Green-eyed monster

I have been trying to come up with an excuse as to why I haven't written anything here since mid-April. Paralysis of the hands? Short-term amnesia? Demonic possession?


Nah. I'm just lazy. Deal with it.


You haven't been missing much, to tell you the truth. There has been something of a lull here at the Bottle Shop. People come in, people buy wine, people leave (sometimes rapidly, if Lucy's in one of her weird moods). New-boy Vinnie has turned out to be a valuable member of staff who even occasionally displays flashes of pro-activity. Which would be great, if I wasn't so simmeringly jealous of the guy. This antipathy towards my diminutive Canadian colleague did not go unnoticed - one of Lucy's more annoying traits is her perceptiveness. She chose to bring the subject up while were stretched out on the sofa watching Jimmy Cagney go up in smoke.


Me: Top of the world, ma!


Lucy: Are you jealous of Vinnie?


Me: What...? I... no... well...


Inner Voice: There's no use lying. She can read you like a book. And not a very difficult book either. She can read you like the large-print version of 'The Big Hungry Caterpillar'.


Me: Well, yes. I suppose I am jealous.


Lucy: Why, for God's sake?


Me: Hmmm, let me think. Could it be because he used to be your boyfriend?


Lucy: He wasn't my boyfriend. We just shagged for a bit.


Me: Oh, well. Phew. That makes it all better.


Lucy: Good.


Me: I was being facetious.


Lucy: I know. I was ignoring you.


We watched the credits roll in silence for a bit.


Me: It's not just that, though.


Lucy: No? What is it then?


Me: He's just so...


Lucy: Good-looking?


Me: Yeah.


Lucy: Charming?


Me: ...Yeah.


Lucy: Interesting? Witty? Fun to be around?


Me: Christ, Luce. You wonder why I'm getting paranoid.


Lucy: The thing is, Late (she leans in, whispers in my ear) he has a very small cock.


Me: He does?


There is a pause. A small pause. A significantly-less-than-six inches pause.


Me: How small?


Lucy: Tiny.


She makes a little wiggling motion with her pinkie.


Lucy: And he drools when he climaxes.


Me: Drools?


Lucy: Constantly. It was like fucking a lobotomy patient.


I felt much more well-disposed towards Vinnie (or Drooler, as I now like to call him) after that particular conversation, let me tell you.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: La Croisade Syrah Rose 2003 (France). Crisp and fresh and full of light summer fruits. Ideal for quaffing in the sunshine while you contemplate the size of your manhood. £4.49
19.5.04 13:29


Thinner than water

I had a night out with my cousin Jasper yesterday. It was... interesting. In the same way as being gored by a bull or being pistol-whipped by an American G.I. is "interesting".


But first, a little background history on Jasper and me. Grandpa Bland was a military man who fought in Burma. He was wounded (after being run through with a bayonet that, miraculously, missed all of his vital organs), was sent home and promptly fathered two sons on my long-suffering grandmother (a small, perpetually terrified woman who always seemed to be knitting). First came my father, who as the eldest was saddled with the name-that-must-not-be-revealed, then a year later came my uncle Quentin. The Bland boys in their turn did what was right and proper and they each fathered a son. Jasper and I were born on virtually the same day, two years apart - which means that our respective parents were having sex at round about the same time. (I try not to think too much about that. The image of Quentin rutting with my aunt Laura is not one I want in my head - think of a shaved gorilla making sweet jiggy with Skeletor and you're not far off. And as for the notion that my parents ever had intercourse... inconceivable. Their idea of physical intimacy is sitting on the same sofa).


Anyway. Jasper and I grew up in each other's pockets. We went to the same prep school, the same boarding school. We were even known as "the twins" for a while, until puberty hit and turned Jasper into a teenage love-god and me into a lanky stretch of awkwardness with bad skin and a predilection for quoting Pink Floyd lyrics to disinterested girls. Still, Jasper and I were close friends for a long time. We eventually went into the same line of work, went to the same parties, took the same drugs. We'd have competitions to see who could spunk the most money in one night. Late and Jasper. Jasper and Late. The twin terrors of Soho.


This was all Before, of course. After Nell had used my heart as target practice and my career had imploded so spectacularly and my brain had turned to mush and I couldn't leave the house for fear of throwing myself under the number 52 bus, Jasper suddenly wasn't so keen to hang out. Having a mental patient for a cousin obviously didn't fit into his lifestyle. We stayed friends, of sorts. But nothing like it had been.


So. Yesterday evening I got a call from Jasper - he's in Soho, wants to know if I can meet up for a drink. He "needs to talk". Now, the thing about Jasper is, he always needs to talk. Mostly about himself. But he also tends to buy all the drinks. So I thought nothing of it, and pottered along to the bar. Jasper was his usual immaculate self, but was clearly a few Old Fashioneds down the line. More drinks were bought, pleasantries exchanged - I asked about his folks (on holiday yet again - their third this year); he asked about mine (still keeping up their feud with the Clancys). Then Jasper settled into uncharacteristic silence.


Inner Voice: Hang on. He wanted to talk. So why isn't he telling me about his holiday in St. Lucia? Or about his latest pay rise? Something is very wrong here.


Me: Is there something the matter, mate?


Jasper twisted his face into a crooked half-smile. I recognised the look. It was the expression he would use when we were kids and he'd just been caught helping himself to the whisky from his dad's drinks cabinet. Or when he kicked my football through the window of my father's study. It is a sheepish look, a look that says, "please don't hate me, it wasn't my fault, I couldn't help myself". I suddenly felt a strange twist of dread in my guts.


Jasper: I, uh, have something I need to tell you.


Inner Voice: Such a portentous note in his voice!  There's definitely something wrong. Oh shit. Maybe he's got cancer. Maybe he's dying. Maybe this time next month I'm going to be in a hospital instead of a bar, watching him waste away between crisp white sheets.


Me: You're... you're not sick, are you?


Jasper: What? God. No. Never been better, in fact.


Me: Great. Phew. The way you said "there's something I need to tell you" made me think...


Jasper: I'm going out with Nell.


A big pause. I stared at him, mouth open like an idiot.


Me: My Nell?


Jasper: Well, she's sort of my Nell now really.


My insides seemed to have liquefied. The music in the bar pressed down on my ears, the blood thrummed inside my head. My tongue had dried into a strip of leather. "How long?" I managed to croak. That crooked half-smile again.


Jasper: Since New Year.


I could only nod. I felt like I'd been stabbed. The power of speech had deserted me. Jasper took this as encouragement.


Jasper: The thing is, Late, you know me - I don't do relationships. But Nell's really special, you know - well, of course you'd know that - and I really think that this might be it for me, you know, the Big One. So I sort of came to a decision and, well, sort of asked her to marry me. And she said yes. I wanted you to be the first to know, Late. I know it's a bit of a weird situation...


I was still staring at him. He shifted uncomfortably.


Jasper: Look, I hope you're okay about all this. I mean, you've got Lucy now, haven't you?


It's true. I do have Lucy now. And I'm very happy, happier than I ever was or possibly could have been with Nell. Whatever happened between Nell and I is in the past, it's dead, and if she wants to marry my cousin then that is fine by me.


Is what I should have said.


But I didn't.


 


Reader, I punched him.


 


He hit the ground like, well, like a guy who's just been punched in the face by his incandescently furious cousin. I didn't wait for him to get up. I walked out, went into another bar and got recklessly drunk.


And that's as much as I'm going to say on the matter.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Anything I can get my hands on. Cooking sherry. Lighter fluid. Meths. Jacobs Creek. I've got some brain cells that need killing.
21.5.04 16:44


Rumbled

Me: Why did we get a Hawaiian pizza if you don't like pineapple?


Lucy: The pineapple is incidental. I like the fact that it's Hawaiian. It makes me feel exotic.


Me: It's not actually from Hawaii, you know. Topps Pizza haven't had it flown over specially. It's not been made by some bloke in a grass skirt. It's a Hawaiian pizza because they've chucked a couple of pineapple chunks on it. And you pick the pineapple off. So really it's just a ham pizza with pretensions.


Lucy: Even so. It's exotic. Like foreign novels and the smell of Piz Buin.


Me: That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard anyone say ever.


Lucy: I somehow doubt the veracity of that statement.


It's Sunday evening chez Late. I'm at full stretch on the sofa, with the torn-off lid of a pizza box still balanced on my stomach. Lucy is on the floor, legs tucked under her, delicately picking the pineapple off the last slice of Hawaiian. We've rented a movie, 'American Splendor', all about a guy, a bit of a loser, who charts the minutiae of his life in a series of comic books. It's half funny, half kind of moving. Lucy jabs her finger at the screen.


Lucy: That's you.


The guy on the screen is pudgy, balding.


Me: I look nothing like him.


She rolls her eyes, bites into the slice of pizza.


Lucy: No - Harvey Pekar. The guy. That's you.


Me: No he's not. He's nothing like me.


Lucy kneels up. "He is." She counts off on her fingers.


Lucy: He works in a dead-end job but can't be arsed to leave it. So do you. He's an irredeemable pessimist. So are you. He records his frustrations in a funny way. So do you.


A pause.


Me: I record my frustrations?


Lucy: Yeah, in your web journal thingy.


She swigs from the bottle of Coke and turns back to the TV. I stare at the back of her head.


Me: Web journal?


Lucy: Yeah, web journal, weblog, whatever you want to call it.


Me: (a squeak) You knew about that?


Lucy: 'Course. You didn't think it was a secret, did you?


Me: Well, yeah...


Lucy: Silly.


I try to remember all the things I've written about Lucy. I suddenly feel a trifle sick.


Me: Look, a lot of it's exaggerated, you know. For dramatic effect.


Lucy: Oh sure. I mean, Marxist Jim isn't nearly as scary as you make out.


Me: He isn't? I thought that was rather an accurate portrayal, actually...


Lucy: ...And you never really captured the full extent of Keith's geekiness either, I thought.


Two bites and the pizza is gone.


Lucy: You want my pineapple?


I'm really not hungry anymore. What I am is terrified.


Me: Look, um, Luce... I... er... I hope you're not too mad about any of the stuff  I wrote about you....


Lucy: Oh God, no. I reckon I came out of it rather well. And all your readers seem to like me. You sure you don't want this pineapple.


I nod dumbly. She gathers up the pizza box and the empty bottle of Coke and heads for the kitchen. She calls over her shoulder:


Lucy: Don't worry - I won't read it anymore if it freaks you out.


Me: Thanks. That might be best.


Lucy: Oh, and Late? "Screw Lucy"? Nice touch.


Busted. I think I'm going to tread a little more carefully from here on in. Just in case my beloved happens to "happen across" my blog again...


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Chiaretto 2002 (Italy). Crisp and fresh with a smattering of red cherry flavours. And it's the same colour as I blushed when I realised I'd been found out. £5.49
24.5.04 12:18


Breaking the monotony

Wine retail isn't the most thrilling of careers. I am the first to acknowledge this. There are days when the most exciting thing to happen is someone nearly dropping a bottle. So you have to find a way of dealing with the mind-bending tedium of the job. Otherwise you'll wig out and end up like Seedy Carl, shuffling around in piss-stained slacks and a Burger King crown, shouting at the bottle bank behind the Co-op (I have a theory that Seedy Carl used to run an off-licence until the fine wine bubble burst back in the early '90s, at which point he retreated into a paranoid wine-centric world of his own creation. Either that or he's just a nutter).


Vinnie hasn't been working in the wine trade long enough to get used to the boredom. He came to the job expecting excitement, drama, mystery and as much free booze as he could drink. What he got was his own broom. I think we can safely say that he is a little underwhelmed by his new career. Take yesterday, for example. It was just me and him in the shop (Lucy having disappeared off to God-knows-where on one of her A-to-Z-inspired magical mystery tours). We'd hit the 11 o'clock lull, when everything that needed doing had been done and the wet dishcloth of ennui had descended once more. Vinnie was perched up on the counter, swinging his legs (he had to take a little running jump to get up there. The shortarse). I was trying to make sense of a book about superstring theory that Lucy had insisted I read. My diminutive Canadian colleague let out the latest in a series of big sighs.


Me: Can you stop sighing please? I'm worried we might asphyxiate from all the extra carbon dioxide.


Silence reigned for, ooh, at least twelve seconds.


Vinnie: What are you reading?


Me: A book.


Vinnie: A book about?


Me: Superstrings.


Vinnie: What are they then, eh?


Me: Well, they're sort of... strings. And they're... um... super... y'know, really really great... Um.


Vinnie: So you don't know, eh?


Me: No.


A customer came in, bought an Oxford Landing Chardonnay, and went out again.


Vinnie: Jeeeezus, I'm bored.


Another big sigh.


And so on, for the rest of the day. I suggested he try building a den out of the used wine boxes (something that always used to cheer Keith up), but even that didn't light his fire. He slouched off after closing with an air of dejection. "He's going to quit," I thought to myself, "he can't take the tedium." Then Lucy skipped in holding a tailor's dummy under one arm and a candy-striped hula-hoop under the other and thoughts of Benjamin Vincent, Man-in-Miniature were banished by thoughts of the "What the fuck?" variety.


I remembered my concerns this morning as I was blearily opening up the shop. But Vinnie bounded in, full of beans, which took me aback somewhat. It's unnatural to have that much energy before midday. "I've had a great idea to liven things up a bit," he declared, "We should do a Dilemma of the Day!" And he pulled a little sign out of his bag:


ASK ABOUT OURfficeffice" />


DILEMMA OF THE DAY


YOU MUST CHOOSE!


I raised a dubious eyebrow.


Vinnie: We don't give the customers their change until they've answered the daily dilemma. It'll be hilarious, eh?


Me: Is "hilarious" another way of saying "really bloody irritating" in Canada?


Vinnie: Aw, go on, man. It'll be a blast.


What can I say? The little guy gave me puppy dog eyes until my resolve cracked.


Me: Oh, all right then. But if Marxist Jim comes in then it's nothing to do with me, okay?


Vinnie let out a whoop and went to blu-tack the sign to the front of the cash register. He then stood behind it with an expectant look slathered all over his pierced and bestubbled face. A customer came in, one of our regulars who we call Baseball Jesus on account of the fact that he always wears a baseball cap and looks a bit like the Messiah would have done if He had been a New York Yankees fan. Baseball Jesus bought a couple of six-packs of Stella and took them to the till. Vinnie rang up the sale, then said "Would you like to hear the Dilemma of the Day?"


Baseball Jesus: You what?


Vinnie pointed to the sign.


Baseball Jesus: Nah, mate, you're all right.


Vinnie: I can't give you your change until you've answered today's dilemma. Company policy.


Baseball Jesus: Go on then.


Vinnie: Right - would you rather chew your own hand off or have your tongue cut out?


Baseball Jesus: You what?


Vinnie: Choose, or no change, buster.


Baseball Jesus: I...


Vinnie: Choose!


Baseball Jesus: Well...


Vinnie: CHOOSE!


Baseball Jesus: Have my tongue cut out!


Vinnie: (handing over the change) Thank you. Have a nice day.


Baseball Jesus left the shop, shaking his head and probably vowing to take his custom to a less off-kilter off-licence. Vinnie rubbed his hands together.


Vinnie: Maaan, that was fun.


Me: So, let me get this straight. "Dilemma of the Day" is actually just an excuse for you to torment the customers?


Vinnie: Got it in one, my friend.


Me: Nice idea.


It certainly did liven up the day. Lucy joined in when her shift started in the afternoon, at which point the clientele were faced with such classic dilemmas as "Would you rather be buggered by your grandfather or roast a live baby?" and "Would you rather be perpetually constipated or have diahorrea every ten minutes for the rest of your life?" And who could be bored when puzzling over that quandary, eh?


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Marques de Ballestar Reserva 1998 (Spain). Buttery vanilla and soft fruit notes make for a very easy-drinking wine. But would you rather have it smashed over your head or shoved up your arse? CHOOSE! £5.49
27.5.04 17:32