Nature or nurture?

Somehow I found myself back in the Village of the Damned this Bank Holiday. Partly because Lucy seems to like it there (yet more evidence, if evidence be needed, that she is mad as cake), but mainly because my father has a nice line in emotional blackmail ("Your mother is really missing you. She thinks you're avoiding coming home." Got it in one, Dad).


By the time we arrived in the Village of the Damned the sun was cracking the flags. We bowled up to the house in Lucy's little Fiat to be greeted by the alarming spectacle of my mother watering the hanging baskets, wearing a bikini. Which is not a good look for a lady of her size.


Me: Oh good Lord.


Lucy: Oh my. She probably should have depilated before wearing that.


Me: Great. Now I'm going to have to go back into therapy.


My mother saw us and gave a cheerful little wave, which made the skin under her arms wobble. Lucy parked in the turning circle. I swivelled in my seat and whispered to her.


Me: Now don't forget the plan. We stick around until after lunch, then you get a migraine and we get the hell out of Dodge. Okay?


Lucy: Sure thing, boss.


We got out and greeted my mother, who gave us both a large hug. Unfortunately, she was slathered with factor 50 Ambre Soleil which, as well as making her look like a 17th century courtesan, left big greasy smears all over my t-shirt. She bustled us into the house, filling the air with chatter - how-was-your-journey, isn't-this-weather-amazing, cup-of-tea-anyone, lunch-won't-be-long, I-hope-you're-both-hungry-I've-made-far-too-much-as-usual, your-father-won't-be-a-sec-he's-just-greasing-the-bird-table.


Ah, yes. My father and his bird table. Since his retirement, my father has become something of a bird enthusiast. My parents' garden has no fewer than five bird-boxes, four bird feeders and one bird table. The latter is a large, wrought-iron structure and is my father's pride and joy - he loves to watch the robins and thrushes and tits (heh heh) feeding on the smorgasbord of dried fruit and bacon rind that he leaves out for them. But this avian Garden of Eden has its snake, its very own Lucifer. And yea, in the Garden of Bland the Devil doth come in the guise of the grey squirrel. And these squirrels do shimmy up the metal stand of the bird table and do feast upon the food left for the birds. And there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth.


My father has been waging a war of attrition against the squirrels, or the "evil little rats" as he prefers to call them. At first he shot them with his air rifle, but then he "accidentally" shot the Neale's cat (a horrible, squash-faced creature called Noel that my father has been trying to run over for years - my childhood resounded to the sound of wheels spinning on gravel and feline yowls of protest) and he was banned from using it by the local council. Now he fires small pebbles at the squirrels using a catapult he picked up on holiday in the Lake District. He hasn't hit any yet, but "I will, my lad, I will" he says, with a maniacal gleam in his eye.


But this whole greasing the bird table ploy was a new one on me. So Lucy and I traipsed into the garden to see what in the name of God my father was up to. Sure enough, he was on his knees in one of the flower beds, smearing the stand of the bird table with KY-Jelly from a big pot.


Me: Uhhhh.... Dad?


Father: Ah, there you are! We were expecting you an hour ago. Is it too much to expect you to be on time?


I ignored this. They call me 'Late' for a reason, you know.


Me: I know there's a simple explanation for this. And I'm probably going to regret even asking. But why are you smearing your bird table with lube? ("I'll bet you never thought you'd have cause to say that," Lucy whispered in my ear).


His face lit up.


Father: A-ha! Just wait and see. Come on, come into the conservatory.


We followed him inside, and stood regarding the bird table for a while.


Me: Um, Dad, what are we supposed to be...?


Father: Shhh! Wait... wait... ah! There's one of the little buggers now!


A squirrel scampered across my parents' immaculately trimmed lawn. It paused before the bird table and looked around to check there were no maniacs with catapults trying to send it to squirrel heaven. Satisfied that the coast was clear, it started to shimmy up stand of the bird table - then slid back to the ground. It tried again, with the same result. After a third try saw it slide down again the squirrel ran away with a distinct air of bewilderment. My father punched the air.


Father: That's right! Run away, you evil little rat! Ha ha!


He turned to me, looking smug.


Father: So what do you think? Not bad, eh?


Me: Mmmm. Very good.


Father: I tried using Vaseline at first, but it wasn't tremendously effective. This KY-Jelly stuff your mother gave me is far better. The buggers can't get any sort of grip with this spread everywhere. Ha ha!


Me: Yeah, that's... um... great, Dad.


Inner Voice: The old man's finally lost it. Next stop, Alzheimer's.


Fortunately, my mother called us all in for lunch before my father could start ranting about how squirrels were vermin and how he was doing a public service by wiping the little buggers out. And after lunch Lucy "suddenly" developed a migraine so we had to go home. Via the pub, naturally. We were into our second pint, sitting in companionable silence, when she put her hand on mine.


Lucy: Do you know something? I think you might be adopted.


Which is possibly the nicest thing that anyone who has met my parents has ever said to me.
1.6.04 17:29


Champagne Bubbles

It has been another tumbleweed day here in the Bottle Shop (apart from one notable incident, of which more later). We all made a valiant effort to keep ourselves occupied. I alphabetized the wines in the fridge. Lucy insisted on writing some 'talkers' (wine description cards) - here are a few samples of her unique style:


"This wine will turn your teeth black and make you feel like picking a fight with an Irishman."


"Drink this if you're the sort of person who's into rough sex and auto-asphyxiation."


"This wine is dry. Very dry. Drier than George Bernard Shaw buried up to his neck in sand."


"The best thing to come out of South Africa since Zola Budd and necklacing."


Thank God nobody ever reads those things.


Just after lunch we decided to teach Vinnie how to play cricket. Lucy painted a ball of tape red, and even painted on little white stitches for authenticity. We had a slat from a wine crate as a cricket bat, and another wine crate stood on its side as a rudimentary wicket. It was a rather short-lived and frustrating game, because Vinnie kept confusing it with baseball. I was trying to explain the subtleties of the LBW rule to my almost willfully ignorant Canadian workmate, when the phone rang.


Ring ring. Ring ring.


Me: Jeezus. It's simple. You're just not trying, are you?


Vinnie: Aww. It's a dumb game anyhow. Trust the Brits to invent a game that goes on for five days without much happening.


Ring ring. Ring ring.


Me: Dumb? Dumb?!


Vinnie: Ain't you gonna get that?


I stormed over to the phone and snapped "Hello, Bottle Shop" into the receiver. The caller was a breathy-sounding woman who wanted to order two boxes of champagne, to be delivered "just round the corner, dearie - just ask for Bubbles". No joke, the woman was called 'Bubbles'. "This should be interesting," thought I, "I think I'll deliver this order personally." So I toddled off to the address she'd given, pushing a trolley full of clinking bottles of Veuve Clicquot.


And it was. Interesting, that is.


The address turned out to be a basement flat in one of the dodgier parts of what is an already fairly dodgy area. I went up to the door (peeling paint, incongruous lions-paw knocker) and pressed the buzzer. A distorted female voice crackled out of the speaker and asked what I wanted.


Me: Delivering some champagne for... er... Bubbles.


Voice: *crackle* Come in dearie, bottom floor. *crackle*


The door clicked and I pushed it open. Inside was no better than outside. It had a distinctly funky aroma that was an unpleasant blend of cats piss and mildew. It struck me that delivering three hundred-odd quid's worth of champagne to such a place was a little unusual. A bit like delivering prophylactics to a nunnery. I lugged the crates down a narrow flight of stairs. A door opened at their foot and a woman who could only have been Bubbles stepped out. She was a matronly lady, probably late 40s, the sort of woman that probably would have looked at home in Marks and Spencers. Had she not been wearing a basque and a silk dressing gown and very little else. I decided to ignore this little detail. After all, what people wear in their own homes is their business, not mine. I averted my eyes and asked where she wanted the booze.


Bubbles: Just take it through to the kitchen.


I picked up the first crate and carried it along the hallway. I passed a door on my right. It had a hole cut in it around head height.


Inner Voice: Erm, Late...


Me: Yes, I saw.


Inner Voice: Those were bars on that door, weren't they?


Me: Yes, I believe they were.


I dumped the champagne in the kitchen (which reminded me, disconcertingly, of my mother's - I think she has the same units) and went back for the other crate. As I passed the barred room I took a quick peek inside. It was dark, but I could make out the vague shape of what looked like chains fixed to the walls and bits of wood at strange angles.


Inner Voice: Okay. So, that's a dungeon.


Me: Yeah. And that strange odour...


Inner Voice: ...Is the scent of stale sweat and fucking, yes.


Me: I vote we get out of here sharpish.


Inner Voice: I second that motion.


I hurriedly took the other crate of champagne into the kitchen, then gave the bill to Bubbles. She paid me in crisp fifty pound notes (while I studiously examined my shoes, cheeks flaming) and told me to keep the change. The sex industry must be booming. I mumbled a "thank you" and all but sprinted back up the stairs and outside, where I breathed a very large sigh of relief.


A sigh too soon, however. For as I was pushing the empty trolley back down the road in the direction of the Bottle Shop, Bubbles (obviously realising my embarrassment, and eager to embarrass me some more) stuck her head out of her front door and yelled after me.


Bubbles: Hope you're not too shagged out! See you next week, dearie! Same time!


Great. Now everybody in earshot thinks I'm some sort of masochist who likes being chained up and whipped by middle-aged bottle blondes. Which is not the sort of image I want to cultivate. I told Lucy and Vinnie the whole sordid story when I got back to the shop. They laughed. A lot. Then they laughed some more. Apparently it serves me right. Well, those two can do the deliveries from now on if they find it so gosh-darn amusing.


Ah well, at least it stopped me from taking a makeshift cricket bat to Vinnie's cranium...


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Pirramimma Stocks Shiraz 2001 (Australia). Cracked pepper fruit dominates the palate, balanced by a firm tannin finish. The wine equivalent of being chained to a wall and flogged by a dominatrix made entirely of blackberries. £6.99
3.6.04 17:27


The sun has got his hat on

Nothing on this weblog for over a week. That's not to say that nothing has happened in the last 7 days - far from it. But it has been way too hot for me to even think about summoning up the energy to put digit to keyboard and update you on the comings and goings here in the Bottle Shop. And when I say hot, I mean hot. Not your namby-pamby "Oooh, it's a bit warm in here, maybe I'll take my shoes and socks off" kind of hot. I'm talking the Bedouin-tribesman-doing-starjumps-in-a-sauna kind of hot. Marxist Jim is far too mean to buy fans, let alone install air-conditioning - his response to our request for some sort of cooling device went something along the lines of "I'm not f***ing shelling out for any f***ing fans when it's going to be f***ing pissing down with rain in a week." So on a sunny day the shop is like the surface of Venus, only with an oxygen atmosphere and more alcohol. By Tuesday it had become truly unbearable, so I emptied out one of the big fridges and we took turns sitting in it to cool down. By virtue of his short stature, Vinnie was able to sit inside with the door closed. As you might expect, this looked a trifle bizarre. A customer would come in, and go straight to the fridge for the cold drinks. And be brought up short by the sight of a small tattooed Canadian wedged inside, shivering happily.


Bemused Customer: Errr.... you've got someone in your fridge.


Me: I know. He's not for sale.


Vinnie gives a little wave to the customer.


Bemused Customer: Why's he in there?


Me: He's pretending to be a can of lager.


At which point the customer would either laugh and buy something, or back slowly out of the door. More often the latter, it has to be said.


As well as roasting alive the staff of the Bottle Shop, the sun has had a transforming effect on the arcade. Giannone père has set up a few tables and chairs outside his cafe, possibly trying to evoke the atmosphere of the street cafes in his Sicilian homeland. It is a valiant effort, but one that is sadly thwarted by the concrete-and-chip-wrapper wasteland that is the arcade's environs. Still, if you shut your eyes and block out the sound of swearing, spitting youths and the thumping garage music pumping out of passing car stereos, you could almost be in... well, Bournemouth perhaps. Or maybe Rhyl. The local female Epsilon Semi-Morons seem to like this innovative new notion of al fresco dining, and can be found sitting outside the cafe eating their full-monty fry-ups en plein air, wearing frighteningly skimpy clothing and slowly turning a vibrant shade of salmon pink until the whole arcade reeks of barbequed pork.


Also taking advantage of the sun is Carol from the hairdresser's. Abandoning any pretence of working, she set up a sun lounger in front of one of the windows and has been lying motionless on it, wearing a miniscule leopard print bikini, for the best part of a week, deepening her tan from mahogany to dark walnut while Stan looks on mournfully. The Steves (shirtless and sunburnt to a man) tried to rouse her by throwing condoms full of water at her prone form, giving rise to the unforgettable spectacle of four skinny teenagers being chased by a furious, dripping wet, virtually naked nut-brown hag screaming invective. I really should invest in a camcorder. That sort of footage would go down a treat on "You've Been Framed".


On a more personal note, Lucy has decided that it's "too hot for underwear".


God, I love the summer.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Chateau de Sours Rosé 2003 (France). Possibly one of the best rosés available. Serve very chilled (you may have to remove the Canadian from your fridge first). £7.99
11.6.04 13:45


Caution - storks overhead

The arcade is suddenly awash with fecundity. On Friday afternoon I was flicking idly through Off Licence News ("the voice of drinks retailing") when Wall-Street Phil and Mee-chelle came in, the latter looking smug and the former smiling somewhat dazedly. I greeted them and reached automatically for the Jacob's Creek.


Mee-chelle: No, it's okay, we're not drinking anymore.


Smugness was emanating from her every pore. If someone had invented a device that converted smugness to electricity, she could have powered a small county (Rutland, for example). I put the Jacob's Creek back on the shelf.


Me: You came in here to tell me that you're not drinking? What am I going to do with all this Jacob's Creek? I only get it in for you, you know.


Mee-chelle: Noooo. (The smug look ratcheted up a couple of notches) We're expecting.


She pulled Phil's hand across and rested it on her tummy.


Me: Expecting what?


Wall-Street Phil: Um... a baby.


Me: Oh, right. Sorry. Of course. Well... er... congratulations, I suppose. Rather you than me, ha ha ha. Um.


Mee-chelle was giving me evils.


Me: Ah. Well. Great. How about some champagne to celebrate?


Mee-chelle: No. We're...


Me: ...Not drinking. Right. Um. How about some... er... Schloer? I'm sure we've got a bottle around here somewhere...


I started rooting about behind the counter. Mee-chelle gave the hapless father of her baby a fearsome dig in the ribs.


Wall-Street Phil: Argh. Er. No, we'd better be going, Late mate. Got to spread the good news, a-ha-ha-ha.


And Mee-chelle dragged him out of the shop. Vinnie had been watching the whole exchange from his favourite slouching place by the bin-ends. He nodded towards the retreating backs of Mr and Mrs Briggs (and their hidden passenger, Briggs Junior).


Vinnie: There goes a guy who is never going to know freedom again. She's got his balls, man.


Me: She's had his balls for a long time. I think she uses them as a paperweight.


Vinnie: They always get your balls in the end. You watch - one day Luce is gonna show you a little plastic stick with a little blue line on and then blammo! That's it. Balls - gone.


I managed to laugh that one off. But, I admit, the idea did unsettle me. But I probably would have been able to forget about it, had it not been for the events of Sunday. It was my day off. I'd planned to do something active in the sunshine, but since it was raining a vertical lake outside I decided that activity could go screw itself and stayed on the sofa watching 'Clash of the Titans'. And very relaxing it was too - until the shouting began.


One of the drawbacks of living above the Bottle Shop is that the sounds of the day's trading float up through the floorboards. Generally, this is limited to the tinkling of the shop bell, which over the years I have learned to filter out - much as people who live by a waterfall eventually no longer hear the roar of the water. Unfortunately, my employer has a particularly loud voice, and when he decides to raise it (as he often does) the floor of my little flat reverberates to the sound of Marxist Jim's profanities.


So yesterday, around the time that Harry Hamlin was fighting the giant scorpions and a gay-looking Tim Pigott-Smith was being stabbed in the back by a plasticine satyr, a roar of "WHAT?!" shook the walls. I immediately turned the sound down on the telly and pressed my ear to the floor to hear what was going on. Marxist Jim was evidently screaming down the phone at somebody.


"WHAT DO YOU MEAN... WON'T F***ING CALM DOWN... F***ING BITCH... YOUR F***ING DAUGHTER TOO..."


Inner Voice: A-ha, he's screaming at the Harridan.


"DOES SHE EVEN F***ING KNOW WHO THE... KILL THE LITTLE... JUST LIKE HER F***ING MOTHER... DON'T YOU HANG UP ON ME... F***ING COW.."


Tinkle-tinkle-slam! Went the door to the shop. I peered out of the window to see Marxist Jim storming down the street, trailing "fucks" and "bitches" in his wake. Lucy pounded up the stairs and ran into the flat. Her eyes were all shiny with excitement.


Me: Bloody hell, what was that all about?


Lucy: Wow, that was mental. I thought Marxist Jim was going to actually physically explode.


Me: What happened?


Lucy: The Harridan called...


Me: Yeah, I got that much.


Lucy: ...And apparently Hayley's got herself up the duff.


Me: Sweet Jesus. Who by?


Lucy: Take a wild guess. Here, I'll give you a clue. (she did a little mime of a smoking, spitting teenage tearaway)


Me: Hayley's pregnant by one of the Steves?! Which one?


Lucy: I don't know. I'm not sure Hayley knows either.


Me: Blimey. First Mee-chelle, now Hayley. This must be part of that baby-boom I've been hearing so much about.


Lucy went back down to the shop; I settled back to watch the rest of the film (and, I admit it, to perve over the actress playing Andromeda). But I was distracted. All these people having babies. Mee-chelle. Hayley. Courtney Cox-Arquette. Even here on 20six, people seem to be churning out sprogs like it's going out of fashion. And the only way that I might join the growing ranks of expectant fathers would be if Lucy decided to leave off taking the pill. Which is unlikely, seeing as her attitude to children is "ignore them; and if you can't ignore them, traumatize them". I had a weird sense that life was somehow passing me by.


This feeling wasn't helped by the fact that I am going to turn 35 next Saturday. But the less said about that, the better.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Beaujolais Lieu-Dit Tirefort 2003 (France). A smooth palate combines a hint of spice with strawberry and cherry fruits. Good to drink as you toast the dying days of your youth. £5.49


 


 
21.6.04 17:31


Aural assault

Two things have conspired to shatter the peace of the shop this fine Tuesday morning:


(a) Lucy has brought the stereo down from the flat and, inexplicably, has insisted on playing the collected works of Morrissey. Very loudly.


(b) The cash register has been playing up again.


Thus, my eardrums have been treated to the sound of Marxist Jim swearing and pounding the cash register with all his not-inconsiderable strength, to the musical accompaniment of Stephen Patrick Morrissey warbling on at high volume about how much he'd like to be Reggie Kray.


BAMbambamBAMBAMbamBAM! Work you f***ing pile of s***! "Last of the faaaamous, International pla-hay-boys!" BAM BAM BAM! Motherf***er! "I am not naturally eeee-vil" BAMBAMBAMBAMBAM! Come on, you Japanese piece of s***! "Whoa-hoa, yeah-heah, whoa-hoa, yeah-heah" BAMBAMBAM!


Just as my head was on the verge of splitting open like a ripe pomegranate, Marxist Jim stopped pounding the till and stepped away from it in disgust.


Marxist Jim: F***ing hell. F***ing thing's buggered.


At which point, Vinnie slouched forward. "May I?" He cracked his knuckles, rolled his neck, balled his left hand into a fist and gave the cash register a light tap on the side. The machine gave a dry little cough, then nothing.


Me: Good try.


Vinnie held up a hand. "Hang on, man."


BEEP. BEEP. WHIRRRRR....


We all stared in astonishment as the cash register blinked back into action.


Marxist Jim: How the f*** did you do that?


Vinnie: Hey, man, it's all in the wrist.


And he sloped off to smoke one of his roll-ups as we all goggled at him. It's official - Vinnie is the Fonz de nos jours. Only Canadian and with more tattoos.


This just left the music. Now, I don't mind Morrissey. I own a couple of Smiths albums - on vinyl, I might add. And "How Soon Is Now" really spoke to me when I was a acne-ridden, girlfriendless 16-year-old. But the fact remains that it's hard to sell wine while the angst-laden lyrics of Manchester's favourite miserablist are blaring out and depressing the customers. I pointed this out to Lucy.


Lucy: No problem, slugger. I'll change the music.


So now we're listening to loud, bleepy computer music that Lucy tells me is Orbital. I just can't win. It looks like this afternoon will be spent in the local pharmacy, bulk-buying earplugs to hand out to the punters.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Tokay Pinot Gris 2002 (France). A fabulously fleshy wine with spicy fruit and a long finish. Maybe if Mozza had drunk more of this then he wouldn't be so down in the dumps all the time. £6.49
22.6.04 14:03


Called to my at-tent-ion

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbee-


Slam hand down on alarm clock. Prise eyes open, yawn, stretch, scratch, lurch out of bed, shuffle into bathroom, urinate, flush loo, shuffle out of bathroom, stop, turn round, shuffle back into bathroom to put the seat down, yawn, shuffle through living room past tent, go into kitchen, put on kettle, stop.


Tent?


Shuffle back into living room. Rub eyes. Yes, there is definitely a small, blue tent in the middle of the room.


Lucy is on the sofa, watching breakfast TV with some difficulty as her view is partially obscured by an expanse of blue nylon.


Me: There's a tent in the living room.


Lucy: Yep. I'm airing it out.


Me: Oh. Okay.


I don't have the facilities to deal with this sort of strangeness before I've had my morning coffee. I walk dazedly into the kitchen and half-fill a mug with Nescafe, then pour the hot water on to make a gloopy paste that I neck in one go. Deep breath, then back into the lounge.


Me: Why are you airing out your tent in the living room?


Lucy: Well, I couldn't do it in the bedroom - I'd have woken you up.


(I can't argue with the logic of that).


Me: Why do you need to air out your tent at all?


Lucy: You have to take care of a tent. Treat a tent well and it will treat you well in return.


Me: Well, I wouldn't know about that. I don't have a tent.


Lucy: Everyone should have a tent. It's good for the soul.


Me: Well, I don't.


Lucy: That's why your soul is dark and twisted. But it's okay - I'm taking steps to remedy that.


Me: You are?


Inner Voice: Why am I allowing myself to be dragged into one of Lucy's Strange Conversations? It's not even 9 o'clock yet.


Lucy: I am. Look inside the tent.


Sighing the sigh of one who has not the energy to resist his mad-as-fish girlfriend, I get down on all fours and crawl into the tent. Inside is an envelope.


Me: Am I supposed to open this?


Lucy: Yep.


She crawls into the tent behind me. We crouch uncomfortably as my still-sleepy fingers fumble with the envelope. I tear it open. Lucy beams. "Happy birthday!"


Me: Yowza.


She's only gone and got us two tickets to Glastonbury. And has also somehow cajoled Marxist Jim into giving us the next four days off. The girl is the Eighth Wonder of the World. I kiss her, overcome with a mixture of delight and dread. I never envisaged that I would turn 35 in a tiny tent that smells vaguely of mould, in the middle of a muddy field somewhere in Somerset. Then again, at one point it seemed unlikely that I would turn 35 at all, so I suppose I should count my blessings.


Delight wins out, of course. And we... um... christen the tent. You know what, I can feel my soul getting lighter and less twisted by the minute.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Sheppy's Gold Medal Cider (Somerset). A strong, still, vintage quality cider. Because that's what you drink at festivals, isn't it? Whilst wearing those stupid jester hats? £2.80
23.6.04 14:44