to ask what it's like. Don't ask. Please.


Me: What's it like?


Inner Voice: Probably some fucking insane charity shop ensemble.


Lucy: It's great. I got the dress for a fiver in a Cancer Research in Wimbledon and the hat's from an Age Concern in Dalston.


Inner Voice: Told you.


As a little extra bit of hassle, the wedding is being held in the arse-end of nowhere. So Lucy and I are going to have to get a train down on Saturday morning, go to the wedding and then stay over in some shitty B&B. I booked it this morning. The deaf old bat on the end of the phone line seemed on the verge of expiring then and there. I have images of staying in the West Country equivalent of Bates' Motel. With Lucy, my very own Psycho. Thank God we've got separate rooms.


Christ, why am I putting myself through this? Why couldn't my bout of flu have been postponed for a week?


Anyway, wedding-related angst aside, it's been a diverting couple of days. Ian and Adrienne came in for another "Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf" moment last night, the highlight of which was Adrienne shrieking "Futons are not fascist!". I'll leave you to marvel over how a row about which wine to buy can escalate into a screaming argument about the political connotations of Japanese furniture. It certainly kept Keith and I entertained.


Then this morning we had The Harridan in the shop and on the warpath. Let me tell you about Marxist Jim's ex-wife. If you were to genetically engineer a hybrid of Margaret Thatcher and Jordan, then remove all trace of human kindness, you would have something approximating The Harridan. She sashayed pneumatically into the Bottle Shop just after opening, wearing an outfit that would make a hardened crack-whore blush. Keith paled and made for the stockroom, but I blocked his way.


Me: Go and see what she wants.


Keith: But... but... it's The Harridan.


Me: I know. That's why I'm making you deal with it. Think of it as an opportunity to improve your customer relations skills.


(I pushed him over towards The Harridan).


Keith: Um. Ah. Hello. C-c-c-can I help you?


The Harridan: Where's Jim?


Keith: Ah. Um. Er. Ha. He's... er... away.


(The employees of the shop are under strict instructions to never, under any circumstances, let The Harridan know Jim's whereabouts).


The Harridan: Don't bullshit me. I know he's here. Go and tell that bastard sonofabitch to get out here now.


Keith: He's not here. Really.


He wasn't, as it happens. He was off shouting at one of our suppliers. But The Harridan wasn't buying it. So I watched in quiet amusement while she roasted Keith. He was a gibbering wreck by the time she finally stormed out, expletives hanging in the air behind her. Okay, maybe I'm a bad boss. But I like to think that exposing him to that sort of abuse is actually making Keith a stronger person. He'll thank me in the end.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Senorio de Los Llanos Gran Reserva 1997 (Spain). A oak-aged, mature and complex red. Which The Harridan picked up to threaten Keith with. The woman has taste. £4.99
4.11.03 17:25


Suited and booted

Everybody remembers Jasper, right? My high-flying, coke-snorting, key-throwing cousin. I haven't spoken to him since he fast-bowled my keys into Old Man Thames, but needs must when the devil dances and so yesterday I found myself round his place trying on his designer suits.


Jasper lives in the sort of bachelor fuckpad that has girls' knickers falling off the minute they see his acres of wood flooring and panoramic view of the river. It's the kind of place that has a concierge, here a florid-faced man with an overstated moustache who looked at me very suspiciously when I rang the buzzer. It must have been my appearance. I pride myself on the fact that I take "scruffy" to new levels of meaning.


Concierge: Yes? Can I help you? (i.e. "Can I help you to get the hell out of my nice foyer?")


Me: I'm just going up to Number 16.


Concierge: Are you? (i.e. "No you're not."). Do you know the gentleman who lives there?


Me: Yes. He's my cousin.


Concierge: Reeeeeally? (i.e. "As if that could be the case, you scruffy oik"). You're Mr Bland's cousin?


He said "Mr Bland" in the same way that someone might say "David Beckham" or "The Lord Jesus Christ". This riled me somewhat.


Me: Yes. I'm Mr Bland's cousin. Do you want to do a blood test to make sure?


The concierge's face went even more florid than before. He let me go upstairs eventually, but with the warning that he'd "got his eye on me". Ooh. I'd better not step out of line, then. Or he might come down on me like a ton of bricks. Or any other threat that thwarted jobsworths use when they are painfully aware of their own impotence.


Jasper answered the door to his flat wearing a fluffy white robe. He looked disgustingly tanned and healthy. I suddenly realised why the concierge had such trouble believing that we were related.


Into the flat, a Japanese fighting gin pressed into my hand, "how's it going?", then Jasper starts talking about himself. Which he is very good at, to give the boy his dues. I smile and nod at his tales of corporate glory, drug-fuelled excess and rampant philandering. I can't add much to the conversation ("What about you, Late?" "Well, Jasper, yesterday we used old wine crates to play giant Jenga. And the day before, we had a race to see who could finish their chips first." "Reeeeally? Anyway. Me me me me me me...").


Eventually I got round to asking if I could borrow a suit. Jasper ushered me into his bedroom and threw open an enormous closet full of Prada, Armani, Gucci. "Help yourself". As I tried stuff on, Jasper continued yabbering on in the next room.


Me: Jas, is it okay if I try on the grey Armani one?


Jasper: Sure, knock yourself out. Anyway, blah blah blah, coke, blah blah, new car, yaddah yaddah yaddah, house prices, yak yak, coke, blah, blah, totally shitfaced, blah blah, Nell, yaddah yaddah, engaged, blah blah yak...


I skidded out of the bedroom, suit jacket half on.


Me: What was that you said?


Jasper: It's got alloy wheels.


Me: Not the fucking car. You said something about Nell.


Nell is my ex-fiancée. The woman who, while not actually the one who pushed me over the edge, was definitely on the cliff-top waving as I fell. Jasper had the decency to look embarrassed.


Jasper: Oh. I thought you'd heard. Nell's got engaged.


I hadn't heard. I felt like a pit was yawning at my feet. I wanted to say something cutting, acerbic and witty that would establish just how over her I was. But all I managed was an unconvincing "Oh? Really? That's nice for her". I went back into the bedroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Wearing Jasper's sharp suit. Looking like the Late from Before. Who the fuck was I trying to fool? The door on that life is closed and it won't open again. And I don't want it to open again. I came to a decision. I decided not to borrow any of Jasper's Prada, Armani or Gucci. I'm going to this goddamn wedding in my own goddamn scruffy suit. Though I may get it dry-cleaned first.


I left Jasper's flat with something approaching a spring in my step. I even gave the concierge a little wave as I walked past. After I'd smashed the fire alarm, obviously.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Notarpanaro Riserva 1997 (Italy). Intense, rich spicy almond flavours. £4.99 (special offer, because I'm feeling reckless).
6.11.03 16:17


Farewell Land of Nod

Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring.


Me: Mwuh?


Inner Voice: Don't answer it. There's only one person who could possibly be phoning you at this hour.


Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring.


Me: Bollocks.


(lifts handset)


Me: What?!


Mother: Don't say "What", say "Hello, ***** speaking". "What" makes you sound common.


Inner Voice: I told you we should have bought an answering machine.


Why is it that my mother thinks 8:30 a.m. is an acceptable time to phone me? Does she think that I spend my nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, desperate for news of the Clancys new kitchen? That I wake in a cold sweat in the wee hours because I don't know about the primary school jumble sale? She brushed aside my pleas of "Let me get back to sleep". It was evidently imperative that I hear more news from the parish.


Like I said, the Clancys are having a new kitchen put in. Apparently it's going to be all in chrome and light wood. "Where do they think they are?" opined my mother, "London?". In her eyes, London is the epitome of everything decadent and unholy. Once she'd finished bitching about her neighbours, she started on about the local am-dram group. She told me that she'd joined the Village Players to "get some time away from your father" and had expected to get a good part in their forthcoming production of 'Run For Your Wife!'. But she's dropped out of the show because, she ranted, "they gave the lead to Susan Wheeler, who only got the part because they felt sorry for her, what with her gammy leg and her husband running off with the shopgirl from Country Stores."


I have to say that around this point I actually fell asleep again. So I missed most of her bulletin from the Village of the Damned. I woke up again to hear my mother saying "...but nobody's sure what happened to the cow." I have no idea what she was referring to. I shudder to think.
7.11.03 15:30


Jughead

It's the Big Day tomorrow. Or rather, it's Wall Street Phil and Mee-chelle's Big Day tomorrow. But I'm so wound up that it might as well be mine. I went to collect my suit from the dry cleaners this morning. When I'd handed it in, the guy behind the desk had looked at it as if I'd just handed him a dead stoat that I'd scraped off the road. "I don't think, " he winced, "that we'll be able to do much with this." I told him to try his best. They've managed to get rid of most of the stains, apart from a particularly suspect one on the collar. I'll just pin something over it. Maybe the Cyberman badge that Keith got me from the Doctor Who exhibition.


I walked past Curl Up 'N' Dry on my way back to the shop. Stan waved at me to come in. With a sinking heart, I entered the salon. He was all forced jollity.


Stan: Late! Helllooo! What's the suit for? Off somewhere special?


Me: I'm going to Wall Str - er - Phil's wedding tomorrow.


Stan: Are you now? Well you'll need a trim then, need a trim, getting a bit shaggy on top! Ha ha ha ha ha!


He laughed like this was the funniest thing in the world. The man is cracking up. I reluctantly let him guide me to a chair and put a gown round my neck. The wild look in his eyes told me that if I didn't let him cut my hair then he might stab me in the neck with his scissors. Or try and drown me in one of the basins.


Snip snip snip snip.


Stan: That Eye-tie friend of yours is having it off with Carol, you know.


Me: Errr...


Stan: If I catch them at it...


Snip snip SNIP!


Stan: ...well, I won't be held responsible for my actions.


Me: Mmmph.


I look like a fucking shorn sheep. How nice of Stan to take his marital problems out on my hair. So tomorrow not only am I going to a wedding with Miss Charity Shop Reject, Screw Lucy. Not only am I going in a suit that looks like it's been used as a shelter for winos. No, now I get to show up looking like a mental patient. Excellent.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Crozes-Hermitage 2001 (France). Seductive, plummy and smoky. Like Kate Beckinsale in wine form. £4.99
7.11.03 16:30


Jughead (Part Two)

Oh, how I would like to kill Hayley. Slowly. Maybe I could peg her down in a piece of wasteland where she could be licked to death by feral cats.


She came into the shop, took one look at my haircut and started laughing her arse off. Then pointed at Keith.


Hayley: You look just like him.


Great. Peachy. I now resemble a socially-inept geek. Fabulous. Thanks a lot, Stan. Next time I need a trim, I'm going to fucking Tony & Guy.
7.11.03 17:42


Wedding (1)

Well, I made it through the Big Day without cracking up. I'm impressed with myself. I fully expected to wind up in the corner of the church, curled round the font in the foetal position and weeping gently to myself. It was a close shave though. I'll fill you in with all the details, but I'll have to do it in sections. Otherwise I'll never get any work done.


Part the First: Getting there


Saturday morning dawned. I was due to meet Lucy at Paddington at quarter to nine to catch the train down to Bristol. But my name isn't Late for nothing, you know. Despite having bought a new alarm clock specially for the occasion (bringing my total up to four), I managed to slumber on through a cacophony of ringing, buzzing and beeping. The phone eventually permeated my consciousness.


Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring.


Me: Mwuh?


(picks up phone)


Me: Hello?


Lucy: Morning slugger. You might want to take a look at your watch.


She hung up. I blearily looked at the nearest alarm clock. And did a very good impression of Hugh Grant in 'Four Weddings...' Threw on my clothes - t-shirt with 'MORTAL' blazoned across the chest (relic from a friend's short-lived rock band); suit with suspect stain on lapel; Cyberman badge over stain; "good" shoes. Noticed that one of my "good" shoes had a sole flapping off. Tried to find some superglue. Gave up search and tried to fix the shoe with sellotape. Threw shoe across the flat. Put on Adidas trainers. Tried to do something with my hair - put some wax through it, which resulted in me looking like a surprised hedgehog. Threw wax across the flat. Stuffed things into an overnight bag. Ran down into the shop and snatched a few good bottles of wine off the shelves as a wedding present. Sprinted to the tube.


I raced up the escalator at Paddington station and skidded up to Lucy, over an hour late. She was just standing, looking upwards, wearing a slight smile.


Me: I (gasp, pant) am so, (wheeze) so sorry.


Lucy: Oh, it's fine. I love this place. Echoes and smoke. It's like a cathedral. Shall we get on the train? There's one in five minutes.


She really wasn't bothered that she'd been waiting for an hour. She even seemed pleased. The girl never ceases to amaze me. So we got on the train. I fell asleep almost immediately. But not before I witnessed Lucy's "New Book Ritual". She got a book out of a WHSmith bag. Caressed the front cover. Turned it over, stroked the back. Ran her finger down the spine. Then opened the book in the middle, stuck her face in the pages and took a deep sniff. She caught me staring at her. "It's my ritual with new books. I can't read them unless I've inhaled their essence." O-kay. Maybe it's time for Mr Bland to return to the Land of Nod. Too many weirdos round here.


I was jolted awake at Bristol Temple Meads. We changed onto the ancient train that was going to whisk us (ha!) to Hicksville, Somerset where Wall-Street Phil and Mee-chelle were tying the knot. The train squeaked, rattled and smelt like the inside of a tramp's trousers. Lucy went into the toilet (which I assume was the source of the aroma of hobo's kecks) to get changed into her wedding outfit. And emerged looking... well, stunning. She had a little dress on, sky blue, that made her eyes look amazing. Not to mention the rest of her. Knee high boots. And a little hat with a veil (naturally), but which actually looked good rather than bizarre. I freely admit it - I gibbered.


Me: Wow. You look... wow. I mean... wow.


Lucy: Thanks. You look like a media whore. In a good way.


Inner Voice: Great. We look like a low-rent Jasper. And stop staring at her tits.


Me: I can't help it. They're just so... prominent.


So the rest of the journey (and, to be honest, the rest of the day) was spent trying not to look at Lucy's baps. Or rather, trying to catch a sneaky peek without her realising... Anyway. That was the journey. I'll tell you about the wedding later. I've got paperwork to do.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Santa Rita Reserva Merlot 2002 (Chile). Inky richness and ripe... like breasts bursting out of a sky blue bustier... Stop it stop it stop it! Margaret Thatcher, Mary Whitehouse, Anne Widdecombe. £4.99
10.11.03 13:38


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